Tag Archives: Linda Lee Harper

“an amorphic hash of language, a sustained exposition in a dark room with no memory of itself”: our interview with Linda Lee Harper

2 Feb

I’m not a visual artist and until signing up as a docent at the Morris Museum of Art, had little art training other than obligatory art history courses in college. The Morris docent training is like receiving a certification in basic arts education. It really stimulated a latent desire I’ve always had to learn more about the process of visual art making.

Visual artists practice magic, a mysterious and visual sleight of hand that I believe produces an awesome vision of truth unique to each artist. I think it was in graduate school that one of my mentors said that without images in written work what you have is an amorphic hash of language, a sustained exposition in a dark room with no memory of itself. No thanks. So, on my own and with help, I began a more organized study of visual arts. I also took up stained glass to help my eye gain acuity for color and form. . In no particular order, the artists I favor are: Kandinsky, Rothko, Monet, Vermeer, Eischer, Picasso, Gauguin, Michelangelo, de Kooning, Pollack. My favorites:, VanGogh, for whom I composed a chapbook which won the Hibiscus Award from Tampa Writers Voice, and Mary Whyte, an amazing water-colorist from Charleston, SC and Malaika Favorite.

an excerpt from our interview with Linda Lee Harper, in the Winter 2013 issue

    

new work from the Winter 2013 issue: Linda Lee Harper, The Myth of Myth

9 Jan

The Myth of Myth

The walls are flooded with flowers.
Outside, the garden is vertical with leaves.
Where the reputed muses dance,
all the grass is beaten down by their
delicate bare feet as they gambol.
The next morning there are empty flagons
where full ones sat the night before.
An amphora once brimming with wine
sits against memory like a drunken aunt,
her curves wider in the morning light.
On the inside of your left arm, you find
teeth prints purpling and irregular.
Your breasts feel heavy, like wine skins
before the revelry, your mouth, sore
and split as a pomegranate spilling seed.
In the west, the mountain you revere
like you would any erect and stable thing,
glistens snow-capped and drenched blue.
Surrounded by ocean, each wave crest salutes
like a triton rising, and somewhere in clouds,
that winged horse rears, then falls into horizon
lines taut and inescapable as Zeus’s golden reins.

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