Neon Scrawlers

Photo

Thu, 19 May 2011 13:44:38 -0400

Homage to Harriet Wilson

Thu, 19 May 2011 13:43:40 -0400

Katrina Stokes

Excerpt from Our Nig as a Visual Experience

Harriet Wilson provokes the reader immediately with the title of her story, Our Nig. To read Wilson’s story is to confront its title, the racism that owns the title, and digest its implications. The title renders the reader aware of the bias that Wilson writes within; the bias that has shaped her thought, limited her dreams, and challenged her survival. Wilson’s writing suggests an acute awareness of the prejudice of her readers. Wilson anticipates their reaction by confessing “her inability to minister to the refined and cultivated, the pleasure supplied by abler pens”. (Wilson Preface) In order for Wilson to initiate herself into authorship, she must disqualify her own voice to gain the approval of her readers; this is only the first of many paradoxes within Our Nig. Although it seems as though Wilson is passive in response to the discrimination and abuse inflicted upon her, she protests through the black and white imagery that reoccurs throughout the text. Because Wilson wrote Our Nig in hopes to “aid her in maintaining herself and child without extinguishing this feeble life”, she must express her emotional opposition indirectly through subtext in order to keep from offending the reader. (Wilson Preface) It is important to extract the nuances within the imagery that Wilson carefully weaves throughout Our Nig to finally face her pain along with many traumatic lives lived as a result of racial and gender discrimination. Today there are more readers who dare to confront Wilson’s story than in 1859 when the book was first published. The prejudice that Our Nig addresses is deep rooted within American society, still, even a century after it was written. Our Nig creates a space in which a discourse about gender and racial interaction is possible because of the distance from the events that occur in the narrative; however, the need to be removed indicates the prevalence of the biases that still silence people based on their race or gender.

Our Nig rejects the categorization of not only people, but also literature by refusing established genres. Wilson does not write within the guidelines of captivity, sentimental, or slave narrative genres. Frado’s character challenges the conventions of the captivity narrative because she is unable to ever claim an existence separate from the societal discrimination that acts as a prison. Our Nig deviates from the slave narrative as well because it does not focus on the institution of slavery nor the resistance and migration of those enslaved. Frado’s racial identity demotes her from fitting the role of a sentimental woman upheld and respected because of her family values. Frado’s race marks her as the product of the antithesis of the traditional American family; she challenges the sentimental genre that outlines the proper female role. The contradiction of Frado’s identity as both black and white, fictional and real, strong willed and beaten down, outspoken and silent places Our Nig in a social space of its own.

Wilson’s imagery describes the push and pull of dark and light not only to define identity, but also describe a prophetic vision. While light represents hope and promise in the beginning of a new day, it proves false and yields the darkness of despair. Wilson as an author lives this truth through her own real life experience. Though Our Nig is recognized today as a text that has been the catalyst to an unconventional discourse about race and gender, Wilson never was able to experience this reception of her work during her own tragic lifetime. Her writing embodies herself because it does not fit completely into any of the genres (slave narrative, captivity narrative, traditional sentimental novel) that it is associated with. Wilson’s writing breaks away from the conventions of these narratives especially in the ending, which is not triumphant for Frado as she restates her ties to the Bellmonts and thus her abusive past. Though the reader wants to think he or she lives in a society that has moved on from the oppression of the past, the protagonist’s failure to overcome her abuse signifies the continuing presence of categorization of race and gender. This pessimistic ending restates the oppressive cycle continuing to remain within society. The problematic conclusion does, however, act as a call for action and progressive change. Wilson’s text is derived from her own life experience yielding Our Nig as a symbol of her own struggle to survive economically as a woman of mixed racial descent. While Wilson’s text is grounded in reality of her lifetime and also contemporarily, its fictional quality as well as its historical context give the reader space to confront problems with racial and gender interactions within America.

Wilson illustrates the power of the value of one’s skin color in determining the attainability of liberty and self. Wilson’s struggle against the economic constraints that her gender and race restrict her to is not attributed solely to the institution of slavery. In this way, Wilson looks to American society as responsible for perpetuated prejudices. The male Bellmonts demonstrate that indirect result of observers of violence is just as severe as the abusers themselves. This approach is daring because it places the responsibility of discrimination based on race and gender on the entire public criticizing the ethical basis of America. Wilson grapples with the ownership granted according to “a hierarchy of light” demonstrated by the imagery throughout the text. Wilson selects a passage by Eliza Cook that describes the dark side of what light represents:

Oh! Did we but know of the shadows so nigh,

The world would indeed be a prison of gloom;

All light would be quenched in youth’s eloquent eye,

And the prayer-lisping infant would ask for the tomb.

For if Hope be a star that may lead us astray,

And “deceiveth the heart” as the aged ones preach;

Yet ‘twas Mercy that gave it, to beacon our way,

Though its halo illumes where it never can reach. (Wilson 24)

The paradoxes found within what light and dark represent further flush out the complexities of asserting oneself within the constraints of society’s racial expectation.

The images that Wilson creates throughout Our Nig act as a representation of the struggle to break down “the hierarchy of light” that is part of American history. Wilson’s text gives the reader a visual experience, which provides opportunity to translate physically into artwork. The literal artistic relationship between dark and light values within a composition are what makes an image successful. It is in the contrast in which the viewer is able to find beauty as dark and white are united working together. Blackness and whiteness also dictate the literary sphere dominated by Western written tradition and white publishers mandating who could have a voice during the time Harriet Wilson wrote Our Nig. With whiteness came the privilege of a voice while black writers had to jump through the hoops of white publishers to be heard.In this way whiteness represents speech and blackness silence.

This performance piece is homage to Harriet Wilson, and a demonstration of how all values are necessary and essential to forming a successful piece of artwork. The performance element asks the viewers to eliminate either the dark or the light within the images by either drawing on top of them or erasing them to show that domination of any one color reduces the value and beauty of the images. The images based on the dark and light imagery within Wilson’s text act as an illustration of her writing. The conflict between dark and light is described rhythmically in the text: “Some sufferer has counted the vibrations of the pendulum impatient for its dawn, who, now that it has arrived, is anxious for its close” (Wilson 40). The arrangement of the works themselves forms a clock that is representational of the passage of time allowing increased appreciation of Wilson’s voice and echoes the beat of black and white imagery woven throughout Wilson’s book. The clock functions as an environment by surrounding the viewer with images derived from Wilson’s narrative. The artwork itself will be invaluable in the end after it is destroyed, but the concept they represent will resonate rather than their physical appearance and value. I want to make the point that though Wilson was not able to witness a positive unity between light and dark in her lifetime or to personally benefit from her writing as much as she would have hoped, her writing is now part of a movement towards a progressive and harmonious future.

The twelve images drawn on plexiglass panels are painted on the back with white or black paint. From the outside of the circular orientation of the hanging plexiglass panels, the solid black and white sides alternate to initiate the viewer into the dichotomy of black and white that the project presents. This view of black and white as separate entities presented on the outside is bleak in comparison to dark and white values working together to create beautiful images that function to illustrate Wilson’s text. The contradiction between the inner and outer portions of the circle presents the negative tendency of society to separate black and white for order that was very prevalent during Wilson’s lifetime and still existent today. The union of black and white within the images gives them meaning. As the viewer steps into the circle of images, it marks the departure from the “order” of darkness and lightness imposed by racial prejudice within society. The images on the inside of the circle are in the order that they appear within Our Nig telling Wilson’s or Frado’s story. The illustration of Wilson’s text in this format is meant to inspire and facilitate a discourse of race and gender.

Photo

Thu, 19 May 2011 13:36:00 -0400

Tribute to Harriet Wilson

Account Number 40053019

Thu, 19 May 2011 13:19:41 -0400

She ripped out all the pages of her diary. The binding became mangled as she imagined her lover breaking into her apartment and finding the hidden volumes of letters she wrote and never sent.

She knew she only needed one shred to mentally retrieve the secrets she had written. She waited in the line at the bank fingering her shred which she had scrawled her account number on as a disguise. She needed thirty dollars.

She drew her finger along the glass counter. She was transported to the first time he trusted her to cut his hair. She pushed up his naked back bending him over the sink and drew the clippers towards his neck. His head hung down as she lingered behind his left ear. She could look right through his lobe, which he had pierced with a hollow needle the size of a ball point pen; and she watched his tiny hairs fall. He did not plan to live past fifty. He got plugs just in case so his earlobes wouldn’t sag.

Even though there was power at her place, she slept at his apartment with no electricity. They found out how to communicate without words because there were none. He held her hand on his chest. When she felt him asleep she got up and gathered laundry off the floor to pile over them for blankets. She blew out his tiny lavender candle and her feet searched in the dark for the bed.

She moved fluidly forward in line and thought about the manufactured size of candles. What is the point of making tiny wax barnacles? Perfect for people who need to feel like they give presents without giving them. If she had been given a tiny lavender candle as a gift she probably would have said it was “nice”. It would gather dust on top of her refrigerator and eventually fall behind it. She looked past the bank teller and thought how beautiful a forest fire would be. She would like to stand in its center and admire that it was not modest like the tiny lavender candle.

She climbed in his shower and left the door open. She liked the sound of the water as it buzzed her skin and wanted him to hear it too. Tiny pricks of light in the blue dark made her feel like she could see with her eyes closed. She stood in the deep navy air trying to will the water to bead off of her. She put her clothes directly on her wet body. She twisted her hair tight and noticed the sound it made for the first time.

She caught herself watching her own image in the tv above the tellers. She quickly shifted her hip to the other side and adjusted her purse. She watched the other people behind her in the line in the tv. Everyone in the line, including herself, were uncomfortably holding something.

As the teller called her up, she was indifferent that she had shamelessly used the bank security camera as her own personal periscope. “I need to withdrawal.” She slid her id across the counter. Her picture was unflattering at best.

She took her thirty dollars and threw it in her bag. She preferred her belongings to mingle. She drifted out to the car and got in the passenger seat. “You good?” “Yea.”

Between them, they held the pressure of her cold skin, and his hot temper. They were opposite in every way, but on Valentine’s Day he surprised her by tying her up with rope and she liked it.

Jamie Krasner, "Smear

Tue, 17 May 2011 11:39:00 -0400

SMEAR

I slipped my finger into the small container and glided my tip over the surface of the contents within. The thick goo stuck to my skin. I admired the look of it, glistening a bright orange-red that seemed like a beautiful organic plastic. I was tempted to lick it off, but I kept my tongue inside, repelled by its smell–a mix of ointments and burnt rubber.

“Close.”

I smeared the beautiful goo under his eyes, over his nose, and into the small caves that separated the two. I rubbed over his soft flesh, blending the substance into the surface. The fade of goo into flesh was subtle; it merged his skin with the lacquer, making me wonder the possibility of this goo excreting from his skin like sublime ooze.

As we walked outside, our eyes went black and then slowly faded into the street and dry landscape. It was hot. I felt steam release while I poured a bucket of water over my red hair.

The two long blades shone in the light, making their edges seem sharper than usual. He began to cut my long hair in large sections. The flow of hairs sinking to my feet, projected into my senses. The sad hairs lay on the ground like sleeping strings. I felt my hair level with the line of my jaw. There was no way to hide the blunt edge.

“Woah, severe! You kinda look awesome.”

I looked more direct, more certain. He was pleased. We had sex in the field next to the street.

He cuddled the back of his head into my crotch. Drops of water lay on the surface of his face. The orange-red goo, still there, danced with the sweat, their mingle reflecting a cyborg-like gloss. This time, I licked it. A space of skin on his face was left marking where my tongue had grabbed the sticky goo. I didn’t like it, so I licked my hands and used them to rub goo into the space and fill it, and I watched as my spit and his sweat dried. (Goo never does).

We walked to the store to buy ice cream. His legs moved with mine, so I tried to move them faster, heel to toe, like speed walk racers do in the summer Olympics.

“Did you know that their feet can move so fast that you actually can’t tell whether they’re running or walking?”

“Then how can you tell the difference?”

“In speed walking, you have to have at least one foot on the surface of the track at all times.”

“Oh, so you’re always stuck to the ground.”

“Basically, when you’re running you’re allowed to have those moments where both feet are suspended in the air. It’s sort of like flying, I guess,” I pulled a ten out and paid for the ice cream.

It was still hot as hell. We ate our ice cream in the shade. The ice cream touched our hot mouths and melted between our teeth. The sweet taste of creamy, icy, coffee made my mouth smile. I looked up and laughed, a soft, subtle laugh, when I saw the ice cream pouring down his face, which he had put there for me. He smiled a mockingly honest smile, kind of like “can’t we pretend for a minute that we’re those kind of people who use food in bed as a turn on, even though we both would admit that it really is.”

I spooned the container of ice cream and started rubbing more of it over his face, licking it as it melted. As I rubbed and licked, I thought of it as a cleansing ritual one could receive in a spa–“The Cream Lick Mask*,” *very special.

As we sat in the grass, the sweat from our bodies turned dirt into mud, which stuck to us like goo. I dug my hands into the surface of the mud and spread it all over his face, creating a coat that blurred with the ice cream and goo beneath. He did the same to me, and we both created mud masks for each other.

We sat down on a rock by the lake, waiting as the mud dried. A constellation of blood dots formed on my legs as the mosquitos bit into my skin.

“Isn’t it strange how mosquitos can transfer blood?”

“Yea, what if the mosquito that just bit me then transferred my blood and mixed it with yours when he bit you?”

“But don’t they die after they bite you?”

“No, that’s bees.”

It was dusk. The humid air sunk down, weighting our bodies. The mud had dried. His face, long gone, was concealed in layers that, dried in mud, I could not smudge to blur between what was his and what was added. I wish the mud hadn’t dried so I could continue to rub the contents around.

I fell back into the lake where he was and watched as the mask turned into water. His skin surfaced as the water smeared.

Athanasiou Geolas, “Word Space” (Part I)

Fri, 06 May 2011 08:31:40 -0400

Athanasiou Geolas, “Word Space” (Part I)

Brittany Bennett, “Mumbled German Fables”

Thu, 05 May 2011 16:55:41 -0400

Brittany Bennett, “Mumbled German Fables”

Inna Komarovsky, “When they asked her what her free, true,...

Thu, 05 May 2011 16:55:37 -0400

Inna Komarovsky, “When they asked her what her free, true, and definitive will was, she didn’t even give a sigh of hesitation.” — The Incredible and Sad Tale of Innocent Erendira and Her Heartless Grandmother, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Inna Komarovsky, “eyes still fixed on the empty space...

Thu, 05 May 2011 16:55:31 -0400

Inna Komarovsky, “eyes still fixed on the empty space where Caridad had passed” — So Far from God, by Ana Castillo

Inna Komarovsky, ” But the truth is it is scary to look...

Thu, 05 May 2011 16:55:13 -0400

Inna Komarovsky, ” But the truth is it is scary to look down at your foot that is no longer yours and see attached a long long leg.” — The House on Mango Street, by Sandra Cisneros

Jess Chen, “Swansong” (Part I)

Thu, 05 May 2011 16:55:09 -0400

Jess Chen, “Swansong” (Part I)

Jess Chen, “Swansong” (Part II)

Thu, 05 May 2011 16:55:05 -0400

Jess Chen, “Swansong” (Part II)

Jamie Krasner

Thu, 05 May 2011 16:55:01 -0400

Jamie Krasner

Rita Rosenfeld, “Berries”

Thu, 05 May 2011 16:54:54 -0400

Rita Rosenfeld, “Berries”

Rita Rosenfeld, “Chess Companion”

Thu, 05 May 2011 16:54:51 -0400

Rita Rosenfeld, “Chess Companion”

Rita Rosenfeld, “Existentialist Cards”

Thu, 05 May 2011 16:54:45 -0400

Rita Rosenfeld, “Existentialist Cards”

Jamie Krasner, "Smear"

Thu, 05 May 2011 16:54:38 -0400

SMEAR

“Close.”

As we walked outside, our eyes went black and then slowly faded into the street and dry landscape. It was hot. I felt steam release while I poured a bucket of water over my red hair.

“Woah, severe! You kinda look awesome.”

I looked more direct, more certain. He was pleased. We had sex in the field next to the street.

We walked to the store to buy ice cream. His legs moved with mine, so I tried to move them faster, heel to toe, like speed walk racers do in the summer Olympics.

“Did you know that their feet can move so fast that you actually can’t tell whether they’re running or walking?”

“Then how can you tell the difference?”

“In speed walking, you have to have at least one foot on the surface of the track at all times.”

“Oh, so you’re always stuck to the ground.”

We sat down on a rock by the lake, waiting as the mud dried. A constellation of blood dots formed on my legs as the mosquitos bit into my skin.

“Isn’t it strange how mosquitos can transfer blood?”

“Yea, what if the mosquito that just bit me then transferred my blood and mixed it with yours when he bit you?”

“But don’t they die after they bite you?”

“No, that’s bees.”

I fell back into the lake where he was and watched as the mask turned into water. His skin surfaced as the water smeared.

Andy Chen, “Proportion”

Thu, 05 May 2011 16:54:35 -0400

Andy Chen, “Proportion”

Andy Chen, “Waste”

Thu, 05 May 2011 16:54:30 -0400

Andy Chen, “Waste”

Esther Hong, "deeper, grown darker"

Thu, 05 May 2011 16:54:23 -0400

where the wheat fields grew starker

and where would you have me draw the line?

inching nearer and nearer to you

following the lead, you’d have me

inching nearer and nearer to you

following your lead, i’d have you

under the covers’ underbelly

and when would breaking the rules be fine?

lower, down the faint central line

plucking the strings of your lungs, i’d have you

lower, down the faint central line

plucking the breath from my lungs, you’d have me

expelling scatter-ventillated truths

sweeping over, my strands of hair

sweeping over you, clean

swept over, your dusty form was

swept over clean.

you had me

calling out, calling loud,

running mindless without

you, loverghost in shadows, dark planes,

what i called out, over winter clouds,

had grown soft over plains,

was your name, just

your name, oh my loverghost’s name.