Soul Art Renewal: Pens & Lenses

SOUL ART RENE WAL P EN S & LEN SES

A Poetry & Photography Show

May 7 - August 14, 2021 Gough Gallery

SOUL ART RENEWAL PENS & LENSES Soul Art Renewal is a multi-gallery and multi-media celebration of art and artists in response to the COVID-19 pandemic and other events in 2020-2021. The project’s aim is to focus on healing, hope, and community resilience and renewal in response to the impact the pandemic has had on the arts community.

The arts community in Denton continues to feel the impact of the COVID pandemic through losses of individual artists, community art spaces, music venues, and loss of employment and performance opportunities. As the arts community re-emerges through galleries and venues re-opening we encourage everyone to take a moment and reflect on the impact of the past year on their lives and the community. We believe at GDAC that expressing our emotions and experiences through art is a way to connect with one another and with ourselves. What have we lost in the pandemic? Can we reclaim any of the things lost? How can we as a community grieve and recognize the things and people we cannot reclaim? What are our hopes and dreams for the art community moving forward?

Our poetry and photography exhibition looks into the emotions and experiences artists felt in 2020 & 2021. Both the literary and visual arts connect us to one another and our communities. Poetry share deep emotions through carefully crafted sentences and thoughtful word choice. Photography gives us a visual impression of a moment in time, letting us see into the world of another person for a moment. Both the poetry and the photography share points from the pandemic of times in isolation in our homes to celebrations to protests to deaths of loved ones the year was a time of change and emotions for many people in our community. Artists share their experiences through their pens and their lens, combining the literary experience with a visual experience to help us witness to the impact 2020 and the pandemic has on our community.

Artist statements and biographies are available in the online exhibition at dentonarts.com/pens-lens or by scanning the QR code below.

On Solid Ground by James D. Neiswender Past and present become disjointed fragmentations Global pandemic and political unrest entwine.

A year of sheltering-in-place, Wearing masks, social distancing, Restricted travel only for necessities, Little human contact with family, friends.

Days run into days Splitting them like kindling, Shards of time becoming The scree of mountains.

Worn down by last four years’ every-day acts of Inhumanity maltreatment hatred anger.

A darkness of depression And hopelessness that my country Will not survive engulfs me.

Fear of death made real as the pandemic ravages Like a moon curved sickle through blue/red fields Slashing and slaying nearly half a million Red, black, brown, and white husks.

Thoughts of sacrificing myself For my country embroils my thinking.

Despair, like the treasonous villain, Pushes me deeper into the murky boggy blackness.

The pandemic becomes political weaponry Allowed to rage and decimate.

And then, America watches in real time The last ditch effort to overthrow The lawful election of the people.

Horror of a planned insurrection on our Capitol.

The prevailing winds have now changed Toward a future of opportunities, Rebuilding, and generating change.

Contemplation of finding a remote Wilderness property away from the vitriol And pandemic no longer as paramount.

Creative expressions of photography, Oil painting and poetry About nurturance and healing Mother Earth.

A trace Of solid ground Under me.

James D Neiswender, Two Compadres with Healing Mother Earth Series Oil Paintings

Neighbors by Joan Wall A long year…

A pandemic…isolation Neighbors visiting online not breathing the same air not touching the other’s skin I opened the door… a surprise on a small table a plate of food… with a note…

“For your dinner” pork roast, tasty sauce… and trimmings Later… at the door another neighbor…another surprise transparent wrapping… with a note…

Here is your half of the donut March 2021

Suzanne Koett, Archie and Ananda

At Dance’s End by Beth Honeycutt Have you noticed how face masks accentuate androgynous demeanor?

Not that it matters what sex I am, or you are, at this turn in our dance, though masks both grant a chance to hide something or provide an opportunity to explore what once was thought innocuous.

In this pandemic, masks stay on, as though some are no longer able to relax even in the comfort of home without these barriers up, finding it hard to be alone with the image in their mirror.

We don’t mingle at balls anymore where masks are removed at dance’s end. ©2020 Beth Honeycutt All rights reserved

Treena Muir, Conquering Orthopnea

Two Years From Now by Charlie Moore (I) Two years from now when things open back up I’ll be feeling the sun on my face On a beach on the Gulf of Mexico Two years from now Two years from now I’ll be fully recovered Won’t labor to breathe won’t labor so much Spend more time with my daughter Two years from now I’ll release a bunch of new songs and play em for the crowd On the outdoor stage of a bar downtown Let some of this pent up cabin fever feeling out Two years from now Two years from now I’ll have my summer body back Doing crunches on the carpet will finally pay off After I quit eating my stress baking Two years from now Two years from now I’ll look back on all of this and laugh Think about the stuff I did when I had time Scratch my naked cheek uncovered by a mask Two years from now I’ll walk out of this hospital and just go home Without sitting in car for 20 minutes alone Bawling from another shift in a battle zone Two years from now Two years from now I’ll take walks in the park And not wander off the path when a stranger passes by Maybe sit on a park bench just cuz it’s there Two years from now Two years from now I’ll commute back to the school Fight the traffic and fight the burnout Wondering how I could ever have missed this Two years from now I’ll be over the loss of acquaintances and family I see friends and make physical contact carelessly And drink in crowded bars and laugh loudly Two years from now

( II ) I’ll know what it feels like to be truly lonely I’ll have sympathy for grocery store workers I’ll have a better understanding of mutual aid I’ll pay for my porn I’ll understand how small the world can feel I’ll be able to speak some spanish, finally I’ll write to my congressperson I’ll make a bigger effort to buy local I’ll donate to artists I’ll vote for competent politicians I’ll volunteer at the food bank I’ll go to the craft store and buy stuff I won’t ever use, just because it’s open I won’t see my neighbors and NOT wave hello I won’t see my friends and not hug them goodbye I won’t forget what I saw on the worst days I won’t hesitate to order one more shot at last call I’ll get my mail carrier a gift card at christmas I won’t be so hard on my child’s teachers I won’t forget that some people, when faced with a crisis, will be gentle and gracious I won’t forget that some people, when faced with a crisis, will buy guns and wait for someone to shoot, seize a moment to cheat their neighbor, to play the angle of advantage I’ll use more of my PTO I’ll stop treating my company like a family member I’ll keep baking, but only because I enjoy it I’ll spend time on my hobbies I’ll drink more water I’ll emphasize what was gained I’ll mourn what was lost I’ll move on and move forward But a small part of me will be stuck here in this moment Even two years from now

Stream of Consciousness by Claire Kennedy Delicate consciousness The air is damp with nuance No one has ever seen me be myself In the most genuine, pure manner How could they?

I am many things at once.

When it is a matter of life and death, Which do you choose?

Isn’t it always a matter of life and death?

I am in a position where I get to choose.

Monte Borders, Rebirth

The way things have been Is heavy.

I needed this grounding.

I will make light work, though.

Light like the stars And light like the dust.

It will be nostalgic and sweet, Warm but still Aware but not Magical and sad.

It is multitudinous.

It is my urge to grab at something.

I will hold on to the little inklings of hope And trap them in little glass jars.

Nothing will be the same, though.

When I control the narrative The power goes to my head.

These objects must serve me and my vision, They must function as I see fit.

Who am I to tell the things to behave?

I will make things And things will make me.

Monte Borders, In The Beginning, Again

how to make candied lemons in quarantine by Emily Ramser step 1:

step 3:

prepare the lemons,

kiss them softly,

pressing your lips against

their unwashed rinds

as if kissing the back of his hand

boil your sugar and water,

like making nectar for hummingbirds

just like your grandmother taught you

cut them into slices no thicker than a fingernail, discard all the hard things inside,

all the seeds and memories

reduce heat to medium-low and lay

the slices along the bottom of the pot,

gently nudging them away

from one another with your tongs simmer for an hour until translucent text him photos of them cooking,

but don’t expect him to respond write poems about how they will taste,

but don’t expect them to be good

step 2: listening to NPR, bring your water to a boil, watch the bubbles dance around each other

like you two used to dance in his kitchen,

him teaching you step by step,

spinning you around the island

paint a still life of their discarded seeds,

but don’t expect them to look anything

like reality do anything to fill the time step 4: rescue them from the simmering pot, and place them on a plate to cool,

eat one before it’s cooled because remove from heat and why not -- no one is there to see add the lemon slices one by one, stirring until softened and you are alone

open to reading poetry aloud and

late-night conversations drain, rinse, and plunge into an ice-water bath, drain again and watch the water

stream through the colander

and spiral down the garbage disposal

Encounter at CVS by Stephen Souris March 2020 We meet by chance at the shelf for hand sanitizer, two strangers in a pandemic, foraging for survival tools.

It’s the shelf for two-ounce vials— the kind you always want readily available.

Only five are left.

She hesitates, looking at me; I hold back, looking at her.

Suddenly, she snatches four and walks quickly away.

Jessica Brown, Enclosure

I Have a Plan: My Pandemic Routine by Petina Powers Embracing the blue black still darkness of night as Brilliant moonlight stimulates the hidden sparkles embedded in the paved sidewalk Songbirds accompany my journey Pumping my arms behind my back, then front Controlled slow and steady movements over my head then down to my side Counts of 50 each Briskly I walk forward into the night Arms held at shoulder height Steadily I rotate palms up and out, forward Palms in and down, backward Large circles then small circles, forward, then reverse Counts of 50 each Moonbeams light my way so I do not stumble Just months out of treatment for sudden blindness in my right eye My system is still susceptible so I stay in isolation Time to cook from scratch again Time to learn to read and study differently My spirit sings in unison with the birds Embracing the solitude of pandemic isolation My body revels in the early morning and late night walks My daily leg lifts, wall pushups, and yoga are working My spirit is calm My mind is clear My research is gaining focus I am using the isolation to my advantage I am content I have a plan.

Jessica Brown, Enclosure

My Plan is Failing by Petina Powers Sun, moon, songbirds – my companions As I walk the pavement early morning and late night Skies devoid of planes Road traffic stilled Factory belching fumes now limited I breathe deeply of fresh air Isolation is good to me One chance encounter An enclosed space 15 minutes Mask mandates, not yet the norm The virus homesteaded my body A cacophony of songs play outside my window Myriad birds call to me Morning, Noon, and Night From the depths of my illness Feverishly, I listen and wonder Is this real or my imagination?

My plan is failing

Rynae' Miles, Inside Motions

62 Candles: The Best Birthday of my Life by Petina Powers Last August, I traveled to New York City for the first time in my life A lifelong dream fulfilled I presented my research at a conference I attended presentations & meetings I socialized with scholars and students In between I roamed the streets day and night Soaking up the ethnic beauty that is NYC as I walked miles each day My 61st birthday sitting in a Cuban restaurant, Ensconced in a high backed padded chair, Marveling at the 50’s style Cuban décor, Watching a small Cuban combo play, Listening to the warm melodic sounds, Savoring a Cubano sandwich, This is the best birthday of my life!

For now revel in the best birthday of my life!

For now, I rest 62 Candles are crowded atop my small, blue, lopsided carrot cake Day1: Mix ingredients (Rest) Day2: Bake cake (Rest) Day3: Make icing (Rest) Day4: Ice cake (Rest) Add white pearls of sugar (Rest) Add white pearls of chocolate (Rest) Add candles, one by one – all 62 (Rest) Set up camera (Rest)

Light candles No time to Rest!

A fiery blaze atop the small cake Inhaling, One deep breath Exhaling, all 62 candles extinguished in one breath!

Collapsing against the back of my padded chair I cry in amazement My lungs work!

I will celebrate Tomorrow Tomorrow, I eat carrot cake

Rynae' Miles, Shadow

The Time of Dying by Charlie Moore This is not to say that no one died before…

People had health problems Had cancer Wound up in the hospital Wound up in the funeral home But, over a few months, Deaths were all over the news All over the radio All the sports stopped And the shows And the jobs And all we were left with were screens and lost jobs and Dying…

It was described as war, and it felt like it as well sometimes People you didn’t know dying somewhere you didn’t live due, in part, to ineffective government you didn’t vote for It reduced individual, complete, full lives To rising numbers on the nightly news Numbers too high to fully grasp And those great losses didn’t cheapen the one you personally felt Your neighbor Your friend Your bar buddy Your father But it put them in a context A context in which you could almost accept that, With all the dying going on out there, It would get close to you eventually

Alex Daggett, Protest

To Carmichael by Jaclyn Thies Afyouni When I could do nothing but be still I pressed my face to the Earth, To feel it spin under me— But I felt no such thing, yet heard A voice, quiet, as if afraid Nobody would ever listen, Like grandmothers in their homes, Rocking, rocking, eyes searching Through the window, their spectacles Reflections of the TV screen In muted blues like their veins.

Maps are supposed to take you places But it all depends on the identity of “place.”

For instance, Carmichael, I am reminded of The distance between you and me, sometimes Seeming as thin as a piece of string, Perhaps because I’m thinking of another plane Where you rest, a paw on top of the other, Watching my daughter play. And then Everything is sweet, the sun’s rays thick as honey.

But the best love comes from suffering.

The place I remember most from those days Was the corner of the patio where you lay Dying, your back pressed against the red brick.

I tended to you, left saucers of milk and water, One being paradise, the other being eternity.

Even still I am searching for you, A Great Lion under the willow tree, Because the Earth still moves like thoughts do Although I feel awfully still, watching her color Thinking about how she won’t remember you.

And I think of the terrible weight of that loss, Just as I do the grandmothers at the window And it feels unbearably heavy, heavy as The brick that separated me from you, still As inconsequential, almost nothing, The thin wisp of that string.

Tesa Morin, Reflect 2021

New ceremonies by Kathryn Merry A deathbed goodbye witnessed on a 6 minute video sent by whatsapp things you never knew you’d need your phone for A wedding 4 swipes worth of beaming guests boxed like the Brady’s on zoom taking in two beauties framed by a white rock overhang and us on our tripod weeping best seats in the park A baby’s birth attended in spirit by the light of a candle and a text chain linking 8 ready women in hope A first day of kindergarten where you don’t leave your house but you take the porch picture all the same the smile could crack iPhone glass A Halloween masks under masks candy is more fun when you shoot it through a tube A Christmas in blankets on a back porch a folding table per family spoiling the kids a new dance worth keeping those 6 feet A sniffle ask yourself the question over and over is it just a tickle in my throat?

Alex Daggett, Graduation

The “Crown” is in Town by Nancy W. De Honores The city sleeps night and day, few dare to roam around. They go to grocery stores, dryclean centers, laundromats, pharmacies, banks.

Hospitals’ parking lots look empty. –Where are the sick, the dying? –Invisible, lost, unexisting. Empty streets, parks, movie theaters, stadiums, schools, clubs’ swimming pools, restaurants, motels, and hotels look deserted.

A lonely plane crosses the nocturnal sky, trains blow their horns loud piercing the silence.

Their usual choo-choo deafening, breaking the night. People prolonged quarantine turned some quiet, exacerbate others. All hope dangers are gone. “Social distance,”“no pay check” (for some), “COVID-19,”“Corona-Virus,” become regular expressions. “Wear a mask,” is a must. “Wear your gloves.”“Remember 67 feet,” no less. Five years from now all these may be a far distant memory, an ugly one to all those who survive. Back to work, little by little, all in the city show a brave look, valiant, courageous, dynamic, full of faith. Humans have taken refuge in their homes for so long.

The event helped people learn to stand firm, love all, love the family, be cautious. Many wish to leave, go somewhere… Think twice, the rich Corona may be ready to be placed on the heads of the innocent. Survivors hang on, after bad times, better times are imminent! ©2020 Nancy W. De Honores All rights reserved

Riley Barkowsky, Absence

Overshadowed by Covid-19 by Marjorie Chesebro My friend wrote a poem about possums.

I was itching for inspiration as the muse seems to have abandoned me.

The grim reaper lurks behind every mask-adorned face and glove-encased hand.

Did you know possums prey on venomous snakes?

Covid-19 with its own venom overshadows daily life.

Non-essential businesses banned including those that beautify such as hairdressers and nail salons.

I marvel that a creature so ugly possesses such virtue!

Essential beauty in a pandemic is each act of kindness done by brave souls who unselfishly care. © 2020 Marjorie Chesebro All rights reserved

Tori Lorraine, Contagious

The Card You’re Dealt by Marjorie Chesebro “When the world’s crashin’ down When I fall and hit the ground I will turn myself around” ~ Alice by Avril Lavigne

Depression is a beast “Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!”

Like Wonderland’s Alice, We must slay the Jabberwock.

It seems an impossible task.

Nutrition, exercise, sleep, sunlight, support system, therapy, managed medications, structure, and routine– mood states can be altered even without the magical Vorpal Sword. © 2020 Marjorie Chesebro All rights reserved

Tyler Crum, Birdhouse

Unusual Spring by Nancy W. De Honores Springs were always shiny in North Texas!

At night silver stars begin their blinking task.

At daytime, pansies, petunias, roses, lilies, and jasmines fill the air with sweet aromas.

Sporadically, unanticipated summer storms hit the grounds blasting seriously...

Denton awaits expectantly the spring time.

Our North Texas city hosts one of the most appealing traditional celebrations: The Arts & Jazz Festival! In seven stages, schools, colleges, institutes, and universities present their students’ artistic talents. They play, sing, and dance showing colorful outfits, at the rhythm of jazz, rock, ballet, country, mambo, salsa, even twist! King musicians are Denton’s Brave Combo! All watch, eating roasted turkey legs, funnel cake, cotton candy, or tasting red wine! At times all stand and dance

Hunter Harwick, COVID Blues

with feverish passion. Around the stage, artists exhibit their work with ingenious scenes: people, pets, the main square… Jewelers show amber, turquoise rings, bracelets, earrings, gold and silver chains, pendants finely crafted. All get a few! It’s March 2020, a dark-gloomy- coldgray- shadow crosses our city; rainy days hit the land. We used to enjoy the brilliance of sun rays, now they decided to stay away vaguely roaming nowhere. The sun did shine one day, then it was gone. It’s the end of March. Still no roses, the garden looks blue. We plant new red roses! North Texas will surely be back again to normal. The celebration fest will fill the hearts with gladness. The singing, playing, and dancing will make all hearts joyful and blissful again. The Denton “Jazz Fest” will welcome all as usual, no matter of age, color, language, or creed.

Nancy W. De Honores ©2020 All rights reserved

Hunter Harwick, COVID Blues

Understanding Backwards by Julia Tanner I am trying to slow down and learn a few truths; How the Earth breathes, the language of the trees, Where my roots have dug in.

Not to say I don’t want to know what my branches are reaching for But I am finding it more pressing to research all the ground I’ve touched.

Picturing the hands and cheeks that accompanied me.

Soothing memories that tick through time.

I am leafing through experiences, worshiping their grace, Acknowledging the privilege of staying safe.

Trapped in the definition of monotony I see the beauty of repetition The perennials will bloom, the Monarchs will migrate, and humans will touch.

Our flesh aches for the braille stories we find in others skin And for their fingers that will read us like novels.

Worshiping faces behind cloth and glass I have learned To create snow globes out of interactions.

I am trying to slow down and learn a few truths; How often our feet go places and we do not even realize we have left a piece of ourselves behind.

A root in Amarillo, air crisp and clean, memories of dancing in canyons and leaves.

Snow a sigh away in the Michigan spring.

The gentle chirping and chaotic calls within those moments in Hawai’i.

I want to follow my roots, trace the path, read it like my palm.

Does it stretch to those summer trips to Yosemite?

Up the mountains and does the waterfall still bleed with my tears?

Can I follow my path all the way back to Prague?

Do the streets remember my aimless footsteps as I searched for Fate?

Do the bricks crackle with history and is mine part of the noise?

Do the weeds that grow between the cobblestones know it healed the scars created From a family I was always running from.

Our feet have stilled, our paths more carved, but less diverse.

Familiar forgiveness falls from my lips and inks the skin of my ribs.

My shoulders have shed resentment and my mouth has grown new teeth.

I smile knowing I am redwood and while the fire scorches me, I will still sprout in the spring.

I am trying to slow down and learn a few truths; Whose spines do I tread as brick roads?

Whose air am I choosing to breathe in?

Who would I get sick for?

I have learned to hear the melodies the Earth sings in.

I have planted my feet this year the air has crystallized through me.

The wind whistles through my windchime joints and one melody sounds more fragrant than the rest. My roots have twisted into a new yard That without this year my skin would never have known the feel of.

I am grateful for chance the Earth was given to heal.

After all, does it not hurt Her to be cut with all our roots and yet She breathes for us.

The least I can do is know all the places I’ve cut through And be grateful for the roots that have entwined with mine.

Jennifer Brockett, Ebb And Flow

Unseemly by Anna Adami First a fever. The shivers. I burrow, Hold fetal legs, slink in and out of sleep.

I find a truth in the back of my throat, A lump, shaped like a plum, waiting to weep: It’s not that I think I’m unlovable, Only that I ought to have learned something From being left, learned myself culpable, Spit up whispered sweets, known they meant nothing.

When I am sick I feel the loneliest, Lurk in fetid nostalgia, remember Heated blankets, lotion like opiate, Being cared for, how it smelled lavender.

I take photos of lost and lonely gloves.

It is my own hand’s work to name me loved.

Erika Nina Suárez, 10 Minute Facemask

Falling Fallow by Clent Wyatt Let us fall fallow. They didn’t care when we cultivated ourselves, when we trimmed and primmed to look like something we weren’t born to. We tried being domesticated, we tried being productive.

Now we shall stop trying to please.

So, let your art grow tired and sleepy. Our hair will vine out around our resting bodies and sprout from all the places it’s not welcome.

Our skin will dry and crack like a massive outcrop of stone.

We will become primitive and uncouth, a dark wood given over to losing itself.

But, let society beware once we’re reborn – a monster unseen since before we painted on cavern walls. In that day, our songs will be howls and our poems will be unformed chants in worship of a vast round goddess giving birth as she devours. When we wake up, we too will be hungry and horny, and the city gates will not hold against our rampage.

Tyler Crum, Swing

I don’t think you’re every ready by Caroline Cagle I don't think you're ever ready.

I don't think I'm ever ready.

If I had my true feelings, I would say, I hate change.

It's ugly and embarrassing And sometimes you just wish (I just wish, sorry) I wish I could just wrap myself up in a cocoon for an entire year And have some true time to grow on my own terms And it's been fucking terrible, Turns out.

It was lovely, at first.

I felt like, for the first time, It was time.

It was time to start doing things I had forgotten to dream about anymore.

I lived local, actually.

I grew herbs and flowers and even pickled eggs And here we are, six months later, I ate one tonight and it was delicious.

I hope it doesn't make me sick.

But I am optimistic That my choices are trending upward For the time spent alone.

I have felt the direction, and now I have the sense of it.

I have enjoyed the full magnitude of my local environment Laying out in my hammock in all weathers Glaring back up at the sun this year Because I finally decided to get prescription sunglasses.

But even in my Secret Gardeniest, I couldn’t escape my phone, which was a constant source of stress and anxiety.

I carried it around like a security blanket, Until I started to feel like an extension of it, A thread in many And every day so routine I was unraveling without society tangled around me.

And then I started hating people who didn’t have to make hard choices And I started hating that I had such little choices to make, I had time to spend making those few hard choices harder.

I picked pets and pipes over plants this year And my three seasons of growth and delight Closed down.

I felt like I went back to before, (After the election I mean) I felt like I did in high school, Bush was president and I was woke but powerless Stuck at home still About to enter a world that scared the shit out of me.

And I am just hoping that those who see me now After sitting in all the muck that fertilized last year, And being firmly planted almost for the first time in my life, I’m hoping that they understand that if they see me at all, It’s because I was wrenched from the earth Like a small carrot And I wasn’t done growing.

Copyrights to the poems and photographs in this catalog are held by the author or photographer unless otherwise stated.

Permission was given to print the works in the catalog through contracts with the Greater Denton Arts Council.

If you would like to purchase a poem or photograph contact Jenny Bates, exhibition coordinator at exhibit@dentonarts.com or call 940.382.2787.

cover image: Suzanne Koett, Archie and Ananda

Visit us in-person 400 E. Hickory St. Denton, Texas 76201 Tuesday-Saturday, 11 AM–5 PM Online dentonarts.com more information call 940.382.2787 or email admin@dentonarts.com

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