Phoenix - Spring 1974

Phoenix University of Tennessee Spring 1974

e Editors

ART

Louie Mayes PHOTOGRAPHY

EDITOR

Jonathan Daniel

Sandy Sneed EDITORIAL ASSISTANT MANAG ING EDITOR

Robin Baker

Max Heine NON-FICTION

Eric Forsbergh

ASSOCIATE EDITOR

Bill Sims

FICTIO N

Wayne Minnich POETRY

Robert C. Walker

back cover by Grace Chen advertisin~

Poet's Co rner

by Wade Lawrence

Still, the thought is troubling that many of the poets' w~rk examined by the Phoenix could be greatly improved in quality and greater satisfaction gained if more attention was given to those aspects of the poet's craft which can be taught.

A poetry writing class does exist at UT . It is taught by Dr. Richard Kelly, is scheduled once a year and cannot be repeated for credit. However, one quarter is too little time for the professor to establish the close interpersonal relationships

Nearly every student at UT has written a poem at sometime in their life - or at least it seems they have, judging by the hundreds of poems submitted to the Phoenix each quarter.

These poems are written by people whose academic interests are highly diverse . Only a small minority of submitted work comes from English or Journalism majors.

Most of the poetry we receive is obviously untutored, poetry being an art which is almost invariably ignored in most high school and college curriculums. Part of the dignity of poetry has always been its inaccessability as a craft, its tenets and aesthetics. Being so subjective and ephemeral, poetry has never really lent itself to structured pedagogy. You cannot tell someone how to write a poem. Poetry is not a world of strict do's and don't's; its only absolutes are talent and conviction.

with his students which are so necessary in a poetry class. ' Also, so little class time does not allow students to develop their work together, experience a sense of community, or assimilate the ideas of their comrades. The atmosphere of a poetry class should be as informal and unstructured as possible, something similar to an encounter group. The reason this sort of creative learning experience is not presently available is largely due not only to lack of time, but the grade consciousness of both students and the University.

We are calling for an expansion of the present program, making it possible for studen ts to take a sequence of poetry courses as one could take a series of courses in a comparable graphic arts program . We also ask that these courses be given pass-fail, with the only requirement being regular attendance.

This is a pipe dream. The University is not ready for it; the funding is not available; Dr. Kelly couldn't do it alone. But it seems a shame that the interests of so many students should be ignored and such a reservoir of creative talent be allowed to go untapped. Until this dream comes true, hopefully the Phoenix can increasingly become a focal point of communication between those of us who try to put the sunset into a sentence.

-Robert Walker

Phoenix -.-<)~ ' " '.. ,:'

Spring 1974

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University of Tennessee Knoxville Frank P. Stimson's Window of Heaven appears on the Spring 1974 Phoenix cover. Mr. Stimson graduated from the University of North Carolina, and has studied Basic Design, Jewelry, and textile design at UT, and advanced enameling under Kenneth Bates, Cleveland Art Institute. Mr. Stimson's work has been exhibited widely in the South, including such galleries as Hunter, Chattanooga; Dulin, Knoxville; Barclay, Atlanta; Resource, Gainsville, Ga.; and Benchmark, Berea, Ky. He has also had one-man shows at the Arts and Science Museum, Statesville, N. C. and at the UT Student Center.

Julie Shaffer (c) copyright 1974 by the University of Tennessee. Rights retained by the individua l contributors. Send contributions to Phoenix, Room 5, Communications B ldg. 1340 Circle Park Drive, Knoxville, Tennessee 37916.

Contents 2-4-Marcel Marceau . . . Jeff Bradley 5-Memento Mori . .Kathleen Lyles 5-Decade ... Sandy Sneed 6-She Had a Haughty Look as Well . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . David Compton 6-Sacred New Wife, Sacred Old Institution . David Compton 6-Louisiana . . . . . . . . Quentin Powers 7-Aubade . . . . . . . . . Ted Burnham 7-Untitled . . . . . . . . .. M ar k S weazey 8-May . . . . . . . .Robt. C. Walker 8-Things are in the Quiet . Quentin Powers 8-Poem . . . . . . . . . . . .

Valerie Herbert 9-10-Music . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Eddie Lay Bill Ingram

II-You Can leave your hat on . . . . . Julie Shaffer 12-Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rick Mills 13-Art ' . . . . . . . .. Jeannie Reynolds 14-Photography . Wade Lawrence 15-Photography .Jonathan Daniel 16-Photography . . . . . Ron Harr 16-Bteve Howe .. Thomas Porter 16-Billy Cobham . .Jonathan Daniel 17-Photography . . . .... Michael Carberry 17 -Photography . . . . . . . . . . . . Frank Harvey 18-20--chinese Painting. . . . .Eric Forsbergh 21-24-The Visitor . . . . . . . . Mark Sweazey 25-28-Market Square Mall . . ... Max Heine

Phoenix 1

An interview by Jeff Bradley Photographs by Joe Willis

An

interview with Marcel Marceau is unl i ke any other.

No one can ever quote him exactly in print, for almost half of his communication is with his body. The person who talks with him has to choose whether to watch him or listen to him.

He speaks in a high, soft voice, with distinct words and phrases. His English is nearly flawless, yet heavily seasoned with his French accent.

Li ke many artists, Marcel has a certain innocence that surrounds him. His staff is keenly aware of this, and work to shield him from the public. His personal manager cautions interviewers not to keep him too long, for Marceau is rarely impatient, and will sit all day.

Marceau lets himself be led into interviews, and does not try to dominate the conversation. He rarely interrupts a question, and patiently sits through questions that he has probably heard hundreds of times. At times, his answers seem routine. "I have performed in 65 countries," he begins, "some of them behind the Iron Curtain."

As one that many persons regard as the world's greatest mime, Marceau is aware of the tremendous influence and stature that he possesses, yet he does not boast. He states, simply and unequivocally, "I have had a lot of influence on ballet and modern dance."

His work on the stage is often compared with ballet, and at times is hard to distinguish from the dance.

Marceau explains what he considers the difference. "Probably the greatest difference between ballet and mime is that ballet dancers leap into the air whereas in mime we stay on the ground."

Dance is one medium that is often associated with Marcel Marceau.

Another is film. In all, Marceau has appeared in 22 films, and is very interested in aspects of the film medium. "Film is the only way to keep our art alive," he says.

On the subject of art films, or rather the lack of them, his voice raises in volume and he gets very animated. "The reason there is not many of them is the fault of the producers. It is very hard to get money for art films. Some foundations make them, but they always want immediate results." (at this point he vigorously snaps his fingers) Paramount Studios has cast Marceau as the leading role in a new film - Shanks. Though well experienced in art films, this is Marceau's second brush with the moviemakers of Hollywood. His last encounter was a small part in Barbarella, a 1968 science fiction film.

"Shan ks" ;s not about mime, and is a deoarture from anything Marceau has

done in the past. He eagerly tal ks about it. "Shan ks will be a very special film. It will appeal mostly young audiences. The plot is a struggle between dead people and live people. The puppeteer, Shanks, revives dead bodies as puppets.

I don't think the general public- those who like sex and violence- will like the film. It doesn't have a lot of blood and that sort of th ing. " With "Shanks" behind him, Marceau other film projects to devote his attention to. "We are planning a film on my life," he says, "a one and one-half hour film on the life and art of Marcel Marceau."

At least one company has seen the value of preserving the art of Marcel Marceau on film for educational purposes. "I am doing a series of films for Encyclopedia Brittanica, which are twelve of my acts. These films are to used on a close circuit."

During the course of his conversation he revealed that he is currently at work on his autobiography. "I am writing a

Phoenix 3

book of my memoirs. I write some every night after my shows. I don't know what I'll use for a title-perhaps "My Silent Cry." As the founder of the Marcel Marceau International School of the Mime in Paris, Marceau is concerned with the futu re of his art. His advice to asp iring mimes is simple: "To be a good mime, one must go to school-there is no other way."

He should know. Marceau began his association with mime by watching one of the greatest practitioners of the art-Charles Chaplin. "As a small boy, I and my friends would sit for hours and watch the films of Chaplin."

At the age of twenty he entered the School of Dramatic Art at the Sarah

Bernhardt Theater. There he met Jean Louis Barrault and Etienne Decroux, two men who were to have a great influence in his life.

In 1947 Bip was born. Bip is a character that has become the alter ego of Marcel Marceau. Much like Chaplin's Tramp, Bip is that person inside everyone of us who is not too sure of himself, yet willing to try anything. He is a very human character, and though he does not succeed in all his endeavors, he never gives up.

Over the years Marceau has devised nearly fifty pantomimes for Bip. They range from simple ones like "Bip and his Dog" to more complex roles like "David and Goliath." In each he wears his customary Bip costumes--crumpled top

hat, white pants, red striped shirt, and a jacket with oversized buttons. The whole outfit is topped with a flower that jauntily sticks out of the hat.

Marcel Marceau is 53 years old. His recent US tour, his eleventh for this country, has been a series of one-night stands, hotel rooms, and long car trips.

In a moment of reflection, he says, "Travel is hard on one. I remember the Depression, with the gas shortage and aiL" On close observation, one can see that his hair is turning grey.

All signs of age, however, disappear when he gets on the stage. For two hours he transforms himself into a kite, a magician, a sculptor, and acts out such different topics as The Seven Deadly Sins, The Creation of the World, and The Trial. He spellbinds audiences, releasing them from his grip briefly for fervent moments of applause.

When Marcel Marceau gets on the stage, time stops. It is his world, and we are on Iy guests .â&#x20AC;˘

Phoenix 4

Poetry Memento Mori My mind is full of where I am.

This rock, earth, and my own sweat Are hard smells that hang about me Like idle tools in a carpenters shop.

The dirt, once cold , is now packed into Two warm beds for my kneesI can feel it blackening the cloth that covers them.

My toes are like slugs That burrow into black, warm earth graves.

My skin releases an acrid incense Which strangely pours down Instead of floating up It forms on my brow and is Determined to sting my eyes.

It pours from my chest as though My heart were pierced and Blood laughed out It leaves shawdows dark-and -wetSpots this hard, cold rock I lean against.

This rock ...

When I press my fingers against it They turn white Like so many small men Frightened cold.

-Kathleen Lyles

Decade He came from the house at morningan ancient spiritpast broken farm machinery, rusted mil kcans past wire fences where horse hairs glistened, down the path of dirt beaten by pony songs, past the reaper stilled by the death of the last monsterous plowhorse he came to the barn.

To curse and complain to the horses of old women in the house who provoked him to crouch in the loft with cats kick at dogs and threaten God. He came to sit in an ancient chair in the musty mouth of the barn to tell us of I ndia decades ago and seduce us in our youth with his eyes as we clanked bits and girths in the leathery hole of the tackroom.

One August, he did not return at evening, searching out. a young horse-lost in the bottoms of the farm.

They carried him up from the field in darkness up from ragweed, Johnson grass and wild blackberries, up from the other side of the lethargic creek, where his heart had last pounded like hoofbeats in morn ing.

Perhaps he still moves among the horsesan ancient, unseen spiritwalking the lower field at noon checking fence wire, bell owing a homecoming at dusk, feeding the horses clover tops yan ked up from some greener field and returning to sleep in the lofty tomb of the barn.

-Sandy Sneed

Phoenix. 5

She Had A Haugty

Look AsWell At first, I thought I must have asked for something else Like your black opal sleeping in Its velvet Behind glass without air in A very very guarded garden place No I would not even try No, nor anything against nature.

I only think of all that hidden there Behind just cloth, that only cloth: While you say you must do what you must About your well-developed busts.

Again, across the grass dying in September Again the cat does not ignore the bird Trying to take her bath.

Ah, now I remember You, behind your rustling silk Even as the leaves come down Naturally. How only curious. How Simply amused by that remembrance now: As by my cat Who wouldn't drink her milk today Stalking a bird that she desires should be, Naturally crippled, say.

Scared NewWife, Sacred Old Institution Georgia Florida South Carol ina Green pond of your eyes Rode a receding ocean Shad roe for sale Neck bone too The saxophone's outpouring. Right Arm atrophied upon the steering wheel Tidelands Between my question And your answer. You Want to see your mama?

Is that it, little one?

-Dauid Compton

Louisiana -Dauid Compton

They come with heavy accents Soaked in stale water, Ten-year old men's shirts And thin black alligator belts And they laugh at you Behind your back.

The legendary swamp people Eat crawfish, practice voodoo, Make friends wi th monsters.

-Quentin Powers

Phoenix 6

Untitled

Au bade For the night heat, For the night Pacific releasing its hammer heat, The jungle hangs like damp velvet, Heavy with the blankets of leaves.

We ate mangoes in the dark, glistening with the sweetness.

Rivulets escaping down your face, Your eyes rippling over me.

You are the woman of all my fires.

Your nose is broad and flat.

My grandfather carried the features of an osprey.

As a child skittering the ice streets, he slipped past the longboats under snow.

His blood and his features run in me.

This sun has beaten me for months now.

But at night my body shines Ii ke a wraith, pulled into yours.

You flow over me darker than honey.

I am growing old.

Enveloping a grain of sand, covering wou nds, closing rooms, and opening them up again.

I cannot grow in all directions like moss or a vine.

I am stone ... of certain size ... but such that very little grows upon me except time ... unchanging but for the gradual wane of time.

The child is gone.

Not always is there comfort in leafy things, In the blanket of the sky, In the moon like a face drawn with sorrow.

-Mark Sweazey

When I am gone, the light piercing over the planes of sea, The salt water, the pneumonia of fear, will fill my lungs.

The Nordic ice will reclaim me.

-Ted Burnham

Phoenix. 7

May The blooms are in the mountain now, the chalice of stone holding life toward the sunlight.

The tall grass bent to its knees, we breathe with the earth and our breath goes up Ii ke mist.

Soon the summer will move the dust like Texas Rangers riding after the bearded sun.

And we are like robbers here stealing the flowers blind gunning down the afternoon.

-Robt. C. Walker

Things are in the Quiet

Poem The tortoise shell cracked six ways.

In this autumn blaze, our destinies raised on the lips of flame, Testing the coming darkness, With a wh isper

-Valerie Herbert

Things are in the quiet I thin, anxious to come out, Whispering their motives Like elusive breaths From flower to flower.

Things between weeds, beneath Farms tal k of better times, foreign Fields, yearn for new friends In the distant shoots, the jungles Of dew, like earth sweat.

Each plant, sound is a new world From inconspicuous quarters, basking In inert privacies. How many seeds Delight in the subtle childhoods Of this improbable, noble repose In the crackl ing green night?

-Quentin Powers

Phoenix 8

"Living Free and Easy" and "Just Dreams and Natural People" are excervts from a multi-media presentation, "Just Dreams and Natural People."

Music is by Eddie Lay, with lyrics by Eddie Lay and Bill Ingram. The songs were composed in Spring, 1973, and were first performed at the Clarence Brown Square Revolution, UT Concert Series in May 1973. "Just Dreams and Natural People" has been produced and r~corded at Studio Two , Knoxville, Tennessee.

Music

Just Dreams and Natural People Am

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MUSIC BY Eddie Lay LYRICS BY Eddie Lay

Am

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~~~~~:E~~: :-~Y=:[f=lf4iJ ~=:O-=~I==---==3 1. Let me go 2. (I) used to dream

Where I'm not afraid to breathe of a sunlit distant shore

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1. Let me fly

in the open spaces of time I had never seen before

2. of bright new faces

Help me cross (but) now my dreams

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over the mountain road they are real today

All I want. (my) only hope

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3=t8 [J ---ill+---o l c~,--+--j;-- - - - All I want is to be free is that you will find your way

Phoenix 9

Uvin' Free and E_ a sy MUSIC BY Eddie Lay LYRICS BY Eddie Lay and Bill Ingram

1. Can't you see the morning sun, shinin' through my win--dow

Amaj 7

r =e:-r lEt 3'V 0 I The silent winds tell me

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not

to think about to--

I'm livin' free and easy and takin'

row---

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But what's the use

life a little ev'ry day

Amaj 7

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But when I find what I'm looking for I know I simply won't refuse .....

You Know I'm livin' free and easy, and taking life a little every day ....

Emaj 7

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The ways of life are different But which am I to choose

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But what's the use pretending that I have found my way.

tend---ing that I have found my way ........"

CHORUS (2 voices) E I

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Liv in free and

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Phoenix 10

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Go to * and repeat

Liv'in free and ....

To fade

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Julie Shaffer

Phoenix 11

rt e

Ricl< Mills

"My paintings are improvisationsthey're not preconceived." Rick Mills, a graduate student in Arts, says his paintings are marekd by a distinct lack of color.

He says he paints spontaneously, then reevaluates his work. "One mark naturally leads you to another."

Rick says the biggest influence in his painting career occured several years ago when he saw a de Konning painting at the Art Institute in Chicago. "It changed my life," he said. He also cites Zen art as a minor influence in recent years. Rick classifies his work as abstract-objective subject scale more than representative painting.

Large canvases are characteristic of Rick's paintings. "Scale and scope aryimportant in the type of work I do," he says. "Also, I neve had the room to use them before I came to graduate school. " $ick's paintings consist mostly of pale or off -wh ite colors. "Vou get tired of using color," he says, "but you always go back. After a while, you exhaust your color possibilities."

Rick says he feels graduate school for a painter is really a good opportunity because it gives the artist time and space for work. Before coming to grad school, Rick taught high school art for three years.

Phoenix 12

e

Jeanne Reynolds

Jeanne Reynolds' art is not two-dimensional Ii ke a painting, but it doesn't quite look like sculpture, either.

On some pieces the forms rise up from the originally flat canvas. Others consist of odd arrangements of foam rubber, felt and canvas, with each separate form painted in bright, random colors which complement the carefree arrangement of shapes .

1e1'11 get a two-dimensional form, then cut out the canvas and sew in foam rubber to make it three-dimensional," she saYs. "It's basically what I would do on a two-dimensional surface, only I make it three-di mensional."

Many of these three-dimensional forms are tubular shapes that resemble pillows of rag doll arms and legs. These are actually canvas which she has sewn together and stuffed with foam rubber.

"I try to compile all the shapes I have and paint them to add to the whimsey.

My art is based on whimsical things, little fantasies of mine ."

Jeanne has been working in this particular style for a year. "When I started out, they all related to something, like the mouth or the crackers in soup, but the later ones mostly relate to fantasy . Of course, you wou ldn't have to know that it's a cracker in soup in order -to appreciate it, but if you know, it's more humorous."

Jeanne plans to further develop her work in graduate school after she graduates this month and spends some time in Europe.

Louie Mayes

Phoenix 13

Photography

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Wade Lawrence

Phoenix 14

Ron Barr

Phoenix 15

Steve Howe

Billy Cobham

Phoenix 16

Thomas Porter

Jonathan Daniel

Michael Carberry

Frank Harvey

Phoenix 17

Chinese lnk Painting The Touch of the Brush Feature by Eric Forsbergh A hand dips a thick brush into the red ink, and moving it to the paper gracefully makes a quick smear which leans to the right. Then turning to the other side, the hand leaves a smear to the left, and upon that another, and another, and several more in seeming disorder until the stunn ing image of a rose in full bloom appears. The hand continues, effortlessly laying down strokes until there appears a rose bush complete with buds, opening flowers, lean stems covered with thorns, wide-open and dying flowers, and the wide, small leaves.

This is the ancient art of Chinese ink paintingl which is being taught here in an evening class under the direction of Miss Grace Chen. This is the type of class that lends itself to only a few people, because the instructor must make detailed comments and suggestions concerning the work of each

individual. The eight student s now enrolled run the gamut from younge r, full-time student s majoring in subjects other than art, to older, professional artists broaden ing their mediums of expression.

The class is held for three hours in order to allow time for practice and the repetiti on of strokes. At first, Miss Chen gathers all the student s around her work table to demons trate the painting of an orchid, for example. She paints five strokes and the flower appears, adding then a long thin stalk, and four dots in the center of the flower to represe nt the pollen. The four dots also compos e the Chinese charact er for heart, pollen being in the heart of the flower.

Miss Chen then shows the manner of painting a long leaf blade. A stroke in an arc is made, and the student s collectively sigh. It is the simplest of movements, yet no one else can produce a satisfac tory leaf blade. The motion appears easy, more or less forming itself, as in Zen painting, but it is actually a motion of superb control , one which has been practice d thousan ds of times. The student s disperse to their tables to paint orchids.

At anyone class meeting they will only learn one new form, dividing the time between that and the practice of forms presente d in previous lessons. Miss Chen attends each student personally, demons trating the exact manner in which the hand and brush must be held for each stroke. She paints several visual angles of the same flower, each having a definite set of strokes. The student s are encouraged to paint for long stretche s because discipline is the crux of the art, as it is with the martial arts Judo and Karate, and endless practice of simple movements is essential.

Recalling her own schooling in Taiwan, Miss Chen said, "The Master carried a stick with him, and if we were playing around, - Whack! We'd get it with the stick. So we painted ." She explained that since a master can be rec02nized through the work of a student , he is determi ned to produce only highly practiced and skilled student s. A lazy, sloppy student is a reflection of the teacher , as it is everywhere. "A student of Chinese painting, after years under a master, will take on his style," she said, "So when someone sees a student 's painting, they know who the master was."

Having lived most of her life in Taiwan, Miss Chen carries the innate underst anding of the culture and scenery in which Chinese ink painting developed. Born in Kwang-Chi Province in what is now The People's Republic of China, she moved to Taiwan when a child. In 1964, she began her schooling in Chinese painting and continu ed for five years under the direction of three differen t masters of the art, acquiring the detailed characteristics of each.

The foundat ion of this art is based upon the "Four Paragon s," which are the plum, orchid, bamboo , and crysanth emu m. They are referred to as paragons because they possess the characteristics of a perfect gentleman. "The plum tree carries the qualities of sturdiness and chastity , because it often blossoms in severly cold weathe r," said Miss Chen. ' 'The

orchid, despite loneliness and negligence, still breathes a subtle fragrance even in the harshest of desert valleys. Bamboo repr~sents the ability to grow spiritually and physically, continu ally and unhamp ered, for it grows straight upright, its leaves green in all seasons, even in the midst of win ter. The stands up against the attacks of frost ' and chrysan themum . .

'WIth the end of Winter, emerges from the earth in fresh and radiant colors.

"The four paragons are used as a point of departu re in the learning of Chinese painting. If one can learn well how to paint a plum tree, an orchid, the stal k and leaf of bamboo , and a crysant hemum , then one can progress into all type~ of leaves. stalks, flowers, and branches, as well as the assembly of thos~ integral parts into a finished painting ."

The tools used in Chinese painting are basically four, referred to by the artist as the "four valuables of the studio." First there are the brushes. They are traditio nally made of sheep wool for the soft effect, and wolf hair for the more delineated effect. There is a fatter brush used for making bold, large strokes characteristic of a less-controlled, more abstrac t painting. The narrow brush is used for the pinpoin t detail of

'#

'~oenix 19

the more controlled mode of painting. These two modes are definite and distinct types of Chinese ink painting. The ink-stick, used as a supply of concentrated inkfor mixing with water, is the next essential. It is made up of either tung-oil soot, lacquer-soot or resin-soot, the most commonly used being tung-oil soot. An in k stick is good when its texture is fine and the color is brilliant black.

Next is the paper. The two types are rice paper or prepared silks, the rice paper being used in the learning of all form and technique. The best paper is "Hsuan" paper, produced in the province of the same name. It is important that the paper be absorbent in order to achieve the delicate fading-out effect used to get the three-dimensional appearance which is one of the striking qualities of Chinese ink painting. The fourth item is the in kstone, used in the preparation of ready-to-use in k.

The ¡ best is a stone produced in Kwang and Anhwei provinces of China.

In the context of the class, many of these materials, sometimes all of them, are substituted for by American art equipment bought at the bookstore. The result is not necessarily inferior, except perhaps in the eye of a master. The ink, used in many colors, is watercolor, the black ink is India ink.

Time is an important element in learning this art, even in the learning of matting and framing the finished work. Miss Chen said that two months before she was to move to the United States, she went to a master to get some tips on matting and framing. The master replied that yes, she could become his disciple, but to learn matting and framing would take three years. She opted for the States.

The class is a visual excitement- an absorbing learning experience for anyone interested in art. Miss Chen is a highly skilled artist who is able to offer her students an intimate, unique presentation of learning an ancient art form . â&#x20AC;˘

Ed Montgomery On Friday afternoon she bought cut flowers-daffodils, anemones, a few twigs of a red-leaved shrub, wrapped in mauve waxed paper; for Saturday was the nineteenth anniversary of her husband's death and she planned to visit his grave", as she did each year, to weed it and to put fresh flowers into the two jam jars standing one on each side of the tombstone. Her visit this year occupied her thoughts more than usual. She had

The Visitor Fiction by Mark Sweazey

bought the flowers to force herself to make the journey that each year became more hazardous, from the walk to the bus stop, the chance of buses at the Octagon, to the bitterness of the winds blowing from the open sea across almost unsheltered rows of tombstones; and the tiredness that overcame her when it was time to return home when she longed to find a place beside the graves, in the soft grass, and fall asleep.

Phoenix 21

That evening she filled the coal bucket and stoked the fire.

Her movements were slow and arduous, her back and shoulder gave her so much pain. She cooked her tea, liver, and bacon, set her fork and knife on the teatowel she used as a tablecloth, turned up the volume of the polished red radio to listen to the weather report and the news, drank her tea, washed her dishes, then sat drowsing in the rocking chair by the fire, waiting for the water to get hot enough for a bath. Visits to the cemetery, the doctor, and to relatives, to stay, always demanded a bath.

"Then resolutely she pulled out the plug, sat, feeling the tide swirl and scrape at her skin and flesh, trying to draw her down, down into the earth ... " When she was sure that the water was hot enough (and her tea had been digested), she ventured from the kitchen through the cold passageway to the colder bathroom. She paused in the doorway to get used to the ch ill of the air, and then she walked slowly, feeling with each step the pain in her back, to the bath; and though she knew she was gradually losing the power in her hands to grasp she managed to wrench on the stiff cold and hot taps and half-fill the bath with warm water.

How wasteful, she thought, that with the fire in the kitchen always going during the past month of frost, and the water always hot, getting in and out of a bath had become such an effort that it was not possible to bathe every night nor even every week.

She found a big towel, laid it ready over a chair, arranged the chair so that should difficulty arise as it had last time she bathed, she would have some way of rescuing herself; then with her nightclothes warming on a page of newspaper inside the coal oven and her dressing gown across the chair to be put on the instant she stepped from the bath, she undressed and, pausing first to get her breath and clinging tightly to the slippery yellow-stained rim that now seemed more like the edge of a cliff with a deep drop below into the sea, slowly and painfully she climbed into the bath.

"I'll put on my nightie the instant I get out," she thought. the instant she got out indeed! She knew it would be more than a matter of instants; yet she tried to think of it calmly, without dread, telling herself that, when the time came, she would be very careful, taking the process step by step, surprising her bad back and shoulder and her powerless wrists into performing feats they might usually rebel against, but the key to controlling them would be the suprise, the slow stealing up on them. With care, with thought ...

Phoenix. 22

Sitting upright, not daring to lean back or lie down, she soaped herself, washing away the dirt of the past fortnight, seeing with satisfaction how it drifted about on the water as a sign that she was clean again. Then when her washing was completed she found herself looking for excuses not to try yet to climb out. Those old woman's finger nails, cracked and dry, where germs could lodge, would need to be scrubbed again; the skin of her heels, too, growing so hard that her feet might have been turning into stone; behind her ears where a thread of dirt lay in the rim; after all, she did not often have the lUXUry of a bath, did she? How warm it was! She drowsed a moment. If only she could fall asleep and wake to find herself in her nightdress in bed for the night! Slowly she rewashed her body, and when she knew she could no longer deceive herself into th in king she was not clean she reluctantly replaced the soap, brush and washcloth in the fixture at the side of the bath, feeling as she loosened her grip on them that all her strength and support were ebbing from her. Quickly she seized the nail brush again, but its magic had been used and was gone; it would not adopt the role she tried to urge upon it. The flannel too, and the soap, were frail flotsam to cling to in the hope of being borne to safety.

She was alone now. For a few moments she sat swilling the water against her skin, perhaps as a means of buoying up her courage. Then resolutely she pulled out the plug, sat, feeling the tide swirl and scrape at her skin and flesh, trying to draw her down, down into the earth; then the bathwater was gone in a soapy surge and she was naked and shivering and had not yet made the attempt to get out of the bath.

How slippery the surface had become! I n the future she would not clean it with kerosene; she would use the paste cleaner that, left on overnight, gave the enamel rough patches that could be gripped with the skin.

"She remembered with a sense of the world narrowing and growing darker, like a tunnel, the incredulous and almost despising look on the face of her niece... " She leaned forward, feeling the pain in her back and shoulder. She grasped the rim of the bath but her fingers slithered from it almost at once. She would not panic, she told herself; she would try gradually, carefully to get out. Again she leaned forward; again her grip loosened as if iron hands had deliberately uncurled her stiffened blue fingers from their trembling hold. Her heart began to beat faster, her breath came more quickly, her mouth was dry. She moistened her

lips. celf I could shout for help," she thought, "no one will hear me. No one will know I'm in the bath and can't get out."

She listened. She could hear only the drip-drip of the cold water tap of the wash basin, and a corresponding whisper and gurgle of her heart, as if it were beating under water. All else was silent. Where were the people, the traffic? The_n she had a strange feeling of being under the earth, of a throbbing in her head like wheels going over the earth above her.

Then she told herself sternly that she must have no nonsense, that she had really not tried to get out of the bath. She had forgotten the strong solid chair and the grip she could get on it. If she made the effort quickly, she could first take hold of both sides of the bath, pull herself up, then transfer her hold to the chair and thus pull herself out.

She tried to do this; she just failed to make the final effort.

Pale now, gasping for breath, she sank back into the bath. She began to call out, but as she had predicted, there was no answer. No one had heard her, no one in the houses or the street or Dunedin or the world knew that she was imprisoned.

Loneliness welled in her. "If John were here," she thought, "if we were sharing our old age, helping each other, this would never have happened." She made another effort to get out.

Again she failed. Faintness overcoming her, she closed her eyes, trying to rest, then recovering and trying again only to fail. She panicked and began to cry and strike the sides of the tub; it made a hollow sound like a wild drum-beat.

Then she stopped striking with her fists; she struggled again to get out; and for over a half-hour she stayed alternately struggling and resting until at last she did succeed in climbing out and making her escape into the kitchen. She thought, "I'll never take another bath in this house or anywhere. I never want to see that bath again. This is the end of the beginning of it. In future a district nurse will have to come to attend to me.

Submitting to that will be the first humiliation. There will be others, and others."

In bed at last she lay exhausted and lonely thinking that perhaps it would be better for her to die at once. The slow progression of difficulties was a kind of torture. There were her shoes that had to be made especially or she could not walk. There were the times she had to call in a neighb9r to fetch a pot of jam from the top shelf of her cupboard when it had been on Iy a year ago that she herself had made the ja_m and put it on the shelf. Sometimes a niece came to fill the coal-bucket or mow the lawn. Every week there was the washing to be hung on the line-this required a special technique for she could not raise her arms without, at the same time, finding some means of support in the dizziness that would overcome her. She remembered with a sense of the world narrowing and growing darker, like a tunnel, the incredulous and almost despising look on the face of her

niece when in answer to the comment "How beautiful the clouds are in Dunedin! These big billowing white and grey clouds- don't you think, Auntie?" she had said, her disappointment at the misery of things putting sharpness in her voice, "I never look at the clouds!"

She wondered how long ago it was since she had been able to look up at the sky without reeling with dizziness. Now she did not dare look up. There was enough to attend to down and around-the cracks and the hollows in the footpath, the patches of frost and ice and potholes in the roads; the approaching cars and motorcycles; and now, after all the outside menaces, the inner menace of her own body. She had to be a guardian now over her arms and legs, force them to do as she wanted when how easily and dutifully they had walked, moved, and grasped, in the earlier days! They were the enemy now. It had been he r body that showed treachery when she tried to get out of the bath. If she ever wanted to bathe

;oShe could hear only the drip-drip of the cold water tap of the V\Bsh basin, and a corresponding whisper and gurgle of her her heart, as if it were beating under water." again-how strange it seemed!-she would have to ask another human being to help her to guard and control her own body.

"Was this so fearful?" she wondered. "Even if it were not, it seemed so."

She thought of the frost slowly hardening outside on the fences, roofs, windows, and grass. She thought again of the terror of not being able to escape from the bath. She remembered her dead husband and the flowers she had bought to put by his grave. Then thin king again of the frost, its whiteness, white like a new bath, of the anemones and daffodils and the twigs of red-leaved shrub, of John dead nineteen years, she fell asleep. Outside, the frost began to melt with the warmth of a sudden wind blowing from the southwest, and the night grew warm,. like a spring night; and in the morning the light came early-the路 sky was pale blue, the same warm wind as gentle as a mere breath, was blowing, and a narcissus had burst its bud in the front garden.

In all her years of visiting the cemetery she had never known the wind so mild. On an arm of the peninsula exposed to the winds from two stretches of sea, the cemetery had always been a place to crouch shivering in overcoat and scarf while the flowers were set on the grave and the narrow garden cleared of weeds. Today, everything was different. After all the forsts of the past month there was no trace of chill in the air. The

Phoenix 23

mildness and warmth were scarcely to be believed. The sea lay, violet-colored; hush-hushing, turning and heaving, not breaking into foamy waves; it was one sinuous ripple from shore to horizon and its sound was the muted sound of distant forests of peace.

Picking up the rusted garden fork that she knew lay always in the grass of the next grave, long neglected, she set to work to clear away th.e switch and other weeds, exposing the first bunch of dark blue primroses with yellow centers, a clump of autumn lilies, and the shoots, six inches tall, of daffodils. Then removing the green-slimed jars from their grooves on each side of the tombstone she walked slowly, stiff from her crouching, to the ever-dripping tap at the end of the lawn path where, filling the jars with pebbles and gravel and water, she rattled them up and down to try and clean out some of the slime.

and her parents' grave, wide, spacious, with room should the dead desire it to turn and sigh and move in dreams is if the two slept together in a big soft grass doublebed. " II

•

•

•

Then she ran the sparkling ice-cold water into the jars and, balancing them carefully, one in each hand_, she walked back to the grave where she shook the daffodils, anemones, and red leaves from their waxed paper and dividing them, put half in one jar, half in the other. The dark blue anemones swelled with a sea-color as their heads rested against the red leaves.

The d_affodils were short-stemmed with big ragged (rath~r than delicate) trumpets- the type for blowing; and their scent was strong.

Finally, remembering the winds that raged from the sea, she stuffed small pieces {)f the crumpled waxed paper into the top of each jar so that the flowers would not be carried away by the wind. Then with a feelingof satisfaction, ("I look after my husband's grave after nineteen years. The tombstone is not cracked or blown over, the garden has not sunk into a pool of clay. I look after my husband's grave ... ") she ~gan to walk away, between the rows of graves, noting which were and were not cared for. Her f~ther and mother had been buried here . She stood now before their grave. It was a roomy grave made in the days when there was space for the dead and, for the dead with money, like her parents, extra space should they need it. Their tombstone was elaborate though the writing was now faded ; in death they kept the elaborate station of their life. There were no flowers on the grave, only the feathery sea-grass soft to the touch, lit with gold in the sun. There was no sound but the sound of the sea and the one row of fir trees on the brow of the hill. She felt the peace inside of her; the

Phoenix 24

nightmare of the evening before seemed far away, seemed not to have happened; the senseless terrifying struggle to get out of a bath ...

She sat on the concrete edge of her parents' grave. She did not want to go home. She felt content to sit here quietly with the warm soft wind flowing around her and the sign of the sea rising to mingle with the sighing of the firs and the whisper of the thin gold grass. She was grateful for the money, the time, and the forethought that had made her parents' grave so much bigger than the others near by. Her husband, who had been cremated, had been allowed only a narrow eighteen inches by two feet, room only for the flecked grey tombstone with the inscription: "In Memory of My Husband John Edward Harraway died August 6th, 1948," and the narrow garden of spring flowers, whereas her parents' grave was so wide, and its concrete wall was a foot high. Why when the world was wider and wider was there no space left?

Or was the world narrowe r?

She did not know; she could not thin k; she only knew that she did not want to go home, she wanted to sit here on the edge of the grave, never catching any more buses, crossing streets, walking on icy footpaths, turning mattresses, trying to reach jam jars from the top shelf of the cupboard, filling coal buckets, getting in and out of the bath. Only to get in somewhere and stay in; to get out and stay out; to stay always, in one place.

Ten minutes later she was waiting at the bus stop; anxiously studying the destination of each bus as it passed, clutching her money, thinking of the cup of tea she would make when she got home, of her evening meal - the remainder of the liver and bacon - , of her nephew in Christchurch who was coming with his wife and children for the school holidays, and of her niece in the home expecting her third baby. Cars and buses surged by, horns blew, a plane droned, near and far, near and far, children cried out, dogs barked; the sea, in competition, made a harsher sound as if its waveS were now breaking in foam.

For a moment, confused after the peace of the cemetery, she shut her eyes, trying to recapture the image of her husband 's grave, now bright with spring flowers, and her parents' grave, wide, spacious, with room should the dead desire it to turn and sigh and move in dreams as if the two slept together in a big soft grass doublebed.

She waited, trying to recapture the image of peace. She saw only her husband's grave, made narrower, the spring garden whittled to a thin strip; then it vanished and she was left with the image of the bathroom, of the narrow confining bath - grass-yellow as old baths are, not frost-white, waiting, waiting, for one moment of inattention, weakness, pain, to claim her forever .•

M ar ke t Square Mall

The old Marke t House -l897- 1960

Featur e by Max Heine Warran Farmt::f puts on a coat and tie every day and goes downtown to Market Square Mall to sell his plants and produce - just Ii ke he has done since 1922.

How much longer will Mr. Farmer, now 62 years old, keep coming to sell? "I don't know," he says, "You'll have to ask the Lord that."

During the spring, Mr. Farmer can be found at the Market six days a week selling tomato plants, cauliflower plants, broccoli plants, honey, molasses, sassafras roots, sweet potatoes and potato seeds. He quits selling plants in June and switches to corn, apples, peppers, oranges and other fresh fruit and vegetables. This is much of the same line he carried when he had his produce shop in the old Market House. "I had everything back then," he says, "Oranges, apples, bananas, flou r. .. " Some meat- like country bacon, country sausage, and

backbone ribs- is still sold during the summer, but the meat selection is not like it used to be. "They used to sell it all back then," recalls Farmer. "They even sold meat outside - rabbit and everything. People used to come in horse and buggies."

Even Warran Farmer, who has been selling at the market longer than anyone else, cannot remember the first days of the Market House when it was built on Main between Walnut and Market in 1816. It moved to its present site on Market Street between Wall Avenue and Union Avenue in 1853.

Federal troops occupied the Market House during the Civil War, damaging the house and destroying benches and stalls to make room for ammunition. Business almost ceased.

The site was enlarged on the north and south ends in 1866 1869, 1882 and 1889. A new house, resembling the Sixth Street Market in Cincinnati, was built in 1897.

Phoen ix 25

The Market was functioning well around the beginning of the century.

Farmers used to pull their wagons onto the sq uare, then take their horses to livery stables. All sorts of country delicacies could be found on their wagon tailboards: dressed cottontail rabbits, walnuts, chestnuts, sassafras roots, wild raspberries, blackberries, watermelons, sausages, backbones, spareribs, pigs' feet, tenderloin, souse meat, eggs and tomatoes.

After 1915, the increase 路in traffic and uncleanliness caused sales to drop. The Market, originally designed for farmers to sell their produce, became bloated with commercial operators, shops and eating places. Muddy wagons and trucks conjested the area surrounding the Market House. The city was losing $10,000 a year operating the Market.

The pungent smell of farm ani mals at times made the Market atmosphere unbearable. "The trash cans used to stin k so bad because people would throwaway meat," said Mrs. Loretta Cummings, who has sold in the Market off and on for 15 years. "And then the bums would come around and scrounge in the trash cans."

As a result of these conditions, and because of the need for culture and recreation in downtown Knoxville, many citizens began to press for a mall to replace the Market House. This

Phoenix 26

Warran Farmer has sold goods in the Market since 1922. suggestion was greeted with a lot of criticism, of course, by Knoxvillians who considered the Market House a fine piece of architecture and an integral part of the city's heritage.

However, experts contended the Market House was only an ugly conglomeration of several architectural styles, even though its age was impressive. In the face of community criticism, and overcoming its own apathy, the City Council on Nov. 29, 1959, approved a resolution to raze the Market House. The Council decided to replace it with a 130-foot-wide mall, with covered pavillions for farmers, sidewalk pavillions for shoppers, benches, restrooms and a fountain.

About a week after the Council's

decision, the son of a florist smoked a cigarette in a storage area of the house and the building burned down. This hurried things up, and the mall was built in a year and a half.

From the beginning, the mall has not been plagued by the old problems of conjestion and filth, partially because vehicles are prohibited. Instead, there are 16 concrete tables, resembling large picnic tables, upon which merchants display their goods.

This change in the form of the Market slowed business, but people still come out to shop all du ring the year. Most of the business is in the spring and summer, but certain hardy flowers are sold during the winter.

"I've been down here since the first of February," says Mrs. Glover, who has brought her goods to the Market for 23 years. "Stay down here all year and take off for Christmas. If it gets cold, we don't bring flowers in. We can stand it- they can't."

During the spring, Mrs. Glover has one of the largest selections of flowers, which she gets from a greenhouse. Most of her single flowers sell for a quarter each. Sh,e says people don't try to bargain as much as they did in the old days. "Some of them try, but we just drive them back up," she says. "Some of them gripe, but I guess you find gripers wherever you go."

Sandy Sneed

Phoenix 27

Mrs. Cummings also gets her supply from a greenhouse, though she sells more plants than flowers. Some of her flowers are wild flowers, like purple and white trillium, which she goes out and picks herself. "Things are just changing all the time. As soon as you get out of the plants and flowers you start getting into produce, you know, fruits and vegetables. And that's even a whole different display."

Not only do the displays change with the seasons, but also the mall itself changes, offering a variety of events throughout the year. In particular, since the Market Square Mall opened on Oct. 6, 1961, it has become the focal poi nt for the Dogwood Arts Festival, which began in 1960. Past festivals have included exhibitions of butter churning, apple butter making, metal working, cer amic demonstrations, sausage stuffing, and doll and quilting exhibitions. About 140 of 200 events in the 1966 Dogwood Arts Festival were held in the Mall.

A large number of this year's Festival events also could be seen there. Most notable was the First Annual DAF Bluegrass Competition, which featured musicians of all ages competing in the categories of fiddle, banjo, guitar and bluegrass group. Other Mall events during the ten-day festival included dancing, plays, cooking classes and exh ibitions, concerts, style shows and

Phoenix 28

Lula Gibson is one of the Mall's veteran flower vendors. art exh ibitions.

The weekend preceding this year's DAF was Easter weekend, and Saturday business in the mall reflected the holiday. "They buy the big stuff around Easter - gladiolas and stuff Ii ke that," says Mrs. Glover.

On the other end of the mall, away from Mrs. Glover and the other merchants, Mr. and Mrs. Davis were selling rabbits. They had about 30 cages filled with black, brown, grey, white and various two-tone rabbits. A member of the American Rabbit Breeders Association, Mr. Davis says, "We sell a lot of them around Easter. But a lot of people buy them for show."

Other evidence of the holiday was a lady selling cymbidium orchids and

many others selling vases of flowers handmade with patterned cloth and pipe cleaners. There also were more lillies and big flower displays than usual.

Besides being the day before Easter, this day showed a jump in business simply because it was Saturday. More people come to buy and sell every Saturday. "The Saturday crowd comes in here and steals all your business," says Mrs. Cummings. "I sell these wild flowers for a dollar a pot during the wee k and they come on Saturday and sell for them for fifty cents a pot." In spite of these wee kly opportunists, the regulars agree that business is fairly constant during the week.

"I think most people, whether they're city folks or country folks, got something in them to grow stuff- to plant something and watch it grow, to be producing something," says Mrs. Cummings, who sells quite a few tomato plants in the spring. "When people came over on the Mayflower, they didn't have supermarkets- they had to grow their food."

Now people have ultra-giant air-conditioned supermarkets that take a multitude of coupons and give long strips of trading stamps. But some folks still come to Market Sq uare Mall for a little friendly dealing and nice fresh produce .â&#x20AC;˘

Joe Willis

Cont ri butors Jeff Bradley Ted Burnham Michael Carberry Grace Chen David Compton Jonathan Daniel Eric Forsbergh Ron Harr Frank Harvey

Max Heine Valerie Herbert Bill Ingram Wade Lawrence Eddie Lay Kathleen Lyles Rick Mills Ed Montgomery Thomas Porter

Quentin Powers Jeanne Reynolds Julie Shaffer Sandy Sneed Frank Stimson Mark Sweazey Ro be.rt Watker Joe Willis

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