. . .
I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art.
Anaïs Nin
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Dedicated to our creative sisters whose spirits burn for their art while they are in the fight of their lives.
“Cloud of Unknowing” by Susan Austin
Due to an illness, when I could not write, this art box became a way for me to communicate. The title comes both from H.L. Humes philosophy that lenticular clouds are spiritual beings, and from the Christian mystical text, The Cloud of Unknowing.
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How is artistic expansion the antidote to our worldly challenges?
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I am memory, culture, and identity intertwined with the lived experiences of an African woman. I am stories untold, voices amplified, and moments immortalized. I am offering my life through my art and writing, inviting others to witness the textures of my world—the pulse of my community, the courage in my heart, and the beauty I find amidst struggle.
“Echoes of Home—My Heart” by Nsabimana Uwacu Gyslaine
“Adventure in a Bottle” by A.H.T
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It was already late when I returned.
The light from the hall illuminating
Your figure in the dim. All fuzzy pajama
Socks, and brown eyes flickering like embers.
I’m barely through the door and you’re tossing
A blanket around my shoulders, light feet
Shuffling across the carpet floor. “Leave
The lights off,” you hush. “Come see what I’ve found.”
Tented under blankets, nestled close together on
The floor, I feel my hair stand on end.
A hand tilts my head upwards, “Watch.”
In a voice like sparklers, crackling in the dark.
Electric blue snaps overhead, static
Sparks chasing the sweep of your hand.
“Our Sky” by Stephanie Nielson
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Mud-born enchanted lanterns
anchor in weed swirl, pond stew,
many-petaled skin of a thousand greens.
Each day these tiny fountains
unfold in shivers of unkempt beauty
like diaphanous teacups twirling
on mirrored saucers of reflection.
Pink alabaster buoys bob and scatter,
follow an inner law of rising,
a silky shrug that releases
yesterday, awash and floating.
To this ancient flower the pond is heaven.
A thousand greetings in the mother tongue,
a wordless sky full of praise.
It is the hour of blossoms.
Who can blame us for seeking and dreaming?
“Lotus Lessons” by Deborah Dennis
