Reliquary
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Reliquary, art contains the past
In my present I layer my past.
Seeking a reason in everything.
Heightening awareness.
Reliquary has become my favorite word. I like the way it rolls off the tongue. It is almost a poem in and of itself. I learned about this word when Linda Bryant presented her poem “Reliquary” for discussion on Laverne’s Writing Workshop. Her poem is about the past; her mother’s ashes, the present; making peace, and the layering of these experience; making art. I am drawn to this new found word and the discussions it stimulates.
I asked Linda if she minded if I named my upcoming exhibit and salon Reliquary. And the chapbook I intended to publish featuring writers who have discussed their work on the radio. The exhibit contains the past found in repurposed dresses and skirts from Goodwill. Layered with wool and silk, then transformed into shawls or art for the wall. I exhibit my work is with Brandon Long. Using a similar color palette and wide range of found materials, we each create a container for the past. Together, these assemblages of fiber and metal are a stark contrast in textures and forms. The soft and supple next to the sharp and rigid is an intense juxtaposition of contrast and values. They find stimulating harmony when placed near each other. Stimulating conversations begin and I love it.
When I was growing up such conversation often occurred around the dinner table. I was the oldest of seven and the most likely to enter into debate. My dad was the instigator. He instilled values and he challenged them. We debated long and hard. When I felt I had made my point, he would change his point of view.
Mon’s meals were simple. Meat loaf, potatoes, iceberg lettuce salad, french dressing, canned peas, canned peaches. Four cookies for dessert, sometimes a bowl of ice cream. Yes, Mom measured everything and there was no going back for seconds. She didn’t take part in the debates. It was me and my dad, an Air Force sergeant and the son of Polish immigrants.
“Garbage men deserved to get paid well,” he said. He was in support of Solidarity in Poland and yet, he made it clear I was not to be dancing with any black boys.
“Daddy,” I explained, “this goes against all your values of fairness and equality.” He was adamant.
My desire for intellectual conversation may have been the demise of my first marriage to a good man. At parties he and I attended, I found myself in the kitchen with three or four others in deep discussion.
“Laverne,” one of them said, “you are so intense.” Isn’t this what everyone wants to talk about?
When I went to barber school and we sat in our chairs, bored. We were waiting for bums to come in for cheap haircuts so we could practice. John, sitting next to me asked, “Have you read Body Language? There was no reason for me to find him attractive. I had already passed judgement. Not my type. He was short, Mexican, and had long hair. Stimulating conversations began.
In my present I layer my past. Reliquary seeps in my stories and art. Tarnished and old, they keep resurfacing. I seek a reason in everything. Heightening awareness, I may be direct with words or become subtle in fabric.
If you ask me a shawl’s story, I’ll tell you.
