Joshua Barber at his most recent show
My first artist bio and interview is officially complete and on the PONSHOP blog! It features Richmond artist Joshua Barber, who has three pieces of work hanging in the gallery here. He is well known for his “nocturnal” imagery and religion icons.
Not only did I write up a quick biography on Barber, but I got to interview him for the blog as well. At first it was a bit difficult coming up with good questions to ask, but with Gabe’s help we came up with some really interesting thoughts. Barber was great to work with and I’m really excited about the interview.
I printed the biography I wrote on card stock paper and mounted it next to Barber’s work. Hopefully this will give viewers more insight on the artist, perhaps persuading them to make a purchase (?!).
The entire interview is on the PONSHOP blog and can be accessed here. We already have one comment – woohoo!
Sarah Dawes
Journal 5
The phone rings and rings and rings in the middle of the night. It keeps ringing after the machine picks up. Finally you answer it—groggy, irritated, and befuddled. It’s the call we all dread and yet know will come more than once in our lives …
The narrator’s (closest friend, lover, parent, brother, sister, you decide who to kill…) was in an accident, is at the hospital, and will not last until morning. He or she dresses furiously, jumps in his or her car, get to the hospital, cursing at the slowness of traffic, and the stupidity of parking attendants, and arrive at the person’s bedside. What happens next? Describe the scene, be detailed.
Facing Reality
I could barely grip the steering wheel as I sped down route four towards the Calvert County Memorial Hospital. Though my breathing was steady, my vision was blurred and my heart was thumping in my ears. The white noise of my static car radio played in tune with my fumbling brain as I went over the phone call again and again in my head.
“Come quickly,” a weeping voice had said. I could tell she was trying desperately to stay calm. “There’s been an accident.”
I pulled into the hospital parking lot, not even bothering to park between two of the brightly painted white lines. Hopping over the parking lot barrier, I raced towards the ominously red neon sign that said “Emergency Room.” Hannah was waiting out front, her body bent in half and leaning up against the concrete of the building.
“What’s going on,” I shouted from the parking lot as I ran to her. “Is Cathy alright?” Hannah stood when she saw me, and in the glow of the fluorescent lighting I could see the swelling of her eyes and pink in her nose. She looked me in the eye.
“She was out running earlier this evening,” said Hannah, her voice shaking heavily. “She was down by Briscoe’s Turn, where the road gets real windy back in the woods.” A shiver ran up my back and down my arms. Oh no, I thought to myself. Oh, no. I lost control of my steady breathing.
“A black pick-up – ” choaked Hannah. “I guess he just didn’t see her coming around one of the curves. She’s been in surgery all night.” I put my arm around her as she began to tremble uncontrollably. “She’s in ICU now. They don’t think she’ll make it.”
I had just been with Cathy that day. We had gone for a morning run together down that very road, and she said that she would be going for another that afternoon. Oh, God. I thought. It could have been me. It could have been us.
We composed ourselves as much as possible then strode into the ER looking for Hannah and Cathy’s Dad. He was nowhere in sight, and a nurse with short brown hair called to Hannah from behind the desk.
“The doctor came and took your father back to see Cathy. She’s not doing well; is this more family?” said the nurse, looking at me.
“Uh, yes,” I lied. “I’m her sister, Shannon.”
“Alright, well you can both go back to see her if you’d like.”
Hannah and I pushed through the swinging back doors of the room and walked down shimmering white hallways until we reached room 148. I looked in the window too quickly and immediately felt my head spin.
Cathy was surrounded by two doctors, three nurses and her weeping father. Wrapped in white and surrounded by monitors, the only part of her body that was exposed was her bruised face and shoulders. Her eyes did not open. A thick plastic tube ran from her mouth into a ventilator nearby. As I stood awestricken, Hannah crumbled next to me and grabbed onto the window pane, sobbing uncontrollably. Noticing our presence, a nurse opened the door and ushered us in silently.
I was deaf to what everyone what saying around me. As I looked down at Cathy, I couldn’t help but think of how bright everything was in the room – how unnatural it all was. It couldn’t be Cathy. It didn’t look anything like her – her face was swollen around bandages and tubes. She’s barely hanging on, I heard someone say. She can’t and most likely won’t make it to the morning.
I sat by her bedside for one hour and fifty-three minutes; that’s when she began to slip away. 4:26am. The doctors rushed us all out of the room, and I didn’t mind. I wasn’t disconnected to any of it – nothing was real to me. Outside Hannah sobbed in the plastic waiting-room chairs while her father called relatives in tears. I cried, but didn’t know why. It still had yet to become a reality.
Prompt:
- A man is in the shower. The phone rings. Rather than letting the machine pick up, he jumps out, snatches his dark blue bathrobe from the hook on the bathroom door, and races downstairs, dripping. He trips on a child’s toy, and curses, wishing he had put a phone in the bedroom. What was he thinking? He picks up the receiver in the middle of the fourth ring—the last one before the machine was to pick up. The voice on the phone says . . .
Journal #4: Unavoidable
The man is in the shower. The phone rings. Rather than letting the machine pick up, he jumps out, snatches his dark blue bathrobe from the hook on the bathroom door, and races downstairs, dripping. He trips on a child’s toy, and curses, wishing he had put a phone in the bedroom. What was he thinking? He picks up the receiver in the middle of the fourth ring—the last one before the machine was to pick up. The voice on the phone says hello.
“Mum?” says the man nervously. “Is that you?” He had been hoping it was Julie.
“Yes,” says the woman slowly. “What, not too thrilled to hear from me?”
He wasn’t. Shifting his weight cautiously from his left to right foot, the man tries to think of the last time they had spoken. Maybe six months ago – at Easter? Yes, that was right. A lot had happened since Easter.
“Listen, Mum,” said the man, fiddling with the phone cord. “Can I call you back? I was just about to get in the shower…”
“Oh, come on. You never call me back – I leave a message on your machine every couple of weeks but I still never hear from you.”
“I’m sorry Mum,” says the man, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. “I’m really busy with work and stuff…”
“And stuff?” inquires the mother with a laugh. “Is that how men now refer to the responsibilities of having a wife and child?”
The man’s heart skips a beat. He says nothing. His eyes dart around the living room, surveying the assortment of toys and clothes that are littered throughout. They had only left a few items behind.
“Well?” says the mother finally. “How are Julie and Jacob anyways? The last time I saw Jacob he was just teething – I’m sure he’s grown so much in the past year.”
“Uh, yes,” chokes the man through a giant lump that has formed in his throat. “Yes he is.” He says nothing more.
The mother sits on the line, waiting for him to continue. Finally after about a minute of torture she says, “Honey, is everything alright?”
No, thinks the man. No, no, no. “Yes,” he says finally. He is shaking; tears are dripping down his cheeks. He wipes his face clear with the sleeve of his bathrobe. “Look Mum, everything is fine. But I really do need to call you back. Quite busy, you see.”
Before she can protest, the man hangs up the phone. He takes one final look at the scene in the living room, not bringing himself to glance at the note Julie had left behind. Still in his bathrobe, he reaches for the keys to his pickup truck and strides out the front door of his house. He needs to get a new phone at Wal-Mart; one for his bathroom.
Journal 3
Prompt: Burroway xxviii – “There is something about the way he…”
There is something about the way his eyes smile that never fails to make my heart skip a beat. They are small and squinty, and when he laughs the skin on either side wrinkles together in perfect folds. A bright shade of blue, they light up his entire face no matter what kind of mood he may actually be in.
When he was younger, his older sister used to give him a hard time about his eyes. She said they made him look like he was always straining to see something. That’s the widest you can open them? she would tease. It’s like your Asian or something! Once, at Christmas time she made him a personalized gingerbread cookie where the eyes were only dashed lines made of icing. Now it’s only something they joke about from time to time, though I still don’t see why. His eyes are what pulled me into his personality – his eyes are the light to his self.
We’ve been together now for over seven years. I sometimes wonder if being with him will ever grow tiresome – if I will ever reach my point of saturation. Nothing is new between us. We are the best of friends, and we know each other in and out. When I ask myself if I am nearly full of it all, I need only to gaze into his smiling eyes to know he will always make my heart skip a beat.
- Trapped in Elevator, alone, with a person you would walk across the street to avoid. Write a dialogue.
______________________________________________________________________________________
We hadn’t quite gotten down to the fourth floor when it happened. A loud screech and a jolting bang sounded above us – we had stopped moving. I cursed my luck – I knew I should have taken the stairs as soon as I saw her.
“Uh, that didn’t sound good,” said Andrea, twirling her hair nervously between her fingers. Well, duh. Thanks Andrea. She’s always had a way of pointing out the obvious, and somehow she always makes it sound stupider than it needs to be.
“Nope,” I said. “Looks like we may be stuck.” I knew she was just as upset about this predicament as I was, but I didn’t care. When she left school last year I was happy to never have to see her again, so as far as I was concerned, this was her fault.
“Well, how’s everything with the house?” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“C’mon, the house. How’s it been this year? I’ve talked to Megan a bit and she says it’s going well…”
“Uh, yeah it’s fine. I’m just wondering if there’s something we need to do, seeing as how we’re stuck in an elevator and all.”
“Oh, yeah you’re right,” said Andrea, looking as if she had suddenly been smacked over the head with intelligence. “Don’t worry, I know what to do. I’ve been stuck in an elevator before; it’s really no big deal. You really shouldn’t worry. I’ll just call down to the maintenance crew with the emergency phone.” Yes, of course you have experience with this. You have experience with everything. In fact, you are the expert of everything.
“Go right ahead,” I said, my eyes transfixed on the number five that was lit up above the elevator door.
I watched as she dialed the help desk and informed them of our utterly tragic mishap. It must have been a man on the other line – her forced smile and giggles gave it away. God, she’s terrible at flirting. But for whatever reason, men never fail to fall into her trap.
“So John in maintenance was so great,” said Andrea with a laugh as she hung up the phone. “He said he’d have us going again in no time.”
“Perfect. Thank you.”
There was a moment of terribly awkward silence. Or at least it must have been awkward for her; I didn’t even care at this point, I just wanted out of that elevator.
“So, how was your summer?” I said, deciding to throw her a lifesaver. She looked far too uncomfortable in her corner of the elevator.
“Oh it was wonderful! I went to Spain with Ben. We had the best time exploring the cities and the beaches. I can’t wait to go back to Europe after graduation.”
Spain? I’m sorry, but aren’t you the same Andrea who consistently paid your rent late for three months because you “just didn’t have the money?” The same Andrea who owes all of us money for various things but can never quite pay us back? How does one struggle to pay for life’s necessities and yet has the money to go to Europe for a summer getaway? I laughed.
“Spain, huh? Wow that sounds great. I would love to go there someday.”
“Oh I totally recommend it. It was magical.”
Another awkward pause. This time I wasn’t feeling generous enough to help her out of her misery. Unfortunately she was now on a roll.
“So, back to the whole house thing. I’ve been thinking it over, and, well, I really would like to get my security deposit back. You know, the three hundred dollars we put down in May.”
The elevator jerked to life just in time and we started moving downwards. What – the – fuck. Why would she ever expect to get that money back? It’s thanks to her that we have a broken washer machine and water damage in the upstairs bathroom. We aren’t going to get our money back in June, so why the hell should she?
“I’m sorry,” I said as calmly as possible. “I don’t have that money. You’ll need to talk to Rhonda in June.”
The elevator beeped as we hit the ground floor, silver doors sliding apart in front of us. As I rushed passed the service men and into the lobby, I heard Andrea say behind me, “Oh don’t mind her. I think she’s just a bit claustrophobic.”
Sarah Dawes
In the Middle of North and South
Coffee Coffee Coffee – we have seven flavors! Don’t forget to stop in before you go!
In hopes of being armed against the reckless morning fight for pavement, Angelo tears himself away from the warmth of his sleeping Eliana each morning at four. Feeling his way through the dark apartment hallways, he reaches the kitchen and flips on his transistor radio. Its soft yellow glow lights the room, and as he scoops fragrant spoonfuls of ground coffee beans into the filter, he listens for the traffic reports. He can already hear the rhythm of the turnpike playing in his mind. Though it’s only a thirty minute drive to Montvale, he rises three hours early for information. The endless occurrence of road-tossed cars and neon orange construction sites make the commute unpredictable.
Today the clouds have cleared, offering room for the scorching July sun to burn through the haze of car exhaust and dust. By noon the smog has dissipated, though the smell of gasoline and freshly laid asphalt hangs heavily in the sultry air.
In a hurry? Come get one of our to-go mugs – they’ll fit perfectly in your cup holder!
“Ang,” shouts the shift manager from the center hut. “ANGELO!”
Standing at the far end of the parking lot, Angelo jerks to attention. His gaze had been transfixed sleepily on the highway headed north; he had been counting the number of yellow cars that raced by him.
“Angelo, your break was up five minutes ago. I know it’s a hot one, but look at the line for pump six! Jake can’t cover you all afternoon – get your act together.”
Pulling his mind back to the large steel structure, Angelo trudged across the stain-soaked pavement towards pump numbers six, seven and eight. Rows of cars were waiting around the station from all angles, narrowing in on their need like ants hoarding in around lemonade. As he reached the shade of the roof, Angelo chugged the remainder of his lukewarm Pepsi.
Don’t forget to stop in our Quik-Mart for a tasty flatbread sandwich! Now only $4.99.
“Filler-up all the way, bud,” smirked the middle-aged man who was parked at number six in a shimmering new Mercedes. The smell of peppermint and leather wafted through the car window and into Angelo’s nostrils, as did a cool breeze from the car’s air conditioning.
Did he want premium or regular? Angelo didn’t look the man in the eyes, but rather stared off at the speeding highway in the distance.
“What kind of question is that?” laughed the man, the skin around his eyes squinting with age as he smiled. “Wouldn’t take anything less than premium for this baby.” Angelo blinked – such encounters were no longer worth even an eye roll.
Moving swiftly to the machine, Angelo slid the card and selected his options mindlessly, his eyes surveying his other stations. Number eight was about to finish, while the next car had pulled up at number seven. After securing the pump in the Mercedes at six, Angelo slipped down to the new customer – a disheveled teal minivan, the model probably from about 1980. More rust than paint. New Hampshire plates. Angelo guessed it to be on empty – the older, less fortunate cars were always on empty. It was as if their owners wanted to make them suffer more than they already had to. If this were the case, Angelo could start the gas in the minivan, finish the sales at six and eight, and be back at seven before the silver lever clicked in the pump handle. He darted around the stations, muttering “you’re welcome’s” and “good-day’s.” Swipe, press, lift, squeeze – there was no need to think, no need to act. His mind worked in a cycle, a thousand times over. Three o’clock arrived, and as Angelo walked away from the pumps he reread the gas station ads over and over again in his mind, the rush of the turnpike playing in the background.
Sarah Dawes
“Try This!” page 26
Silenced
My toes were purple. They always turn various shades of mauve when I’m cold, and although it was about 80 degrees in the arena, I was shivering uncontrollably. My wet blonde hair was tied tightly in a ponytail, dripping from the ends down my bare back. The tingle of the water made the hair on my arms and legs stand up on their ends.
Coarse concrete rubbed uncomfortably against the bottom of my feet as I walked to the edge of the pool, my heart-beat working its way up into my throat and ears. When I reached the edge I hung my toes over lip of the tiles, staring in at the glistening chlorine water. An assortment of chatter and shouts sounded around me, though somehow I was still able to hear my swim instructor say, “Go ahead. It’s your turn.” I sighed nervously to myself before the palms of my feet pushed off and into the cool ripples below.
For a few seconds there was no thought in my mind of what to do. I was drifting motionlessly in the water, sensing the increasing pressure being forced around my tiny body. When I finally urged my arms and legs to move, I couldn’t remember where I was in relation to the bottom of the pool. I couldn’t force my eye lids to release the tight grasp they had on my eyeballs. My mind spun – I began to feel deaf and blinded. I was conscious of my flailing around in a state of silent panic, but there was nothing I could do to stop myself. And when I began to remember my need to breath, my panic grew into terror. Wanting to cry out, I opened my mouth – only for it to be bombarded with warm chlorine. Then I suddenly I felt a harsh tug on my ponytail.
My instructor dragged me through the undulating warmth until I reached the surface of the water. I coughed to rid my mouth and lungs of the panic that had just ensued. As I grasped desperately to the edge of the pool, my instructor said, “Alright, who’s next?”
Sarah Dawes
These days, it couldn’t really be called a barn. It isn’t even recognizable for having once been a building.
One hundred years ago it’s weight had sprawled out across the fertile earth, vibrantly red with an attractive white trim. Animals and crops had been hauled in and out as the sun rose and sank. A shimmering silver silo to the east had dwarfed the barn; it’s height ever challenging that of the mountains around it. But now – now there was nothing to claim the barn’s existence aside from a frail outline of the original frame. The thick pine planks, having been shipped to the area from Northern Maine, have now only survived the area’s merciless winters in the sense that they are still visible. They lie together in piles around the structure, finally resting after years of responsibility. Rusting nails pierce through the ends of the boards; whoever finally demolished the scene had been working too quickly to bother hammering the spikes flat against the wood.
The constant mist of the valley hangs visibly in the air, dampening the wood and turning it black with decay. Spring has not yet arrived in New England, and the mid-March rains have only just washed away mountains of snow and ice. With each step taken amidst the piles of waterlogged wood come expectant puddles, rushing to form in the over-saturated soil. Massive grey clouds loom heavily in the sky overhead – the next pouring of rain can be expected within the hour. It is known that the sun will not reach the valley for at least another month; the frame of the barn, the planks of wood – their splinters will not soon dry.
Sarah Dawes
Left the Last Five Miles
It’s a right exit off of 89 North.
Exit five – the highway sign says Northfield
and Williamstown.
Coast to the bottom of the exit ramp.
Black lines swerve like veins
through the tired pavement -
the sealant is barely
holding together the gashes
dug from cruel winters.
Left at the stop sign.
Pass a few lonely houses scattered
in the middle of what once was corn.
A single silo stands,
tall in an empty field.
Roll down the hills – the mountains
begin to grow on either side
as you enter the valley.
On the right comes a beaten
sign for The Red Kettle
and the old Exxon station.
The decline steepens.
You need to pump the brakes.
Hug the side of the slate mountain.
Sway left as the slide takes you down.
Be careful.
Just when your heart rate starts to rise
because the car is going too fast -
(just when you speed past
the runaway truck ramp and think to yourself,
‘I may have needed that…’) -
the mountain begins to settle.
The stop comes up quickly.
Slow down.
Left at the stop sign.
Level out into the very center of the basin.
The Northfield mill lies
beneath the mountain to your right.
The small red school house
rests atop the hill on your left.
Small, slate-roofed homes rest at the edges
of the undulating road; some lie
so close to the river that it’s a wonder they don’t tumble
into the white-capped rapids below.
Rise up the hill.
At the fork in the road,
stay left.
The grand brick farmhouse rises into sight,
picturesquely placed at the foreground
of maple encrusted mountain tops.
The splintered wooden fence runs dutifully
around the forgotten pasture.
Once wheat, it’s now littered
with brush and fading apple trees.
Twist up and around to the gravel driveway.
At the small black mailbox that reads “135”
turn left.
-Sarah Dawes
A Runners Way of Interpreting History
One by one we climb into
the backs of those three vans;
proof of mileage from past months
show clearly in our tans.
As engines fire and music blasts
we head West up route three –
our nerves are jarred by bumps and twists,
nor by each sweltering seat.
Our dismounting becomes the part
that we each shy from most;
“For three steep miles you’ll fight uphill,”
announces our fervent coach.
Sunlight dodges through the trees
as we start the upwards climb –
speed is watched most carefully
for we’re conscious of our times.
The smoke of gravel clouds the air
with every cone we pass –
heartbeats race and footsteps pound
as we make our final dash.
When all is done we each agree
on pains got from the hill;
as we head home we share the tales
of our battle of Chancellorsville.
-Sarah Dawes
