Zelda Fitzgerald died half a mile from my house, on March 10, 1948. She was a patient at Highland Hospital, a sanitarium, when it burned to the ground while several female patients were locked in their rooms. I was never interested in the caricature of Zelda; the glamorous flapper, married to F. Scott Fitzgerald. But I am interested in her as a women trapped (in the end quite literally) by patriarchic conventions. She was a writer, artist, dancer, and far more complicated than commonly remembered.
I started taking walks by the site of her death a few years ago, sometimes bringing my camera to capture…what I’m not entirely sure. I have photographed the site of the hospital, the lawn next to the site where Zelda likely dwelled. Most recently I have opened my camera shutter longer than usual on this lawn, letting in more light. What does light know in such a haunted place?
This photo collage is composed of hand torn photographs. The photographs are mostly from a series of re-photographed images of the Civilian Conservation Corps stationed at War Women Dell in northern Georgia in the 1930s-1940s. How many of these men found liberation in these male only work groups and developed relationships with each other? I took many photographs of this photograph finding myself zooming in on a sly smile, an almost too close hand next to hand. I am surely inserting my own queer longing for more historical representation, but history always has a bit of personal speculation in the mix.
Back in my studio, struggling to make these queer speculations into “Art” I impulsively tore one of the prints in half. The sound and sensation of tearing paper was very satisfying so I kept ripping, now more intentionally tearing the image into small circles, isolating some of the imaginary couples into their own private islands. Before long I had a pile of circles instead of a pile of prints. From there the next steps were clear to piece the circles back together into a large mosaic. The result is closer to what it feels like to truly experience a place, with many small pieces of memory, history, and speculations, distorting and shaping what is visible.
Photo collage from photographs, photocopies, text, from CCC sign at War Women Dell.
Detail from Queer Speculations
I’ve been working on a photo series in response to a Kinship Photography prompt connected to the Bartram trail. William Bartram (b. 1739) was the son of a wealthy botanist in New England who, after failing in several business ventures decided that all he really wanted to do was walk through the woods and draw/write about what he saw. I can relate. Alas that sort of freedom is still only afforded to the whitest, wealthiest, and most testosterone saturated among us.
The Bartram trail is long and traverses through eclectic terrain including though at least one small town; Franklin, North Carolina. I started my Franklin journey at Nikwasi Mound, built over 1,000 years ago by Cherokee people and still considered a holy site by the nearby Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians. It is now surrounded on all sides by small town sprawl; parking lots, gas stations, a CBD dispensary, a U-Haul rental facility, and a farm to table cafe. I spent over an hour circling this small mound. When it came time to continue my Bartram trail journey I had the choice to either venture towards a greenway along the Little Tennessee River that no doubt provided visitors with ample natural beauty; trees dripping in picturesque kudzu, sunlight twinkling through the full leaves of summer trees but instead I found myself most drawn to the kitschy splendor of downtown Franklin. There I discovered among other things; a gem store/museum full of treasures that white men found on stolen land then claimed as their own (arrowheads, stone pipes…), an antique shop spilling over with generations of things people had to have and then had to get rid of, a Scottish tartan museum, and a history museum with confederate soldier figurines, nineteenth century medical equipment, and a large display case containing a Nazi Flag and a Japanese flag – both captured during WWII by American soldiers.
I grew up in a small town and I have complicated feelings about them (and of course not all small towns are the same). But what I am usually struck by now is how many reminders there are about how to be a good, straight, white person. Whiteness was a cruel invention and requires ongoing maintenance to survive.
Sylva, North Carolina
There is a rock in western North Carolina surrounded by fences and interpretive signs.
Located on unceded Cherokee land, Judaculla Rock is the largest petroglyph in the eastern United States with over 1,000 symbols carved into the flat soapstone surface.
I first experienced Judaculla Rock in 2017, on the afternoon of the total lunar eclipse, two weeks before my 40th birthday, standing on a hill above the rock as day became night. Maybe it was the impact of suddenly being surrounded by stars or my renewed awareness of mortality but I felt something I can only describe as magic on that day, in that spot.
When I returned a few months later I was struck by the interpretive signs, fences, and walkways - all designed to frame and situate my encounter in a particular way; a way that privileges the written word, preservation, and private property. Whose knowledge makes a place knowable? Whose boundaries matter?
Is there a way to show the magic I feel present without redoubling the hegemony these interpretations imply?
This sci-fi adventure found in the Free Little Library near Judaculla Rock
Install shot from Holden Gallery, Warren Wilson College Faculty Show, Spring 2022. Photographs from Judaculla Rock with papier mache rocks created from a shredded copy of Journey to the Centre of the Earth
Install shot from Holden Gallery, Warren Wilson College Faculty Show, Spring 2022. Photographs from Judaculla Rock with papier mache rocks created from a shredded copy of Journey to the Centre of the Earth.
Install shot from Holden Gallery, Warren Wilson College Faculty Show, Spring 2022. Photographs from Judaculla Rock with papier mache rocks created from a shredded copy of Journey to the Centre of the Earth.
Install shot from Holden Gallery, Warren Wilson College Faculty Show, Spring 2022. Photographs from Judaculla Rock with papier mache rocks created from a shredded copy of Journey to the Centre of the Earth.
Cooking and Cleaning in the Shadows: The Speculative Diaries of BMC cook, Cornelia Williams. An installation created for Black Mountain College Museum and Art Center’s 2022 ReHappening with collaborator Lori Horvitz.
Despite countless exhibitions, journal articles, and documentaries made about Black Mountain College, one person has been consistently overlooked; cook Cornelia Williams. In 1947, Williams, an African-American woman, was hired to join her husband George to cook for the college. They lived on campus and were encouraged to take classes.
In an unpublished poem, Charles Olson quoted Williams’ comment, “From many there are one.” Did Olson understand what she meant? Could she have meant that from many artists at the time, there is only one—the white male as a stand in for the universal artist?
Might she have been the creative force behind some of the work produced at BMC at this time? William Triechler, a former BMC student, remembers George Williams’ meat pies and casseroles. He writes, “George experimented with food coloring to serve brighter entrees,” and asks, “What’s wrong with culinary food studies?” Yet can we be sure that Cornelia wasn’t the mastermind behind these and other more artistic curiosities?
As a way to honor the creative labor done by all women working in the shadows of men, behind the (metaphorical) kitchen door we will speculate/recreate Cornelia’s kitchen, a vibrant and inspiring place where creativity thrived not in spite of, but because of its darkness.