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  • 72
    • 72 Documentation
    • 72 Goings-On
    • Beulahful Resources
  • 67
  • 66
    • Collaborative Project Results
    • Event Documentation
    • 66 Information
    • Orientational Videos for 66
  • 65
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    • 64 Minutes Films
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Reva Eiferman & Mark F Hibbard

2/18/2018

 
Finite Disorientation
 
He is better than you, he is grand.
His fingers work at the speed of light
And he can craft in darkness.
The strands on his head move deliberately, effortlessly iridescent.
 
He is better than you, he is grand.
His constructions fit stadiums inside stadiums inside stadiums.
He plants dreams right into the ground, and he can levitate a horse.
He can shave just by thinking about it.
 
He is better than you, he is grand.
Those large feet face gravity everyday like loyal soldiers.
But he stumbles looking up.
And his chair broke and is so small.

​


By Reva Eiferman

narration & film by Mark Fred Hibbard

Whitney Menzel & Kristen Merritt

2/10/2018

 
Hana, man, mona, mike;
Barcelona, bona, strike;
Hare, ware, frown, vanac;
Harrico, warico, we wo, wac.
 
 
     I fell backwards from my fragile chair, not unusual for me, I fix things for a living so at home I like the freedom of disordered and broken things, I find comfort in it. I was never the goose on the playground, always the duck... like the kind of duck you see in the window of a Chinese deli in San Francisco hanging amongst brothers, it's not sad, each one is waiting to be freed from the hook, ready to become the antagonistic goose.  As I lay there on my back looking up at the corrugated metallic horizon of my home It occurs to me... a tiger won't holler and a duck is no match for a goose.
 
   My story isn't sad, it's not even a story so much as a thought or the feeling you have when you play with your sibling jumping from chair to couch to chair, feet never touching the ground. You know all along that the lava makes it fun, you know that you can open the heat register and free your mini-figs from lego jail, you know that paper and scissor will never be a match for rock. I put the ashes in my pockets instead of the posies, my chair isn't broken because we all fall down.

​
​by Whitney Menzel

video & choreography by Kristen Merritt

Douglas Milliken & Vivian Hua

2/10/2018

 
Notes from a Safe House
  1. Signs of you are everywhere, little man, and all they all say is no.
  2. Take this plywood door of yours, for example. Certainly functional and in fact wide open yet swollen lock-tight to the floor by how many centuries of swamp gas and humidity? So in blows the whack of storm and wind and in blows the fetor of the fermenting black bog putrefying at the feet of these warlock trees. Sure, I’m inside. But so too is the outside. So now tell me, what about this scene speaks of a positivity?
  3. Okay, there is a screen door keeping the bugs at bay.
  4. One-zero.
  5. Though to be fair, the zero in question? Way outweighs your one.
  6. I’m assuming this is a “creative” interpretation of the crown molding concept, how you’ve run yellowed light bulbs around the ceiling’s edge, as if this room is a vanity or a stage set for a play but no, this is just a room and it’s cramped and drafty and smells like last week’s failed Hamburger Helper left to congeal in its pan.
  7. From one manipulator to another: yellow lights and grease? Do not work for a most restive ambience.
  8. Forget the smells, the minimizing shadow-play alone is enough to nauseate.
  9. Your scratch-and-sniff sticker plastered pinball machine doesn’t work either and I’d put my money on it never did, dull and useless and taking up so much space that’d be much better occupied by me, but you and it together have conspired to shove me instead at your busted table with my sticky thighs sticking to the least offensive of your set of pleather kitchen chairs while I finish this box wine alone.
  10. And I’m praying to your sloe-eyed velvet Jesus painting that I won’t have to try my singular other option vis-à-vis furniture and come to learn the distinct feel of my sticky thighs sticking to that surplus Army cot jammed into the corner like the very definition of an afterthought. But I guess that all depends on how long you plan on leaving me here, thumbs twiddled and waiting like a nervous bride.
  11. Although man, that is exactly the wrong simile to be conjuring.
  12. How does the drab canvas of an Army cot get so thoroughly saturated in grease anyway?
  13. You know what? I really don’t need to know.
  14. It would appear that your curtains are all the same exact little-girl dress, rods running through sleeve to gingham sleeve, and that is profoundly unsettling.
  15. Can’t help wondering: how related are those little-girl dresses to the grease you’ve got glossed across everything?
  16. Again: I really don’t need to know.
  17. So let me ask you this, little man: have you ever tried to drink box wine without a glass? There’s quite literally nothing like it. Straight from the plastic bladder. Gonna have to shift that one over from the never would i column to the never thought i’d have to.
  18. Hate to admit—in fact, it feels unprofessional—how one list shrinks while the other only grows. Measuring time by means of concession. One compromise at a time.
  19. Though I do suppose that’s the nature of the job.
  20. Your outhouse? Leaves a lot to be desired.
  21. Which isn’t to say I’m above using an outhouse. I’m not.
  22. Especially after today.
  23. You know to what I’m referring.
  24. Something else to shift from never would i to never thought i’d have to.
  25. And given the amount and steady rate of the rain versus the tarpaper-and-spit aesthetic you’ve got going here, I’ve got to hand it to you, little man, I’m impressed I’m not currently wallowing in a beige overflow leaching in from the ceiling, dripping a boring tattoo in my hair. And I really do mean that as a compliment. After all, shouldn’t that be the hallmark of our trade? To remain unsuspecting? To in fact be secretly effective?
  26. Which leads me inexorably back to this box of wine.
  27. Which I have to admit, is helping the time creep by.
  28. The creeping time creep by.
  29. Given little more than my own subjective powers of estimation, my guess is it was, what, just before dawn when I rolled up through these swampy woods under the chaperone-ship of the Florida Man? His baggy jeans and too-small tank top, face full of orange bristles and drawling in a permanent falsetto. Parading like a rooster yet cooing like Michael Jackson. How is it you Southern Boys can pull off being both mucho macho chauvinistic and deeply effete all at the same time? Aren’t you ever tempted to gay-bash yourself whenever you pass a mirror? Questions for another time. Florida Man dropped me here at your rusticated dump in the woods and splashed his escape back through the wet dimness—I guess the word for this light is crepuscular although that’d be suggestive of something lighter or darker on the way, now wouldn’t it?—then you fried for me the world’s grossest egg in what I suppose was your misguided attempt at hospitality. You, looking like the confused and unlikely intersection between a park ranger and a 50s greaser—sloe-eyed as your velvet Christ and just as uninspiring—abusing your skillet while pronouncing with smug authority the details of my situation as though you know it better than I. And who’s to say you don’t? (I’m to say. You don’t.) You waited and watched with hound dog intensity until I’d choked down your slimy egg (which maybe was a blatant setup for your surprise in the outhouse?) before announcing you were heading into town and wouldn’t be back until after it was safe for me to leave and it’s been how long now? The light’s barely changed and neither has the rain and all I can do is wait for your return and catalog the fragrant wonders of your hovel.
  30. There was this one time in a different safe house lodged deep in the Shenandoah Valley—I was running protection that time, guarding instead of guarded—and there were these truly enormous wasps that only came out at night. Never before have I seen such single-minded villainy on the wing. A whole slew of little armored Dick Cheneys trolling for victims in the dark. So I’ve got to wonder: are there night wasps, too, in Southern Alabama?
  31. Though I suppose it won’t help me, whether I know or not.
  32. Seems to me the worst thing, though, about a safe house is the name. It succinctly states its purpose, obviously, but it just as succinctly misdirects. After all: who is safe? and from whom?
  33. This shack of yours—resplendent in opportunities to contract tetanus and staph—exemplifies my point perfectly. Although I do suspect that so much of this trash and grime is pure pageantry. A bit of theater for you and you alone to enjoy. Seriously, how long have you been maintaining this shelter? Long enough for everyone in our family operation to know this is your safe house, confused with no other. And who would willingly live in such squalor? With a busted pinball machine and a soiled bed? A splinter-seated outhouse infested with termites and skunks? No one, that’s who. Not willingly. Not even you. Because you don’t live here. I have it on good authority that you’ve got a condo in the next nearest town. River views and clean carpets. No, this shack and its too-specific upkeep is for your singular entertainment. To know the people who our employers decide need help get the help they need with as little comfort as possible. It’s as though you’ve forgotten where precisely on this totem pole you reside.
  34. Although maybe that’s exactly it. You’re perfectly aware of our established hierarchy and your low station within it and are intentionally flipping the roles of authority for a rare and pitiful taste of power. Making a body squirm simply because you can. An omega trying to mount an alpha.
  35. Or perhaps you’ve merely never heard the words mop or sponge in your life.
  36. All that said, I really do like your taste in flooring. Just random strips of linoleum stapled down in a backward rainbow of polymer blues, polymer yellows, polymer greens. A Modernist touch in a Restoration structure.
  37. But back to safety. This twelve-gauge you’ve left propped in the corner near the stuck-open door—already loaded (I checked) with an extra seven shells lined up like soldiers on this crackling and (what other adjective have you left with me here in this shack of yours?) greasy Formica table—this twelve-gauge you’ve left me for my own safety and protection: who did you imagine I’d need protecting from? Whose safety did you seriously believe would be threatened by whom?
  38. You didn’t honestly think I’d bungle the score so bad I’d need your protection, did you?
  39. Certainly you know better than that.
  40. Certainly I know better that you don’t.
  41. And you know, it’s exactly that kind of uncritical assumption that’s led me here today.
  42. In your safe house.
  43. With your safe gun.
  44. Uncritical and proud.
  45. Too proud even to give a woman a clean glass for her wine.
  46. We probably shouldn’t neglect the issue of evidence, either. How we ought to leave so little. And here you’ve collected so much. Even under the guise of a hunting camp: every nuanced inch of this filthy heap is conspicuous. With soiled kids’ clothing hanging in the windows and the rank stink of decay, my lord, this place begs—screams—for a kidnapping investigation. Or worse.
  47. Whatever gave you the idea this was safe?
  48. What makes you think anything is safe?
  49. I suppose some lessons require hard learning.
  50. Once you’ve finished arranging for my benefit all my clandestine particulars—placing the calls to secure my next contact just over the Arkansas border, the next exchange that won’t look like anything more than two people sharing a meal in a truck stop or walking in a park, hitting a carwash, whatever—you’ll arrive back here with a clean clean car all set to ferry me away.
  51. And away is exactly where I’ll go.
  52. Alone.
  53. Although I do worry about all this rain and if it might affect how well this dump will burn.
  54. Perhaps this hard-earned greasy patina will play me an assist.
  55. I guess we’ll both find out.
  56. Little-girl dresses curtaining the windows.
  57. A pinball machine without paddles or ball.
  58. Spent scratch-and-sniff stickers.
  59. Lick each one with flame.
  60. But this box wine, though!
  61. Thank you for this box of wine.
  62. You’re really not so bad a guy.
  63. No matter what they say.
  64. After all, little man, yours is the only say that matters.
  65. And signs of you are everywhere.
  66. Too bad all they all say is no.
  67. The rain keeps falling.
  68. My thighs keep sticking.
  69. Seven shells lined up like soldiers.
  70. Two more in the breach.
  71. One-zero, little man.
  72. A night wasp is tapping at the door.


by Douglas Milliken


Picture
photo installation by Vivian Hua

individual photos:

Lafayette Wattles & Meg Willing

2/10/2018

 
Made in a Trailer Park

I remember the broken years you lived
in that rumpled land submarine
someone else had run aground at the park
behind the drive-in. The faded
green trim. The once upon a time
white, a wind-buffed shade of bone.

I remember how we would make up
stories of all the lives given to it, lost
to it, as if that dented trailer
were a ship night-mangled on a reef
of failed dreams, again and again,
over the years before you and your mom
pieced it together for your own doomed
voyage, which seemed destined
to leave you stranded there.

I remember the way your mom rigged
up that shower out back. Those three shivery
buckets. The way you squealed
from the cold, even in summertime.

I remember the way she would rinse
between double features. The glow
from the giant screen filtered
through the two small windows
of your home, brightening her shoulders
as if she did have stardust,
as if she might have been
a washed up, washed out, shooting star.

I remember all those movies.
The hollow sound of the tin roof
beneath our feet as if the world might
swallow us whole. The day
that hail storm pinned you
down for hours, as if trying
to break through, trying to break you.

I remember how you swore
you’d get out. You’d wash your hands
of that place, of that life.

Here it is all these years later,
someone else catching sight of you
from that not quite collapsed abode.
A girl, maybe, on the one-eared
rocking horse you left behind,
corralled in the stony yard. A mom,
or dad, or aunt, maybe, looking up
from a feeble kitchen chair
plunked by the new water hookup,
watching your massive face,
that long ago ache in your eyes
something you have turned to gold.
No one even noticing the rotted corner
of the big screen. Peeling layers of paint.

All they see is the tear you have trained
to run down your right cheek. As if
you have channeled some part of you
that never got out, that never truly got away.


​by Lafayette Wattles

Video by Meg Willing

Rhonda Morton & Christina Morris

2/2/2018

 
Two Pictures

Despite the elbowed exhaust pipe reaching for the sky on the outside of the trailer, the smell of bacon grease mixed with stale cigarettes hits the back of Cindy's throat the minute she walks in the door. Flimsy and crooked, the door swings out, and hangs opened behind her. She can see into every room  from the doorway. No one is there. She takes three steps to the back wall and looks out the window above the frayed and flowered couch. But the backyard is deserted… Robbie's rocking-horse stands to one side, flanked by a broken stool.  It feels like a sucker punch to the gut, how much she misses that kid in an instant.  A few feet away, the welding torch sits on the ground abandoned next to a large metal storage tank. She thinks maybe that's a sign Ed will come back soon. But she can't stand the smell inside, so she walks back out the dilapidated door to sit on the cinderblock steps. She'll be able to see his truck the minute he turns on to the road. So if he doesn't want to talk to her, tough shit. He'll have to anyway.

Ed shuffles along in the line of guys punching out. And like every other one of them, lights up a cigarette the minute he walks over the threshold. They grunt their goodbyes and fan across the parking lot, Ed in a beeline for his rusted out F-150. He doesn't bother locking it – who would steal this heap? But still, he's surprised to see the large yellow envelope on the seat. Left where he couldn't miss it. He picks it up, and swings himself in behind the steering wheel. He turns the sealed envelope over – but there are no markings on it. Still, he knows Cindy left it. Back in the good ol' days, Cindy used to leave him love notes, little presents – a handful of beef jerky sticks, once in a while a paper plate of brownies covered in aluminum foil. He always suspected the sweets were just her way of winning over Robbie. Ed rips open the seal, and finds an 8 x 10 photo. She's facing straight into the camera. But with eyes that seem to be looking inward, at her own thoughts, instead of at him. Her hair, her skin, her lips, all the color of honey. The image is nearly life-sized – just her head and strong shoulders – bare except for two flesh-toned spaghetti straps. Her hair is pulled back, but long loose strands frame her face like always. It looks like she posed in front of the blackboard in her classroom. He pictures her propping up the camera, then closing the door and taking off her sweater to stand there in her undershirt like that. He studies the way her one front tooth overlaps the other, just the tiniest bit, so that it almost shows between her slightly parted lips. And those pond green eyes, like summer calling to him after a long winter. She is daring him to still love her. And, the trouble is, he does.


By Rhonda Morton

by Christina Morris

Megan Grumbling & Sarah Foster & Simon Bjarning

1/30/2018

 
**Special note: Sarah Foster chose to be both a writer AND a collaborator, so it made sense to layer these collaborations together as follows:

Megan Grumbling, writer + Sarah Foster, collaborator (dancer)
​Sarah Foster, writer + Simon Bjarning, collaborator (musician)

Starlight: A Choreographic Soliloquy


The essence of the dance is mint.

The dancer enters, on finger-points, from above the trailer.

A cool, shivery touch. Optimism and goosebump. Innuendo.

The dancer’s fingers ever so lightly graze the surfaces – trailer, broken chair, rocking horse. A quivering bourée downstage.

Peppermint, wintergreen. Starlight. Stella. Stella! 

The dancer gives a quivering shake.

A beautiful, scintillating shudder. Like jazz hands. Like Pentecostalists seized with God. 
The shuddering is meant to express mint. The flash of her hands, palms open, Starlight. 
The sudden stoic whites of her eyes. Highway and Canyon. Her character lives in the trailer, waters the stones, checks the mail, paints peppermint stripes on the yard’s breakages and ends. Horizon.

Her stoic whites of eyes, of course, are off-stage. The meta-proscenium. But it’s a distinction without a difference. Highway and Canyon.

Off-stage, above the proscenium, the dancer widens her eyes. Horizon. Winks.

That wink is not in the choreography. And yet it is true to the spirit. Mint. Optimism, innuendo, Highway. She is a good dancer. She can improvise.

The dancer delicately spider-crawls up the trailer wall.

And though the dancer has her choreography, the rules are loose. She has choice in her fingers. Even in her eyes. I've written it in, her choice. She can elect to wink. She is not a tiny dancer. She is quite tall, actually. Her hands in the yard. As tall as the trailer. When she reaches down into the yard, it is not like the hand of god; it is better: the hand of a dancer. 

The dancer improvises, with one finger, against the rocking horse.  

She does not ride the horse but rocks it. One finger. It conjures a certain kind of cowboy, a certain kind of yeoman farmer. Bootstraps, Fruited Plain.

This choreographic theme is called Hope:

The dancer stands two fingers on the chair and raises her pinkie and thumb.

The dance is all about conjuring. Discovery. Optimism. See, how she checks the mailbox.

With one finger, the dancer taps the mailbox, three times.

Three times, like a knock.

From her palm, magician-like, appears a small stone. She puts it with several others on the ground.

She is building a wall with the stones. A sort of wall, anyway. Really she just waters them.

But now it is tomorrow, and something changes in the dance: Today, no stone will come in the mail.

The dancer taps the mailbox, reveals an empty flash of palm.

Not a pebble, not even gravel. And the next day.

Taps, flash-of-palm, empty. Beat. Again.

Not even sand. Nothing to put in the wall. Nothing to water. Every day until now there's been a stone come in the mailbox.

And so is it a kind of a political show I have choreographed, a political dance?  How the stones keep arriving until they don't? The wall that is sort of a wall? How only one dancer can ride the rocking horse at a time, and even then, only with one finger?

Both the stones and the dance seem so much smaller onstage. And bigger. The grandeur, the squalor.

I’ve written dances for a lot of shows – music boxes, grange halls, but this one I can't quite get a handle on. Comedy or tragedy? You can't tell from the music; such a pastiche.

Maybe it's not really a political dance at all. Maybe it's all about the body. The body in space.  
 
The dancer traces a finger up the stage-right wall, then leaps her palm to the far wall, clearing the horse.

She dances it well, with abandon, minty ecstasy. Starlight Optimism. It's not easy. The syncopation, the compartmentalization. But it's beautiful, too, and when she hits it just right – the leap, clearing the horse, the gas tank, the grandeur, the squalor – stones or none, well, it just must feel so good in your body to pull off that kind of leap. 
 
And this set she’s leaping over, the setting of the dance.

This trailer, that is. A trailer, wintergreen green.
A symbol? A screen? A scrim?  
Perhaps the dancer herself is uncertain.
Is the trailer a grotesque or an idol? Perhaps it is Schroedinger's trailer: Until you open it up, it is both. 

This choreographic theme is called Cognitive Dissonance.

She moves on a line. On a point. Spins.

Is she an electron? An angel? 

You can see from the candor of her dance that the dancer doesn't want to condescend to the trailer. She doesn't want to be precious. She doesn't want to use fairy dust. Everyone involved in the dance has had to contend with the problem of representation of the trailer.  
 
Is it a symbol? A scrim? A jack-in-the-box?
The secret passage? A pasteboard mask? 


At some point, someone is going to have to knock on its door.

The place I live, it's small too. Doesn't everyone live in a small place? It's called a body. 

A Body, this choreographic theme is called.

The dancer moves at a slow 3. In a wave.

This one, Society.

She moves at a 6. In a writhe.

This one, Grief.  

She moves at a 1. Limp.

Her character has heard that the stones are really pebbles.  
That the stones are only gravel. 
That the stones are sand. 

Will the stones come again?

The dancer holds her fingers poised near the mailbox, waiting for the next bit.


I'm not sure I remember this next bit.

The dancer starts to tap the mailbox, but hovers. Gives a quivering shake. Grazes the surfaces of trailer, broken chair, rocking horse.

I have choreographed her movements. But she must dance them. Her fingers, her hands. Her lips, brows, eyes, high above the proscenium. The moon of the dance, so to speak. The stars. A kind of Starlight. A most beautiful light. Horizon. Even when it is only on a stage, only a dance.

This whole show, truth be told, is more than a little hypothetical. A work in progress. Let's call it an experiment. Horizon. She widens her eyes. Tingling with spin, gravel, and mint. Optimism Like jazz hands seized. An unpredictable experiment.  A knock on the door. But maybe, possibly, a great one. 



by Megan Grumbling


The Dance is Mint from MoveWorks on Vimeo.

Reader: Douglas Milliken
Dancer: Sarah Foster
Original music, "Ours" by Simon Bjarning
in response to:

Maybe I should just sit here.  Maybe I should just wait for it to happen. I stop jumping. I mutter under my breath words I wouldn’t say in front of my mother. My not-so-carefully chosen clothing barely covers my thighs.  I become acutely aware of a sticky film of sweat underneath my knees.  

Water starts to drizzle through, under the edge of the window grate. The overhead florescent lights flicker and make an intermittent buzzing noise. Like the sound of distant cicadas on a dewy night, somewhere in the South where the trees are bigger than they should be, with low hanging arms covered in lace. My arms feel heavy. I’m too lazy to hold them up.

Maybe if I had done it differently. More determined - or from a different angle.  This would have gone by faster. If wall clocks were still a thing, I’d watch the passing of the seconds. Every new moment eats up the past. Like a sewing needle poking through tough fabric, over and over again. Poke. Poke. Tick. Tock. But I don’t have a clock, just a ventilation pipe. My jaw tenses.

I plunge my weight into the chair and push it to the corner. The back fell off months ago.  That’s one of the reasons why I did what I did and why I’m doing what I’m doing.  Too many broken things here. I tried to repair this sad little chair the way I repair everything - with candy cane striped tape and a good pun. I have many years of experience with inanimate objects - and the one thing that I know for sure is that they appreciate levity.

Then I remember Pone, my beloved rocking horse. He sways reluctantly in the corner. His mechanical black eyes speak of many lives lived and his rusty joints squeal of abuse. I know he wants to know why we’re sinking.  Why I allowed a perfectly fine mint and white motorhome to slide into my neighbor’s lake. Why I avoided Charlie and Yvette’s dinner invitations. Why I stole so many wrenches from the local hardware store. Why despite the tape, and the wrenches, and the jokes, and the fake repairs, we are still sinking.

But it’s too soon to explain anything to anyone, especially a rocking horse. For all I know, we will be floating here forever in an endless circular river. I tell him, in my most caring voice, “don’t spell part backwards, Pone. It's a trap.” That’s one of his favorites.  His laughter echoes against the outer walls, waves striking a tin roof.

I read once, in a very smart-seeming book, that you can control your emotions by controlling your face.  If I hosted a dinner party, that’s what I would talk about to entertain my guests. Then I’d make everyone at the table experiment with it. I’d tell everyone to make angry faces, and Charlie and Yvette’s brother would start screaming at each other.  I’d tell everyone to make frowny sad faces, and Joelle would sink into her chair, watery-eyed. I’d order a chorus of hyena laughs and we’d all be best friends forever.  I smile at the thought. I smile hard. And not just with my lips, but with my chin, and my eyes, and my teeth. Especially my teeth.

To match my body to my face, I take a wrench in one hand and walk around the perimeter of the room, slapping my bare feet on the linoleum and lifting my knees high like a soldier. A joyous dance to match a joyous face. I bang the wrench on the hot water tank and I spin and hop and spin and hop. I shimmy left  - I shimmy right.  Joy boils in my flesh.

Then the floor drops below me. The walls moan around me.

I crouch down and back up against the wall. I drop the wrench. I insert my index fingers into the creases of my knees. I find comfort in the slick proximity of skin on skin. The small window by the ceiling has darkened. Water seeps in along the upper edges. A pool of liquid creeps up from the lowest part of the floor. I hear it coming.

I wait. And smile.


​by Sarah Foster

BONUS! Sarah also brought a version of her writing with a short set of instructions for a willing volunteer to improv a short piece. Rhonda Morton (also a writer) volunteered:

I've Never Done This Before from MoveWorks on Vimeo.

    66 OURS - Collaborative Writing Project

    Starting with Phase 1, writers had 66 days to base their writing on 1 anonymous person & 1 vignette, dutifully and judiciously assigned to each writer by Amelia.

    For Phase 2, Amelia then took said writings and paired them with artists who then have 66 days to translate the words into physical form, either with creations or performance.

    Then the works and secrets were revealed June 22nd through June 24th 
    at 
    Beulahland.

    Photos given to the writers

    Each writer was given a combination of 1 person + 1 vignette from the following:
    Picture
    Person 1
    Picture
    Person 2
    Picture
    Person 3
    Picture
    Vignette 1
    Picture
    Vignette 2
    Picture
    Vignette 3

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    Cigarettes
    Clothes
    Couch
    Curiosity
    Dancer
    Divorce
    Door
    Dust
    Everything Changes
    Factory
    Faded
    Family
    Games
    Gingham
    Gravity
    Grease
    Hair
    Hallway
    Hiking
    Illness
    Jesus
    Knives
    Lake
    Late
    Leather
    Letter
    Library
    License
    Limb
    Lipstick
    Longing
    Loss
    Love
    Memory
    Michigan
    Milk
    Mint
    Money
    Moving On
    Neck
    Neon
    Nostalgia
    Nothing Changes
    Office
    Office Supplies
    Oil Can
    Pain
    Peanuts
    Pillow
    Pinball
    Plaid
    Pleasure
    Post-its
    Rocking Horse
    Room
    Run Down
    Run-down
    School
    Scissors
    Secrets
    Shadow
    Shoulders
    Stadiums
    Stars
    Stone
    Storm
    Stumble
    Sunscreen
    Sunshine
    Survival
    Table
    The Bar
    Thunder
    Train
    Triumph
    Uprooted
    Vessel
    Vulnerable
    Window
    Wine
    Work

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​Landline: 607.776.8018

4363 County Route 24
Cameron Mills, NY 14820