Yesterday, I had the pleasure of joining poets Jane Zenger and Kelley Lannigan to read poetry in conjunction with the stunning photography exhibit, “Becoming: The Feminist Image,” showing now through July 14th at Photo SC, 918 Lady Street in Columbia, South Carolina.
I shared poems from two of my books, Beautiful Waters and Swimming in Gilead.
“Becoming: The Feminist Images” includes the work of 30 female photographers from all over the world, juried by the photography book and exhibition designer, independent curator and writer, Elizabeth Avedon, who is the former Director of Photo-Eye Gallery, Santa Fe; Creative Director for The Gere Foundation; Art Director for Polo Ralph Lauren national advertising; and Photo Editor for Ralph Lauren Media's RL Magazine, and currently serves as faculty for both the BFA Photography and Video, and Masters in Digital Photography departments at the School of Visual Arts in New York.
“Elizabeth Avedon is one of the most talented and creative people I've ever worked with. Her taste and intelligence are impeccable.” -Richard Gere
As you know, I am very proud to live in Columbia, South Carolina, which I believe is undergoing an arts renaissance, led in large part by artists who identify as queer, women and people of color, and I thought it would be nice to share the images and poetry from yesterday’s event with people beyond the heart-shaped borders of our state.
-Be. -Come. -Becoming.
Be who you are. Come hear me. Together we are becoming.
Below each of the images is the poem I selected to read, and each image also contains links to Instagram. You can click on the image itself to link to the post or click on the artist’s account to follow and learn more about her work.
LINDA PLAISTED - Still Life @themanymuses
Rainbows
vi. Bunches of blue berry like a baby just starting, a blastocyst in you beginning to show through your clothes. What grows in us comes from what we have eaten. And what the stores don’t show you are the pink and red ones waiting on the woody stems and the rough edged leaves that cradle them. There are so many sweet berries in us like this, just waiting to birth open.
-from Beautiful Waters by Cassie Premo Steele
NANCY SCHERL - In the Company of Solitude from Dining Alone
@nancyascherl
Springs
ii. In 1855, a treaty was signed (passive voice, cover it up) that three tribes who had four seasonal rituals—roots, berries, fish, hunt—would be removed to one square north of Mount Jefferson and south of Mount Hood. Wasco, Northern Paiute and Warm Springs would retain their rights to hunting, fishing and gathering throughout the lands that they had lived upon. This is not a poem. There is nothing beautiful in this truth, or good. iii. In 1887, English-only policy was mandated in Indian schools. (My great grandparents were leaving Ireland then, after the famine, also English-led.) Tribal languages were banned. Traditional clothing was replaced by uniforms. (“Wear a suit. Speak English,”said Denis Clair’s mother as he left her in Liscannor.) And the hair, which culturally was cut during times of mourning because it was sacred, was cut. (Denis met and married Mary Agnes in Ohio and they never went home again.) iii. We ask the kid in the Warm Springs Museum where we should eat, and he says he likes the place across the street. So at the casino, we order fry bread tacos, and nothing on the plate came from here—no salmon, no berries, no venison, no roots. But we eat it like cowboys put on boots. iv. I’ve noticed that reservations don’t usually get located in forests, along rivers, or on rich farm land. From New Mexico to the Dakotas and Oregon, they’re near desert badlands. And there are mesas. Dry, flat tables that rise to the sky. Maybe God has a sense of humor. Maybe he heard the word, reservation, and created the table, said, “How many for dinner?” and like a waiter, has been standing by for everyone to be seated together before pouring the wine.
-from Beautiful Waters by Cassie Premo Steele
BOOTSY HOLLER - Egg Lake, 2022
Series: Without Words: grounded in nature
@bootsyholler
I Am Alive
I am alive and green like the leaves of the dogwood tree right in front of me as I write as I breathe as I be. I am grown and gone like the seeds from the willow that scattered like snow so they could go so they could know so they could grow. I am old and strong like the bark of the oak that shades our bed though the dark parts through the dream starts through the heart. I am grateful and small like the grass under me as I walk on my feet wherever I leave whatever I cleave however I grieve. I am still and shimmering like the center of sun that loves us by burning however we won wherever we’ve come whatever is done. I am wise and watery like the creek through the trees that winds her way to you and you and me.
-from Swimming in Gilead by Cassie Premo Steele
NATALIA RUDYCHEV - Madonna
@nataliarudychev
Their Exasperation
After another summer storm, they stepped out into sauna morning to pick up branches from the ground like dead bodies lying down. Downtown there was a parade with floats and fireworks like a regular American day until bullets ran astray. These wombs are ours, they want to say, but even words are not free in this country where fecundity is cut away. Cunt is not enough to hold what their tongues scream so bold and only breath can express their exasperation at this dickish mess.
-from Swimming in Gilead by Cassie Premo Steele
JUDIT GERMAN-HEINS - Monster in the shape of a woman #1
@juditghphotography
Brazen
I blaze then. In my fire. From the tip. Follow it down. Be here then. Hot, hotter, hottest. Open to knowing. Me in you. You in me. The rage, see. I own it. It owns me. It flows so. It grows me. Magma, lava, volcano. Foam and heat. See down below. What comes out. Devours only me. This is it. The point then. Where I go. Or you do. We make we. After burns us. We are these. Soil and green. Come new trees. Kiss me hard. Pull my roots. Water my shoots. Touch my leaves. Hand petal me. Feel the soft. Smell the clean. Nature’s laundry day. This fresh breeze. Caress my skin. Warm the frozen. February fire chat. Talk to me. Whisper, reason, scream. Make any sound. Take me down. Below the dirt. In the ash. Watch me rise. Like light, ignite. Like dawn, emerge. Take sun flight. Give holy urge. I am brazen. Be brazen, too. Brazen with me.
-from Swimming in Gilead by Cassie Premo Steele
TERI TERASAKI - Daughter of Liberty 2024
@teriteraart
Crone Rain
There is a small crossroad just beside my bed where on a dark night I placed my foot and fled. I was a woman then. Now I am an empty sack of yarn and thread. My fingers became needles then. I can create from my head whatever will keep me warm, soft and secure, and not dead. I light a candle before dawn and pray for an escape. I am my own railroad. My bathrobe became a cape. When you hear the rain at night, you will triumph the next day. Freedom comes to wombs who refuse to be locked away.
-from Swimming in Gilead by Cassie Premo Steele
RAHELEH MOHAMMAD - Protesting Against Silence
@rahelehmohammadofficial
Declaration
I declare deeply that I am free in my mind, despite the weight I find there sometimes, telling me to serve and care and take a load I cannot shake. I am no handmaid. I tell you that. My independence comes from me, this body, breathing, skin open and bones moving. I love what brings me life and sever ties with strife of woman, vessel, chalice, bowl. I’ve come too far to let them lock me up in part or whole. Grieve. Rage. Cry. Shout. Every sound from my mouth is sacred, holy prayer. I am the priest and the power.
-from Swimming in Gilead by Cassie Premo Steele
Thank you for joining me at “Becoming: The Feminist Image.” May the words and photos encourage you in your own becoming into power, creativity and freedom.