Words & Images - paintings by Lisa Hess Hesselgrave and the poems they inspired

Ives Gallery - New Haven Free Public Library

August 1 through September 6, 2016


On display is work by Lisa Hess Hesselgrave, and the poems her paintings inspired. Ekphrasis means description in Greek. An ekphrastic poem is a poem written about a work of art. 


Poet Maureen E. Doallas began a series of poems based on some of my work on the T.S. Poetry Press, http://www.tweetspeakpoetry.com/?s=hess.

More recently, the Golden Thread Gallery in Hartford invited poets to respond to the art on display, which included the pastel, Archer.


Below are pieces that were shown at the Ives Gallery and some of the ekphrastic poems written for them.


Some of the original paintings are available for purchase, some are only available as signed prints.

Rocking Horse with Vacuum
1997
oil on canvas / 22 x 20
Print only - 18 x 24 - $160

Rocking Horse

All the things left undone

the horse unridden

the floor unswept

the book on the table

open and unread


and just barely seen

through barely sheer curtains

on the window

trees yet unbudded

and, beyond them, red ghosts

of tenements. Are they

unlived in, abandoned?


So much so for our lives:

so much work, so much play

so much time, we think,

all undone by other urgencies

some other matter pressing

some other stolen time

like death playing with our lives

leaving us to abandon

the mark we were just making

on the world

the mark as yet unmade.


On the other hand perhaps,

the waiting now unwritten

is waiting to be ridden

on that horse waiting

in a room for a child not yet born,

the cleaning still to happen,

the buds on trees about to form,

the homes through the window

at sunrise about to be restored.


Tom Nicotera

Hot Sky
2013
pastel / 40 x 30
Print only - 18 x 24 - $160

Closing In

The wild closes in

the moment the sun

idles in its profusion


of mauves and reds.

With the blush of air,

I harbor blue to slow


the progress of time

that thickens roots

and deepens the char


of lost afternoons.

I trip over the orange

that tricks the moon


to appear a too-soon

omen of blurred visions

to come, tongue lolling


in heat-fed sleep. Dark

carries its own night

dreams. How I see


the sea become a field

of frost-licked snow,

sky the arms holding it


back from my mouth

athirst in fear. I mean

to find my own way out.


Maureen E. Doallas

Plywood Archer #1
2013
charcoal on plywood / 11 x 8.5 x 1
Original $1000 / 18 x 24 print $160

Cross-bow In Sepia

She dreamed of pulling back, taut and tight

Left eye closed

To enhance the vision of the right

Squarely hitting her target

After days and weeks of practice

Under the cloak of night


Movement by day

And dreams by night

Blurred in browns and creams

Pinks and tans of her sepia colored world


She never meant to harm

Her heart was simply

Set on love


As she awoke

To a slow brightening

Asleep no longer

drowning in her dreams


Color floods her world

Aware

Awake

Drowning out the shades of

Her chocolate colored

Dreams

Of love, of him


Her bow no longer needed

She lays it down

Her love

Returned


In shades of sepia


Elizabeth W. Marshall

Archer
2013
pastel / 28 x 20
Original $2200 / 18 x 24 print - $160

Huntress

Alone in the wood,

She listens for life.

The only response

is her own heartbeat.

She is used to silence.

She could be one of the trees;

Their shadows are the same,

and all are as still

as life can be.


She contemplates the object in her hands.

Its pale curves catch the remaining light

as she bends it,

using disguised strength

to string it tightly.

The tension in her hands

serves as a snapping reminder

of how easily her tool

could be made a weapon.

Power in hand,


the huntress stalks the forest.

In the forest she is a being

as bright and cold as the moon

that will soon rise to meet her,

and hail her through the night.


She snaps the bowstring,

letting the vibrations disrupt the air around her.

Leaves rustle indignantly;

she acknowledges them,

and removes the string.

She does not need to be the hunter tonight.


At least,

alone in the wood,

she is able to choose.


Meagan Thomas

Jumprope
1998
oil on canvas / 26 x 24
Original $3400 / 18 x 24 print $160

Child

A child is a mystery,

like the light of stars—


the dream

we try to capture, even as it seems


to pass like the quickening scent

of Spring blows by.


Strange flower budding in the dark,

sweet and bitter tear,


learning to hide, stem of wishes

waiting to come true.


We cannot save you

from this gravity,


from such wonder, laced with pain—child,

fire of promise, burning in the rain.


Richard Maxson

Girl in Street
1991
oil on canvas / 11 x 11
Print only - 18 x 24 - $160

Just because

we all know her voice,

mother, daughter, sister, friend.


Some times it’s too far away to hear a scream,

or there isn’t one;


nevertheless, we shake

our heads at the news,


or someone ushers us

out of the room from the floor,


where we were playing

and fear rises from a memory—


a hand rescued from a hot stove

when we felt the touch of fear.


When the dress is too familiar,

and the hair resembles…


we turn the dead bolt twice

and pull the door against it after.


When the dress is small and blue,

the architecture of the houses too familiar,


we walk to switches in our halls,

we slice the darkness with an open door,


and let our hearts still for the small

breaths sleeping where the lights fall.


Richard Maxson

Bedsheet
1992
oil on canvas / 22 x 34
Original $3400 / 18 x 24 print $160

Apprentice

Every boy should know how

to do a veronica, fix one knee

in front of the other, and bend

the spine to sounds of Ole! Ole!,

sure two-handed maneuvering

of the makeshift cape bringing

fully imagined bull to its lancer.

A particular flick of the wrists

takes practice to pose, each pass

low to keep the beast’s head down.

Some days it’s science, some art,

bull and boy both brought to kneel.

Who protests the positioning too

soon for the kill is lost in the last

swirls of magenta. Beyond the ring

feet fly; a clean white handkerchief

waves and waves. A mother waits

to press cloth to son’s bleeding face.


Maureen E. Doallas