These images below are photographs of some of my haptic poems worked in dichroic glass and photographed in the light of some of my favorites groves of trees in Mount Auburn Cemetery. They are from my collection sassafracas (Xerolage 69), published by Xexoxial Editions.
This is their first ever full color Xerolage, and you can buy it here!
The pieces are still being made. The next stage involve some glass fusing experiments, and possibly including them in some blown glass pieces (made in collaboration with a glass artist at MIT).
Excerpt from the book’s introduction, Mi’ani’festo:
Poems are energy.
And pwoermds are the smallest, talismanic scraps of energy.
They leave the barest suggestion of meaning that the reader can interpret, spin-off, double-read, see and then see again— but most of the time they refuse even that, and I love them for it.
They are fragments; they are essence; they are spells.
The glass poems I have made are haptic poems that began as written pwoermds.
Over time, I reworked these clandestine and evocative pieces into physical objects meant to be handled, turned about in the hands, held up to light and experienced.
The photographs in this collection replicate this experience of handling and seeing, and duplicate the variations of this experience.
Because they are glass, they are never the same experience twice.
Because most of them are made with dichroic glass— a variety of glass which displays two or more different colors in certain lighting conditions— this variety is even more pronounced.
Dichroic glass is wonderfully gaudy and transient, a passionate and lively material, filled with fugitive colors that change and engage playfully throughout the day, depending on the angle of view, the light, the weather, or even what is reflected, sky, face, or earth.
I love glass because it is inherently responsive. Lively and reflective by nature, it participates in the environment. It doesn’t exclude the world around it.
It fits these pwoermds because they too invite participation, never settling on meaning.
These pieces are therefore participatory— they’re brevity invites and provokes thought, emotion, and memory. This is a part of their life, their depth, their jouissance.