Art: I Hear You Cindy the Sherman
One of those dreams
in which you are trying to get somewhere, your seats at a basketball game where
you’ve left a friend stranded because you just simply can’t get from here (a crowded
bathroom, with a wet concrete floor) to there (the wooden bleachers, like a high school
gym, but in a large stadium).
You don’t remember the last time you attended a basketball game. High school? That’s
four decades ago. Where did this dream come from? But the guilt is familiar. Your
insecure friend is waiting for you. And you can’t seem to punch the right numbers into
your cell phone to call her. You worry she will feel deserted.
You run into people from different chapters of your life. Childhood friends, current
colleagues. The one who likes to take selfies in the stark, institutional bathroom, then
post her outfits on Facebook, unembarrassed when you walk in on her photoshoot.
You try to call Andrew, but more trouble using your phone. You keep punching the
numbers in wrong. You give up and head home.
You drive right up to the shore (though you don’t live at the shore) and stop, but other
cars just keep going, right into the ocean. You get out of your car, turn around, and see
Mom and Dad walking toward you.
You are not surprised to find them together. Just relieved to find them. Everything will
be ok. But . . .
They have been divorced since 1979. Not to mention, he is dead. Yet here they are,
younger, though not so young. Daddy doesn’t look quite like himself—shorter, cartoon
or caricature-like.
You tell them, I was so lost. Daddy reaches for you, big hug, asks, “But why were you
lost?”
You wake up with that question, burning. Finding the answer seems crucial.
Elegy on a Post-it Note
Found at the bottom of a desk drawer, Daddy’s scrawl on a pink Post-it note,
once stuck on some newspaper clipping he sent me. Before paper was accepted in
recycle bins, I would fold such sticky notes over and use the back to label the latest
recording on a VHS tape and throw it away only after I had filled the back side (labeling,
scratching through, noting whatever I taped over that, and again, until I’d filled it up—my
own recycling).
I occasionally find these notes when cleaning out a drawer or, reaching in the
back of one looking for something. I can recycle paper now, but, even so, I can’t throw
out these notes. I don’t care that the message is mundane, that the sticky is worn
smooth, or that VHS tapes are defunct. It is an anyday message in my father’s
handwriting, proof he was as here then as he is gone now. That he used his turns-out-
limited time to send me something I likely didn’t need—a news story about someone I
know back home or a photo of a nephew with a scribbled note about his grandson’s
latest cuteness.
Scribbled indeed. That handwriting. When I was at summer camp, I would look in
just about every mail slot rather than accept he hadn’t written. He wrote me almost
every day, usually from his Senate chambers desk, on his official Louisiana State
Senator stationery, even if he was telling me about my baby brother being potty trained
in time for our Florida vacation after my return from camp. Sometimes I found his letters
were in the Ss, sometimes the Ds, occasionally the Bs, where they belonged.
But they were always there.
And now they aren’t. Except sometimes, in the back of a drawer.
About the author:
A native of Louisiana, Margaret Donovan Bauer divides her time between her home in Greenville, NC, where she teaches at East Carolina University, and her sanctuary home on the Pamlico River. She has served as the editor of the North Carolina Literary Review for over 25 years, and her service as such has been recognized by the North Carolina Award for Literature and the John Tyler Caldwell Award in the Humanities. The author of four books of literary criticism, including A Study of Scarletts: Scarlett O’Hara and Her Literary Daughters, she has transitioned to creative nonfiction and has published essays in Chautauqua, Cold Mountain Review, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Deep South, Eclectica, New Madrid, storySouth, as well as in Abstract.
In the artist’s words:
Goran Tomic: The series I’m working on is titled “Mapping Approximation” which is a large expansive collection of Collages delving into the consciousness of the Modern Inferno that we inhabit and our oxygen giving participation to its flames. They are Compositions within compositions commenting on the current state of Technology, AI, Climate change, cheap and nasty architecture, disposable culture, medication as food, the new age Jungian world on our doorstep. This is Our Modern Inferno. You won’t find Obvious images of Blood or War or Hell in this series, the underlying theme and Through Line is my personal interpretation of Dante’s inferno.
Tomic, a self-taught artist from Sydney, Australia, creates collages that capture the chaotic beauty of urban life. His pieces, often made on the move—in cafes, pubs, or even on public transport—reflect the shifting dynamics of his surroundings and daily routine. Prompted by his transition from a spacious house to a compact apartment, Goran utilizes materials like cardboard, envelopes, and old book covers, blending them into distinctive compositions that embody the city’s vibrancy. His art transcends mere visual expression; it is a journey through urban decay in search of the “Wilderness Robe,” a symbol of authenticity in a constantly evolving world. Influenced by Robert Rauschenberg, Goran’s installations and performances challenge viewers to rethink the boundaries between art and everyday life.