January 2021

Editor’s Note

“This is a day to remember, frankly, in a year to forget.” — British Health Secretary Hancock, announcing approval of Pfizer’s coronavirus vaccine.

Hancock was half-right. 

We have, with one second ticking to midnight, put 2020 behind us. But we will not forget. Like any grief, we carry 2020 forward, to reckon with, to peel apart. To name. 

In my October editor’s note, I asked why we should make art now, in this time of anxiety and hardship. As one answer, I talked about the artist’s drive to document catastrophe. Now I turn to January, and our fifth issue, mulling all that art can do. 

2020 is over. The end of the beginning. For most of us—medical professionals, first responders, politicians, scientists, essential workers, historians, economists, teachers, parents, students, loved ones of the sick and dead—the reckoning has started. For artists, too. 

Our January authors grapple with aftermath. Zebulon Huset sketches the inevitability of loss. Sarah Twombly portrays what happens to a woman when her unseen and unbearable load finally takes its toll. And Heather Diamond traces adult choices to a girlhood game that forces children to peer into an uncertain future. 

January’s companions also steer me into the new year. Pulses of turmoil, mistrust, fear, and loss accompany Zebulon and Sarah’s pieces, while Heather’s friend, artist Sandra York, conveys a hopeful step toward something new. And ice skater Tiina Pakkenan, in the most moving short film I’ve ever seen, shows us that sometimes, what nature and the human body create together is wondrous. 

Why make art now? Art asks big questions, captures human experience in disasters global and local, brings solace and joy, and more. It will do all of these things, always.

Informed by our individual and collective memory of the year that was, we are poised to tell the story. A decade, a generation, a lifetime of art is about to unfold. 

Suzanne Farrell Smith

December 2020

Editor’s Note

The work of this issue is so beautiful, so weirdly wonderful in its different shapes and voices. No pressure, dear December authors—Liam Strong, Nancy Jorgensen, Shannon Bowring—but for me, your work, woven together, comes with a prescription for 2021.

This year has been so steeped in crisis, it’s hard for many of us to consider what came just before. I was already avoiding backward looks before 2020 dawned, and was so thankful, as we counted off those final days of 2019, to see the new year.

In early August 2019, my father had the stroke that killed him two weeks later. Six weeks after that, my mother died in particularly painful and distressing circumstances. The rest of the year was a blur.

By February 2020, I was beginning to feel a little like myself. Pushing through my days became less difficult, my head began to lift. Then… well. All the events that have inspired the habit of a head shake accompanied by the muttered “2020” began to unfold.

My 2019 strategy was to keep my fogged head down and push through, whispering, “This, too, shall pass.” It worked well enough while life, arranged around my confusion of grief, more or less conformed to experience. But here we are, nearing the end of an extraordinary year leading to the next extraordinary year, and I have no idea exactly what’s going to pass, what the passing will look like, and how long it will take.

No lowered head, no closed eyes. No whispering.

I’m doing two things this month to say a firm goodbye to 2020 and walk with intention and strength into whatever the next year holds: Taking stock and making joy.

I’m moved in our December publications by the stories of how we’re made by family and place, by intergenerational connection and disconnection, by deeply personal gain and loss. The events of 2020 and especially the pandemic have inspired reflection on exactly these things, and I am so grateful, given my 2019, for reminders of others’ stories, for every dose of empathy that pulls me back to community. So much the better when the art of the delivery brings joy.

I’m transported by this issue into the lives—real or imagined, the meaning is as deeply felt—very like me or completely unlike me; so close I can feel their breath or presented in whole image, like a painting that shows me something different depending on my sightline. And the art. Dense and chaotic (Strong’s “oil spill”), ordered and lightly spaced (Jorgensen’s “A Thing of Beauty”), strung along the page like birdsong (Bowring’s “Avian Elegies”).

This work, laced together with companion pieces ranging from the gifts of nature, to a beloved master like Patti Smith, and the generous artists Maggie Lach and Deb Farrell, helps me both take clear-eyed stock of loss—personal and communal—and remember what it is to make joy. And share it.

Claire Guyton

November 2020

Editor’s Note

It’s November of a leap year. November of 2020, the year “Blursday” became a colloquialism. November: the month that turns us toward late fall. The days don’t grow shorter as much as they turn darker. Since mid-March, I’ve spent most of my time at home. Even so, I welcome the season’s encouragement to hunker inside or around a fire in my backyard. 

It’s also an election year. Dualism dominates news and conversation. We’re either for or against, championing this or that. Duality is necessary. Ideas and values need to be distilled into categories in order to cast our votes. 

But for me, the language of election season is difficult. I like the “or” space, the gray area between two things. It’s a place to slow down, and witness the nuances of moments that make up daily life. With so much going on this year, and big decisions being made, it’s hard to get to the “between” space that is my respite.

Thank goodness I can find those spaces elsewhere. 

In the November issue, our authors find the friction, exhilaration, and tension in the gray. They show our everyday moments—from playing in the yard as kids to where we shop for groceries as adults. In these small spaces, they gently lead us to question, what is at cost? 

I haven’t done much since the pandemic began, but Blursday is one marathon day after another. Most everyone I know is extra tired this year. For this reason, I look forward to winter, the season of dormancy, when activity naturally slows. Election season will be over. 2020 will come to a close. I’m hoping for a lot more gray space to fill my days. But if it doesn’t, I know where to find some.   

Cheryl Wilder

October 2020

Editor’s Note

Just after midnight on March 3rd, an EF-3 tornado churned through an East Nashville neighborhood, killing five. The tornado missed the home of close friends, with two young children, by two blocks. A few months later, in my Connecticut home, I strapped bike helmets on my boys as we sheltered under a blanket during an Isaias-spawned tornado warning—my first ever. 

As I write, deadly wildfires burn the Pacific Northwest, where two of our October authors live. Tropical storms and hurricanes (so many that we’re into the Greek alphabet) soak the Southeast, where our third author resides. 

Why, in times of fire and flood, do we spend an hour hunting for a word, a day inside an idea, a weekend cutting and pasting… only to return to the original. Why make art now? 

Recently, I came across the Nashville tornado again, in the beautiful “Specific Air” by Rebecca Titus. Titus writes that after the tornado, a friend, whose property was heavily damaged, sent her a text: Let’s document with art. Whenever there is daylight come. There are side streets.

I read those lines over and over. Three lines in a text by an unnamed friend of an author I don’t know who lives close to people I know well. I noted the lack of comma between “daylight” and “come” and read it like a prayer.

Our authors this month write of torrents and wild flora, fire and a hungry sea. Makers of our companion pieces show storms and middle-of-the-night fear, a flight along cello strings and a flower as seen by my six-year-old son.

Let’s continue to document. When our places are burning and flooding, let’s take the side streets if we have to, and make the art we need.

Suzanne Farrell Smith