Category Archives: WOMEN WE SHOULD KNOW

Francesca Woodman 1958–1981/ women we should have known


 

Francesca Woodman 1958–1981/ women we should have known

from tate uk

ARTIST ROOMS

Artist Rooms artist essay

American photographer Francesca Woodman has eighteen rare vintage black and white photographs in the Artist Rooms display, from a collection once owned by the artist’s boyfriend. Woodman’s photographs exhibit many influences, from symbolism and surrealism to fashion photography and Baroque painting. They have a timeless quality that is ethereal and unique. The artist began taking photographs at the age of thirteen and though she was only twenty two when she took her own life, she left behind a substantial body of work.
Francesca Woodman’s photographs explore issues of gender and self, looking at the representation of the body in relation to its surroundings. She puts herself in the frame most often, although these are not conventional self-portraits as she is either partially hidden, or concealed by slow exposures that blur her moving figure into a ghostly presence. This underlying vulnerability is further emphasised by the small and intimate format of the photographs.
We often see her in otherwise deserted interior spaces, where her body seems to merge with its surroundings, covered by sections of peeling wallpaper, half hidden behind the flat plane of a door, or crouching over a mirror. Found objects and suggestive props are carefully placed to create unsettling, surreal or claustrophobic scenarios. Her photographs are produced in thematic series’, relating to specific props, places or situations.
Woodman was exposed to the symbolic work of Max Klinger whilst studying in Rome from 1977-78 and his influence can clearly be seen in many photographic series’, such as Eel Series, Roma (1977-78) and Angel Series, Roma (1977). In combining performance, play and self-exposure, Woodman’s photographs create extreme and often disturbing psychological states. In concealing or encrypting her subjects she reminds the viewer that photographs flatten and distort, never offering the whole truth about a subject.

18 artworks

Untitled 1975‑80
AR00347

 

Women We Should Know – Elizabeth ” Brave Bessie” Coleman


 

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Born on January 26, 1892 in Atlanta, Texas, Bessie Coleman was one of 13 children to Susan and George Coleman, who both worked as sharcroppers.   http://www.biography.com/people/bessie-coleman-36928#awesm=~oF0BOHRrIMTtVR

 

 

 

 

Elizabeth “Bessie” Coleman (January 26, 1892 – April 30, 1926) was an American civil aviator. She was the first female pilot of African American descent[1] and the first person of African-American descent to hold an international pilot license http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bessie_Coleman

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jYYy-dT44

 

bessie-coleman

 

 

 

 

 

Sentences We Like


” The summer nights were passing outside like gay whores with tinkles of cheap jewelery, opened and emollient like a vast bed”

  Anais Nin

photographer unknown

photographer unknown

 

” All things were born anew when her dress fell

on the floor of his room.”

Anais Nin

paris by pdlyons

paris by pdlyons

Women We Should Know ~ all of them. STOP BEING SILENT


 

Lost Unto This World

I was once some mother’s darlin’
Some daddy’s little girl
More precious than the ruby
More cherished than the pearl
My heart was full of mercy
And my forehead full of curl
Now I am nothing and am lost unto this world
I am lost unto this world…
They herded me like cattle
Cut me down like corn
Took me from my babies
Before they could be born
You can blame it on the famine
You can blame it on the war
You can blame it on the devil
It don’t matter anymore
I am lost unto this world…
I was tortured in the desert
I was raped out on the piain
I was murdered by the high way
And my cries went up in vain
My blood is on the mountain
My blood is on the sand
My blood runs in the river
That now washes through their hands
I am lost unto this world…
Can I get no witness this unholy tale to teil
Was God the only one there watching
And weeping as l feil
O you among the living
Will you remember me at all
Will you write my name out
With a single finger scrawl
Across a broken window
In some long forgotten wall
That goes stretching out forever
Where the tears of heaven fall
I am lost unto this world…
Source: LyricFind
Songwriters: Emmylou Harris / Daniel Roland Lanois
Lost Unto This World lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group, Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.

 

As If The Rain by pd lyons from The Women Retrospect


DSC_7704

As If The Rain

Emily Dickinson used to sneak out.

Sometimes in day light, mostly at night.

Tip toeing carefully down the back stairs

Even though nobody else was there.

Always a hat a shawl or a veil

To keep the neighbours off her trail.

Walking along the streets of the town

Glimpses her reflection among dry goods and gowns

And in the shop she has been seeking makes her purchase from a little man who has always honoured their agreement

And never Miss Emily’s secrets revealed.

Bag of tobacco, skins and matches snapped up in her bag.

While wrapped in brown paper knotted with string – a bottle of port

tucks under her wing.

Emily Dickinson used to sneak out.

Later that night she did it again.

Carefully tip toeing down the back stair

Even though nobody else was there.

Making her way out to the train station,

Counting the stars as she sat on the bench,

Named new constellations while she was waiting.

A shudder of sighs defined by an overcoat of stains

he sits down beside her.

Rodent hands desperate in deep dead end pockets

Until, rusty knife retrieved by one opened by the other

String and paper, slit and peeled

Turbulent mouth not spilling a drop.

Until eased back against the slats.

Things he knows he tells her ~

Crossing the country by freight. Tin can meals around a fire.

Men who only knew for certain that they’d not meet again.

Bones broken by horses. Bayonets emerging from a fog.

What it’s like on the other side of the ocean.

Names of young girls, young men.

Who might be living? Who might be dead?

And sometimes, only warm smoke shapes between them linger

As if the rain would never come again on a Tuesday night in Amherst…

Wrote this in the late nineties.  Sent it off with a few others to a small Irish poetry magazine called Brobdingnagian Press (if i remember correctly) the pun was that each issue was one sheet of broad sheet paper with small poems printed all over it. Any way this was much too long for it although the editor was kind enough to accept one or two of the shorts. The embarrassing part was that while he appreciated the Amherst poem, being an aficionado of Emily, he did suggest that i might want to spell her last name correctly when sending to other editors.

anyway we had a bit of a laugh over that, Em and I and then went down to the waterfront. it was autumn and a storm was heading in….

a version of this poem appeared in The Yes Factory first issue 2012  https://docs.google.com/file/d/0B58yt4q1_WOpenRMa3RCczVqMlE/edit?pli=1

DSC_9557

As If The Rain by pd lyons from The Women Retrospect


DSC_7704

As If The Rain

Emily Dickinson used to sneak out.

Sometimes in day light, mostly at night.

Tip toeing carefully down the back stairs

Even though nobody else was there.

Always a hat a shawl or a veil

To keep the neighbours off her trail.

Walking along the streets of the town

Glimpses her reflection among dry goods and gowns

And in the shop she has been seeking makes her purchase from a little man who has always honoured their agreement

And never Miss Emily’s secrets revealed.

Bag of tobacco, skins and matches snapped up in her bag.

While wrapped in brown paper knotted with string – a bottle of port

tucks under her wing.

Emily Dickinson used to sneak out.

Later that night she did it again.

Carefully tip toeing down the back stair

Even though nobody else was there.

Making her way out to the train station,

Counting the stars as she sat on the bench,

Named new constellations while she was waiting.

A shudder of sighs defined by an overcoat of stains

he sits down beside her.

Rodent hands desperate in deep dead end pockets

Until, rusty knife retrieved by one opened by the other

String and paper, slit and peeled

Turbulent mouth not spilling a drop.

Until eased back against the slats.

Things he knows he tells her ~

Crossing the country by freight. Tin can meals around a fire.

Men who only knew for certain that they’d not meet again.

Bones broken by horses. Bayonets emerging from a fog.

What it’s like on the other side of the ocean.

Names of young girls, young men.

Who might be living? Who might be dead?

And sometimes, only warm smoke shapes between them linger

As if the rain would never come again on a Tuesday night in Amherst…

Wrote this in the late nineties.  Sent it off with a few others to a small Irish poetry magazine called Brobdingnagian Press (if i remember correctly) the pun was that each issue was one sheet of broad sheet paper with small poems printed all over it. Any way this was much too long for it although the editor was kind enough to accept one or two of the shorts. The embarrassing part was that while he appreciated the Amherst poem, being an aficionado of Emily, he did suggest that i might want to spell her last name correctly when sending to other editors.

anyway we had a bit of a laugh over that, Em and I and then went down to the waterfront. it was autumn and a storm was heading in….

a version of this poem appeared in The Yes Factory first issue 2012  https://docs.google.com/file/d/0B58yt4q1_WOpenRMa3RCczVqMlE/edit?pli=1

DSC_9557

As If The Rain by pd lyons from The Women Retrospect


DSC_7704

As If The Rain

Emily Dickinson used to sneak out.

Sometimes in day light, mostly at night.

Tip toeing carefully down the back stairs

Even though nobody else was there.

Always a hat a shawl or a veil

To keep the neighbours off her trail.

Walking along the streets of the town

Glimpses her reflection among dry goods and gowns

And in the shop she has been seeking makes her purchase from a little man who has always honoured their agreement

And never Miss Emily’s secrets revealed.

Bag of tobacco, skins and matches snapped up in her bag.

While wrapped in brown paper knotted with string – a bottle of port

tucks under her wing.

Emily Dickinson used to sneak out.

Later that night she did it again.

Carefully tip toeing down the back stair

Even though nobody else was there.

Making her way out to the train station,

Counting the stars as she sat on the bench,

Named new constellations while she was waiting.

A shudder of sighs defined by an overcoat of stains

he sits down beside her.

Rodent hands desperate in deep dead end pockets

Until, rusty knife retrieved by one opened by the other

String and paper, slit and peeled

Turbulent mouth not spilling a drop.

Until eased back against the slats.

Things he knows he tells her ~

Crossing the country by freight. Tin can meals around a fire.

Men who only knew for certain that they’d not meet again.

Bones broken by horses. Bayonets emerging from a fog.

What it’s like on the other side of the ocean.

Names of young girls, young men.

Who might be living? Who might be dead?

And sometimes, only warm smoke shapes between them linger

As if the rain would never come again on a Tuesday night in Amherst…

Wrote this in the late nineties.  Sent it off with a few others to a small Irish poetry magazine called Brobdingnagian Press (if i remember correctly) the pun was that each issue was one sheet of broad sheet paper with small poems printed all over it. Any way this was much too long for it although the editor was kind enough to accept one or two of the shorts. The embarrassing part was that while he appreciated the Amherst poem, being an aficionado of Emily, he did suggest that i might want to spell her last name correctly when sending to other editors.

anyway we had a bit of a laugh over that, Em and I and then went down to the waterfront. it was autumn and a storm was heading in….

a version of this poem appeared in The Yes Factory first issue 2012  https://docs.google.com/file/d/0B58yt4q1_WOpenRMa3RCczVqMlE/edit?pli=1

DSC_9557

If We Could Allow Grief by PD Lyons


In the latest issue of Buddhadharma Quarterly  I read a beautiful article by Joan Sutherland, Roshi titled Here at the End of the World In it she eloquently and effectively explores our social grief and lack of expression and how it is impacting our response or lack of response regarding the environmental situation. Below is my own attempt to express myself regarding grief and gun violence. While I make no comparison to Roshi Sutherland and my own pale writing I felt I must site her influence. Perhaps from here you’ll seek her out? Here is a direct link to her site and the complete article https://joansutherlanddharmaworks.org/Detailed/186.html

Thank you for reading.

pd Lyons

.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If we could allow grief

Our grief to manifest

 

A school room of 7 year olds 

Shot to death

A spring morning

Their families

The responders

The survivors

The shooter

All grief worthy

 

If we could allow this grief

Wouldn’t we be able then to progress?

 

Fear of grief

Shielded with anger

Anger stifles, prevents movement, stagnates into polarity, perpetuation of fear.

 

If we could allow grief

Could we not then allow healing?

 

this courage, is it not worth daring?

 

Women We Should Know ~ all of them. STOP BEING SILENT


 

Lost Unto This World

I was once some mother’s darlin’
Some daddy’s little girl
More precious than the ruby
More cherished than the pearl
My heart was full of mercy
And my forehead full of curl
Now I am nothing and am lost unto this world
I am lost unto this world…
They herded me like cattle
Cut me down like corn
Took me from my babies
Before they could be born
You can blame it on the famine
You can blame it on the war
You can blame it on the devil
It don’t matter anymore
I am lost unto this world…
I was tortured in the desert
I was raped out on the piain
I was murdered by the high way
And my cries went up in vain
My blood is on the mountain
My blood is on the sand
My blood runs in the river
That now washes through their hands
I am lost unto this world…
Can I get no witness this unholy tale to teil
Was God the only one there watching
And weeping as l feil
O you among the living
Will you remember me at all
Will you write my name out
With a single finger scrawl
Across a broken window
In some long forgotten wall
That goes stretching out forever
Where the tears of heaven fall
I am lost unto this world…
Source: LyricFind
Songwriters: Emmylou Harris / Daniel Roland Lanois
Lost Unto This World lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group, Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.

 

If We Could Allow Grief by PD Lyons


In the latest issue of Buddhadharma Quarterly  I read a beautiful article by Joan Sutherland, Roshi titled Here at the End of the World In it she eloquently and effectively explores our social grief and lack of expression and how it is impacting our response or lack of response regarding the environmental situation. Below is my own attempt to express myself regarding grief and gun violence. While I make no comparison to Roshi Sutherland and my own pale writing I felt I must site her influence. Perhaps from here you’ll seek her out? Here is a direct link to her site and the complete article https://joansutherlanddharmaworks.org/Detailed/186.html

Thank you for reading.

pd Lyons

.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If we could allow grief

Our grief to manifest

 

A school room of 7 year olds 

Shot to death

A spring morning

Their families

The responders

The survivors

The shooter

All grief worthy

 

If we could allow this grief

Wouldn’t we be able then to progress?

 

Fear of grief

Shielded with anger

Anger stifles, prevents movement, stagnates into polarity, perpetuation of fear.

 

If we could allow grief

Could we not then allow healing?

 

this courage, is it not worth daring?

 

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