Gwendolyn Brooks in Our Neighborhood
Friday, July 24, 2020
I originally wrote this entry on May 6, 2020, and have reposted it in conjunction with a new piece up at Literary Hub that continues the walking around this sculpture that goes on being so important to me. That piece is at:
May 6, 2020
In our neighborhood, at 46th and Greenwood, is Gwendolyn Brooks Park. And in Gwendolyn Brooks Park there is a statue of the poet, which is believed to be only the second statue of an African-American woman in Chicago.
The sculptor is Margot McMahon, an artist who specializes in public projects and in sculptures of people who play what get called ordinary roles in the making of city life. The sculpture was McMahon’s idea, as part of the centennial celebration for Gwendolyn Brooks, and she approached Nora Brooks Blakely, daughter of the poet, who suggested that the park named for Brooks would be the right place, and then the two worked together to develop the sculpture and its installation. It was unveiled on June 6, 2018, the poet's birthday.
The statue of Gwendolyn Brooks shows the poet’s head, face, and glasses, and the upper part of her torso, arms and hands.
Installation photo from Margot McMahon's website, photographer uncredited.
Behind is a wooden structure that is like the poet’s porch. Porch and figure are joined by a winding set of stepping stones that have inscribed on them quotations from Annie Allen, Brooks’s book of 1949 about the coming of age of Annie Allen, a book which won the Pulitzer Prize. Annie Allen is a very difficult modernist text that I have been learning to read for a few years now, and do not feel confident that I am yet really reading.
I am learning about this sculpture, as I am learning about the poetry, by visiting it many days in these months. It is of great value to me to have a thoughtful sculpture growing from a writer’s life that I can go and look at, and be in the space of.
Yesterday I wrote about Brook’s book of poems for and about children Bronzeville Boys and Girls with art by Faith Ringgold. It is interesting that in all Brooks’s work, as in Faith Ringgold’s, there is the sense of the presence and importance of children. Yesterday, I listened to some of a wonderful reading that Brooks gave when she became poet laureate at the Library of Congress. She began by reading three poems by girls from Chicago that had been submitted as part of the programs she ran as poet laureate of Illinois.
Annie Allen is difficult, and, at the same time, many of the lines make complete sense to children. When we take our children to Gwendolyn Brooks park, we sometimes read out the quotations that are on the stones. They both like the first one:
How pinchy is my room! they say, with a lot of relish. The rooms of our house are not that narrow, and we are grateful for that. At the same time, it is a phrase that makes a new stronger sense at the moment.
Annie Allen begins with a memorial poem for Ed Bland who was killed in Germany on March 20, 1945 – seventy-five years ago this spring. Then begins the first real section which is called Notes from the Childhood and the Girlhood. The line appears in the first poem, in which Annie Allen is born, the poem is called “the birth in a narrow room.” I am going to type out the poem at the end of this entry.
On Monday, I walked up to Gwendolyn Brooks Park on my own – it was very cold. I wanted to take a few more pictures of the sculpture, but a mother was standing near it with her child. The child was wearing a brown jacket with the hood up, and running up and down on the stones, and putting out her or his arms like an airplane. The installation also originally had some wooden hassocks arranged in a circle around the poet, to invite sitting to listen to her think, maybe read. These hassocks have mostly come apart, there is one and part of another still there. The child in the brown jacket sat on the remaining one and looked up at Gwendolyn Brooks and for a while I stood in the corner of the park and watched them in their private colloquy and then I turned and walked home.
Weeps out of western country something new.
Blurred and stupendous. Wanted and unplanned.
Winks. Twines, and weakly winks.
Upon the milk-glass fruit bowl, iron pot,
The bashful china child tipping forever
Yellow apron and spilling pretty cherries.
Now, weeks and years will go before she thinks
“How pinchy is my room! how can I breathe!
I am not anything and I have got
Not anything, or anything to do!”—
But prances nevertheless with gods and fairies
Blithely about the pump and then beneath
The elms and grapevines, then in darling endeavor
By privy foyer, where the screenings stand
And where the bugs buzz by in private cars
Across old peach cans and old jelly jars.
Thursday, June 11, 2020
Yesterday and today, in our extended family, as for many families, our children graduated. Our children and their cousins left behind nursery school, second grade, kindergarten, sixth grade, a year of daycare, and the fourth grade in a planned home school. Their teachers and families made a moving effort to mark these changes which this year do not seem as visible, as tangible, as usual.
Thinking about graduation, and gradual movement, my mind went to Claude Monet, who was one of the first painters I loved, and whose paintings our children love to look at. I wanted to make this postcard for our children who are graduating.
For a while, Claude Monet lived in cities and traveled around a lot, but eventually Claude Monet lived in the country. He had a house and a garden in Giverny, and this painting was painted in his garden. In a marshy area, he made a pond and over time the pond got more and more beautiful.
He planted water lilies and other plants. He admired Japanese gardens and brought in plants from Japan, and actually had to fight with his neighbors and the village government to be allowed to plant what they called “foreign” plants. He built this bridge which was designed to look like the Japanese bridges he admired.
Claude Monet painted surrounded by children. There were eight children in the household he made together with Alice Hoschedé. He painted outdoors a lot, and the children would come with him.
He was interested in trying to get paintings to show certain times of day, certain qualities of weather and effects of light, not the way a place usually looked, but the way it looked, say, on a sunny day in July around one o’clock in the afternoon.
When he went to paint outside, he would often set up a whole series of canvases. He would work on one at ten o’clock that showed the way the light looked around then, and, when the light shifted, he would move on to the next canvas and work on the eleven o’clock one, and when noon came, he would move on to the next painting. Part of what is beautiful and still surprising in his paintings is the way that you can really see time in them.
Usually, when we, your parents and teachers, celebrate the moment where you are moving on to the next painting, you know this is happening because of the world around you – because you are crossing the street to the bigger school, because you are hugging your friends, because your teachers are handing you folders with all the work and art that you have made, and you are hanging your work up around the house.
When we are not in the world in the usual way, it can be hard to feel that a change is really happening.
I imagine that Claude Monet watched the faces of his children with the same kind of attention that he watched the water lilies in his garden, and the same kind of attention that your parents and teachers and grandparents watch you with.
In the year this painting was painted, 1899-1900, Monet painted the water lilies eighteen times. Over many years, he drew and painted the surface of the water with the water lilies reflected in it so often he stopped counting. He went to look at them every day, year after year. He knew so much about the way the light and the water moved together, the way the plants grew and filled out the pond, the way the bridge weathered.
Amazingly, even on the screen, we can see it. We can see the changing light in your faces. It is gradual, but it is clear. You have grown like plants, and you are as much part of the world as the gardens you draw and tend and the bridges you will build. You really have graduated.
For Sylvia, Tobias, Lillian, Hazel, Zinnia, Sage and Avi.
Wednesday, September 7, 2016
One thing, I think, is that she is able to keep everything in motion. This morning, a first day of school, the perpetual motion of everything and everybody – all our objects, all the four of us, all our places and people – feels overwhelming, but look at how she brings the garden to the dress, the fan away from and toward the dress, the dress itself toward blue, toward purple, toward the body and the air.
I don’t think it is a photographic accident that the face of the woman becomes clearer and more meaningful when looked at with the hat and figure of the child behind her. Morisot has done something with the beige and white shades of their two heads and hats that allows my eye to make a relation between the two figures. The woman’s face becomes less ghostly, I see what she thinks about and how she feels happiness and even love across those green strokes to the child.
When I look back at our pictures of the summer, I see that we were often sitting where sand or green plants or water made a continuousness between us and the children. I feel I will miss this in the greater distinctness of fall.
In summer there is the challenge of making meaningful and definite that which is blurred by heat and continuity and abundance. Morisot has not forgotten the work of it. This morning, I am especially fond of that rake, like a paintbrush, like a pen, to one side.