When I was a child, I wore many hats – in precisely the way the clichéd
expression means. Early photographs show me sitting on my father’s lap, arms
outstretched, driving a pretend fire
Photographs by Claire Burge
[https://i1.wp.com/www.curatormagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/02/1.jpg]
What is poetry,
she asked…
fetching it to me…
with full hands.
How could I
answer
Last June, I had the pleasure of attending the Trinity Arts Conference
[http://www.trinityartsconference.com/] in Dallas, TX, which was inspiring on
every artistic level. One night, I settled into a chair
I walked into the classroom. No books on the shelves. Linoleum floor, cracked.
No area rugs. Crayons, paper, glue, scissors, blocks? Nope. Well, at least there
were desks and a blackboard.
The principal
There ought to be in every hand a well-thumbed and annotated copy of Ovid’s
Metamorphoses
[http://books.google.com/books?id=6NdpGHErhucC&dq=ovid's+metamorphoses&printsec=frontcover&