At Rowley Kennerk Gallery
119 N. Peoria #3C Chicago IL, 60607
Friday 11-6 and Saturday 12-5. Call for Appointment.



“The prose notebook is something else entirely, without repetition or revision included. It is antimemoir, a response to a day, and all the day produces by chance. It is in many ways the most radical form: a chronicle without a rhythm or a beat. Pure reflection, transparency. No audience desired or expected. It is inherently anarchist.”
-Fanny Howe, from The Winter Sun 2009

Nothing would sleep in that cellar, dank as a ditch,
Bulbs broke out of boxes hunting for chinks in the dark,
Shoots dangled and drooped,
Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates,
Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes.
And what a congress of stinks!-
Roots ripe as old bait,
Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich,
Leaf-mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks.
Nothing would give up life:
Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.
-Theodore Roethke, “Root Cellar” from The Lost Son and Other Poems 1948

“…’dissolution’, the reduction of the material in the alchemist’s vessel to first matter. The parallel in the mind is the destruction of attitudes, ideas, complexes, of the whole outer shell of the personality. In alchemy, this process ended with what was called nigredo, the black stage, when the material in the vessel had been broken down to first matter and was said to be dead and putrefying; when the alchemist herself had subjected her own personality to the fiery furnace of self-questioning and self-doubt… had apparently destroyed herself and lay dead, rotting in the slime which was all that was left of her ideals, her hopes and ambitions, her defences against the outer world.”*
-Hans Biedermann, from Man, Myth and Magic 1970

“Nico died from not having health insurance in Ibiza. She wore these hateful hippie woolen clothes to disguise her figure, which had deteriorated from the drug addiction. And she was bicycling, wearing these woolen things in the middle of summer in the hottest climate, and she had this little sunstroke, which probably would have been very easy to deal with. But this man who picked her up off the road took her to two or three hospitals in Ibiza and none of them would take her. Finally the Red Cross took her and she died there.”
-Paul Morrissey, from Please Kill Me 1996

“The leakage of talk. My mind is dribbling out through my mouth. My will is more flabby than it has ever been before. Let this be the dip before the upswing.” 1/6/1957
-Susan Sontag, from Reborn: Journals & Notebooks 1947-1963, 2008

*gender pronouns changed