I think with art, like with life, we have to find our own doors and windows in. I think they exist where we want to find them. In fact, they only exist at all if we want to find them. It is like they say--that art is truly a unique experience for each person. Maybe we will only experience any piece within our realm of possibility, in the ways that are possible for us. So then if I am the maker, I may try to provide windows, but you will only see into them if you are looking. If you open it up and come in, then it has become a door.
I like the idea of the piece of creation itself as the door or window--it is letting someone experience it as a way to see something, or a way to feel something, or a window/door in to the maker herself.
I found my own door into this song (I didn't write these words, but used them in my creation)...
This is also something that is not a new creation today, but I think when I wrote this poem I wanted someone to read it and find their own door in.
One Two Step
A wild Thursday night party,
she’s dancing, belting out the lyrics
to Ciara’s “One Two Step.”
Wearing her russet boots, the tall ones
that give her 5’2” a little dominance.
Sweaty bodies push up against her
in the teeny room, but the lights are off
and everyone’s been drinking
so no one seems to mind.
Some guy in his standard,
slightly flamboyant, fraternity boy
button down comes up behind her
putting his hands on her waist.
His bucking bronco dancing needs a harness
but she laughs it off.
Breathing Natty Light down her neck, creating
his own beat he pulls her closer, forcing
his right hand beneath her pale blue rhinestone belt.
Clutching at the inseam of her American Eagle jeans
as his right hand prowls her abdomen,
grabbing her breasts.
Suddenly he is not just some guy,
he is that one.
He is every man we will never trust.
She’s stumbling over the futon
and tearing out the front door
as his friends, in matching collared shirts,
shout taunts. The narrow path worn through
the trees on the side of the house
is melted snow, refrozen, uneven
and her 3” Steve Maddens trip her repetitively
as her fair blond curls beat the back of her neck.
Reaching the pavement she slows down,
staggering, she throws her head back
to the navy
forward and catches her sobbing
in her freshly nail polished hands,
collapsing onto the stone base
of a bare church fountain.
Huddled against the freezing granite
she is fourteen again,
belt hanging,
ripped from it’s buckle.
