Anderson & Rubin — Nov. 14

Sandy Anderson and Francine Rubin traded art and words. Sandy shared this collection of paintings with Francine:

In response, Francine wrote this series of poems:

Views of a City

Interior: Nude, with Book

The book conjures a different landscape:
snow mountains, edge of sky,
chest burning in a cloud
of frost.

Snow mountains
in this room
in a city.
In this room, I too am an image,
a bodyscape. My sky of skin.
My plane of torso.
My streams of limbs.
Let me open you up
out of this small brown room,
this city of rooms under rooms,
boundaries separating skin
from skin, skin from sky.
See my thigh of water. Feel my hand
of cloud.

Street: Woman by Cab Window

Through the window, words
I imagine: “An accident
by the Brooklyn Bridge”
or “Brooklyn Hospital Center”
or “I don’t drive to Brooklyn”
or “Please.” On the street,
the woman crouches
before the open window.
From where I am,
I can’t see the driver’s face.

Interior: Naked Back

Today feels backwards.
On my way to work,
I saw a man push a woman.
They were alone at the station
as my train sped by.

At work, I saw three stacks of papers fall
from my desk. I dropped
my yogurt to the ground.
I tripped over a stray wire.

Now I am home in my room, naked
on the floor. I think of the woman
falling.

Interior: Nude on Ottomon

After work, I bathe in red light.
I recline on my ottoman
and arch back deeply.

Interior: Nude Angles

V of bent arm. Knee peaking
above opposite ankle, my body
triangulating, creating unseen
cloughs below each apex:
space between calve and thigh,
between forearm and lower bicep.
Outside, a shadowed alley.
The city’s nooks and crannies.
A twilight side-street, with shapes
you can’t discern. Approach me
at your own risk.

Interior: Nude, Reclining

You must think I am always naked.

At work, I wear pressed cotton,
herringbone shifts, worsted wool,
starched collars, stiletto pumps.
Skin of stockings. Button snaps.
Hooks in eyes, zippers clenched.

Now, I roll on the floor.
Naked! You always see
me at my barest.

Look through these apartment walls.
The bars on this chair back.
This floor of rug and slab.
This tiled ceiling.
This box of living.

I prefer nothing
between us.

Street: Shifting Views

The city a kaleidoscope as I spin
down the dilapidated street:
Now glow from an unseen moon,
blue backlighting the factory.
Now the old Dominos billboard.
Now the darkened windows
of abandoned industry.
Now the moon a circle of light
through brownstones. Now the sky
like a deep eye.

* * * * *

Francine shared this poem with Sandy:

Translation

The body conjures itself, unbidden:
The angle of the quadriceps.
The arch of the back.
The line of the limb.
Words dismantle before the images.

Sometimes I write about the light at 4pm
or the frost stippling a window pane;
but the light and frost break down
into arcs and lines, which morph
into torsos and limbs,
and only the body remains.

My thoughts are recurring and wordless:
reflections of geometries and bodies –
and I think about how my body
has been irrevocably governed
by pliés, tendus, and relevés –
and how these movements hold meaning
like a chant: ritualistic,
transcending letters and sounds.

 In response, Sandy painted this, entitled “Plié, Tendu, Relevé”: