Diane Lee Moomey

My paintings are writing on water, are mute: a moment of opening my eyes to a slant of light, a play of shadows, of no shadows. My paintings tell no story except “once I was here” or “one day I will go there”. My paintings today, that is—this year, last year. Before that, there were stories in each one: mandalas, prayers, archetypes. Today my paintings are freeze frames—blink and the cloud will have changed shape.

My prose, my poems are stories.

My prose begins at a place, a here, a spot on the edge of a lake, perhaps—takes one step, then another, walks purposefully from here to there and does not skip a step. Each step follows the previous one all around the lake to the other side; prose makes a path around this lake edge, arrives at the other side with all its footprints behind it firmly pressed into the mud, the sand.

My poems are stories, are rantings, are calls: “is anybody out there? does anyone hear me and answer ‘yes, this is so?’” My poetry starts at the same place on the lake edge but instead of walking around plunges into the water, and once submerged does not do a sensible crawl across but duck dives, comes up in a spray of bubbles a few yards away, dives again, surfaces again. Now the breast strike, now the back stroke, the butterfly, gains the opposite shore and leaves not a trace of its coming.

My poetry, my prose, are tightly crafted and ask reply. My paintings are tightly crafted and ask nothing, take nothing, do not give themselves away.

I never ask them “why”.

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