Writing and editing my essay here while the wind washes over our tenement rooftops, and thinking in a quiet sort of way, of artists who went quietly by. Who made art in near obscurity. Well, of course it’s that kind of slightly sad Sunday feeling of things passing, passed. When the past itself you feel like a wind against your legs, filling your lungs. My father gave me a copy of Berg by Ann Quin, and investigations online brought forth reviews lamenting her lack of success as one of the great modernist writers of her day. Quin walked out to sea one day and down and down into it, but still her work remains to us.
But the artist I’m thinking of in particular consoles even as her absence and lack of recognition caused her, too, to one day disappear from her life. Elizabeth Eaton ‘Connie’ Converse, b 1924, d. unknown. Singer songwriter with a deep crooning sorrowful voice. Sometimes hymn-like, sometimes a yearning Americana.
My prescription for this Sunday:
Peer out through the curtains at whatever Sunday in August you have left to you, and just listen to –