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IMAGE

IMAGE 90 (Fall 2016)

Now one of the leading literary journals published in English, IMAGE is read all over the world—and forms the nexus of a warm and active community. The publication seeks out and brings to its readers work of high artistic quality that engages with the historic faith traditions on a profound level, without easy answers or false uplift, and with a serious respect for beauty and truth.

Land:
United States
Taal:
English
Uitgever:
Image Journal
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In deze editie

9 min.
the patron saint of losers

ONE OF THE STR ANGER CONVERSATIONS I’ve ever had took place during my senior year of college. I was attending a conference, and during one of the coffee breaks I was talking with a scholar who had taken a shine to me. He asked if I was considering doing a PhD, and if so, in what field. I told him that I was, probably in English literature. He frowned. “No, there’s a glut in the market for that. You do want a teaching position ultimately, right?” I said it was likely. He thought for a moment. “I’d recommend Soviet Studies, but if the Soviet Union falls you’d be in trouble.” He pondered a while. He may have rubbed his chin. “I’ve got it,” he said brightly. “Egyptology.” I looked to see if his tongue…

14 min.
the dervish and the mermaid

A DERVISH WEARY OF WALKING in circles over the hot sands of the desert used to bring his vagrant body to the first hardy haloxylon shrub or moist tamarisk which invited him into its slim and fragile shade, and from inside that shelter he used to shut his bright red eyes, and then the heat of his body, beating like the taut skin of a kettledrum, would cool from a sheer lack of strength, and also as the only possible response to the weak wind wafting in from under the distant wing of a late-morning, wandering wasp. Then he would try to nudge himself gently along behind that lady wayfarer of a wasp, and only the first step into the air felt like falling; the empty place under his heart used…

2 min.
[honey lives only] prayer of the holy louse the assumption of miriam...

Eat honey, my son, for it is good, and the honeycomb, which is sweet to thy taste. —Proverbs 24:13 Honey lives onlyin hexagons becausethey ensurea balance of sweetness their shape isa star’s designsiximplied trianglesdrinking from the center’s source shrouded in the most frugallyabundant capacityin order not to losea single drop of space until the heavenly beekeeperlicks his godly fingerpointingto the golden core of flavornursedinto gentlenessby the violence of stings Prayer to the Holy Louse It was in the spring of 1944, during the delousing of the Gypsy barracks in the Auschwitz-Birkenau camp skirts scarveswithered in the delousing roomall in protective colors in poppies in buttercups in daisiesin case of a meadowthat wasn’t going to appear a Gypsy in the bathhouse of birkenaustripped of colorswith a clenched fistclothedin long folds of water hid in her palma grain of lifea seed of escapebetween…

17 min.
tidal wave

IN THE EARLY DAYS OF INTEGR ATION, when only white girls tried out for cheerleader, our elections were a cross between small-town participatory democracy, Soviet-style anointment of the chosen, and the Miss America Pageant. We sat rapt in the bleachers while the candidates cartwheeled in front of the whole school, flashing their white panties. Then we trooped back to homeroom to cast our votes. We were chatterers, smarty-pants, A-track girls who raised our hands on one beat and never let the boys get a word in edgewise. We would never be cheerleaders, but we knew what it took: a cheerleader didn’t need to be pretty, though most of ours were pretty, as a matter of fact, and a cheerleader didn’t need to be athletic, though some of ours weren’t too shabby…

5 min.
pont des arts

The pain passes, but the beauty remains. —Renoir Wandering the Musée de l’Orangerie with my sister,we find a bouquet of roses painted in 1878 by Auguste Renoir,voluptuous white roses placed in a red velvet chair.My sister says Renoir’s last word was “flowers”and that toward the end of his life he said of painting,“I think I am beginning to understand something about it.”His quest for beauty was relentless, tireless,though when painting flowers, she sayshis mind was always calm, restful, and full of good cheer.I imagine his final year—the brushes lashed to his wrists,the wheelchair and the makeshift sedan with bamboo poleson which he was lifted and carried through the Louvreso he could see the hallowed galleries one last time.Bouquet dans une Loge—so beautiful, I rub my eyes. Sitting in the sun on the steps…

16 min.
ecstatic dislocation the art of sedrick huckaby

IN 2016, SAINT PATRICK’S DAY falls on a Thursday, bringing with it an early weekend. In the aftermath of apocalyptic north-central Texas thunderstorms, a sultry heat settles on the quiet residential street in Fort Worth where artist Sedrick Huckaby is hard at work preparing for his next exhibition. Huckaby is a painter, sculptor, and printmaker whose works can be found in the permanent holdings of the San Francisco MOMA, the Whitney and Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts. We’ve agreed to meet here, in the predominantly African American neighborhood where he grew up, so that he can show me a very unusual building that’s been at the center of his art-making for a decade: Big Momma’s House. Against all the obstacles presented to her by Jim Crow Texas, Hallie Beatrice Welcome Carpenter…