Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing
Her blacks crackle and drag."
--- Sylvia Plath, "Edge"
ARTIST NOTES:
Sylvia's hand rests on the curtain cord as she readies to pull. Her back is turned from the life force of God, and on the table she has laid out bread and milk for her children as they sleep peacefully in the next room.
The last poem Sylvia Plath wrote, (or at least the last one found on her desk,) before she took her life, was “Edge.” I read it about 12 years ago when I was muddling my way through postpartum depression. I kept mumbling the final phrase, "Her blacks crackle and drag,” over and over, like a doleful Rainman. I liked the imagery of big black velvet curtains slowing drawing to a close, dragging along the stage, creating static which crackled, and then the curtains closed, the show was over, end of story.
I pushed it out of my head for a few years, until Paul Westerberg wrote a tune titled “Crackle and Drag.” My doleful mumbles returned, and I painted this in a desperate attempt to make it all go away. I hang this painting above my fireplace to remind me that things can always be worse.
ABOUT THE PAINTING:
Casein and acrylic on canvas board. 24" high and 18” wide.
NFS
