Above is my assemblage piece. A textile curtain hangs in front of a hollow glass vessel that contains a single candle. The red fabric, hand embroidered with shoes, a photo of three generations of women, and a quote from the Anne Sexton poem ‘The Red Shoes’, acts as a curtain hiding the solitary candle inside - the place of rest and contemplation that is necessary for all of us who often dance out of control, trying to do too much, trying to be too much.
I stand in the ring
In the dead city
And tie on the red shoes…
They are not mine.
They are my mother’s.
Her mother’s before.
Handed down like an heirloom
But hidden like shameful letters.
The house and the street where they belong
Are hidden and all the women, too,
All those girls
Who wore the red shoes,
Each boarded a train that would not stop.
Stations flew by like suitors and would not stop.
They all danced like trout on the hook
They were played with.
They tore off their ears like safety pins.
Their arms fell off them and became hats
Their heads rolled off and sang down the street.
And their feet---oh God, their feet in the market place---
Their feet, those two beetles, ran from the corner
And then danced forth as if they were proud.
Surely, people exclaimed,
Surely they are mechanical. Otherwise…But the feet went on.
The feet could not stop.
They were wound up like a cobra that sees you.
They were elastic pulling itself in two.
They were islands during an earthquake.
They were ships colliding and going down.
Never mind you and me.
They could not listen.
They could not stop.
What they did was the death dance.
What they did would do them in...
(The Red Shoes by Anne Sexton)