Who Am I, Again?

I often think that I must be a most-confounding blogger—too language steeped, too introspective to transcend the razzle of internet exchange. White is my canvas. The marriage of photography and idea, image and suggestion, color and word is the challenge I assert myself against.

Not, as my friend and dance teacher Jean says, an exercise designed to draw the masses.

Dear Kelsey Boeckermann has noticed, of late, how vanilla my blog seems, how still in a swirl-swell of fast-rising waves. She thought about that for awhile, she tells me, and designed a banner that captures, in her mind, my world. I was so struck by the generosity of the gesture, and touched, too, by the elements she chose—a dancer, alone; a sun-flooded window; a suggestion (but not the blare) of book titles; and a tag—books, photos, poems—that in three words captures the is and does of this blog.

I share her artwork with you here. While I remain committed to the white space that serves as a frame for the photos I work against and toward, I also remain indebted to Kelsey for the energy and talent she brought to this.

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Nothing but Ghosts and the Lost Painting

A few weeks ago the entirely delightful Kelsey Boeckermann invited me to tell the story behind the making of the Nothing but Ghosts cover. Is it all right, I emailed back, if much of the process went on beyond closed doors—and if I had nothing to do with the outcome, save for holding my breath until the official unveiling and thanking my editor and cover designer to great excess in the aftermath?

Sure, Kelsey said, and thank goodness. Because that, in this case, is the absolute truth: Nothing but Ghosts, the cover, is the gift that I was given by two people who worked extremely hard on its behalf. Jill Santopolo, my editor, has appeared on this blog many times before—never gratuitously, always and only because she makes my writing life an infinitely richer one. Carla Weise has had her moments here as well; who wouldn't appreciate an art director who goes the distance for an author she has never even met? (Though I'm coming, Carla, and I'm going to find you.)

Like all my work—the memoirs, the poems, the autobiography of the river, the corporate fable, the young adult novels—Nothing but Ghosts is populated by the known, the actual. In this case, a version of Chanticleer garden, also the subject of my fifth memoir, forms a fictionalized backdrop. Katie, my narrator, is living through loss, something I have had to learn to do as well. And then there's this painting that Katie's father is restoring—scenes inspired by the restoration of the inherited family painting shown above.

In the novel, the painting is similarly strangely skied and time obscured. In real life, the painting was the work of my great uncle, Lloyd Morgan, who designed the Waldorf Astoria, the Pierre, the Boca Raton, and so many other indelible monuments to another time. Years ago, Lloyd Morgan also painted each of his buildings into this single skyscape; when he passed away, the 16 foot x 4 foot canvas was entrusted to my father. Under my father's direction and by the talents of two art restorers, the canvas (once referred to as "the lost painting" in architectural magazines) was brought back to life and now hangs in the Wolfsonian Gallery at Florida International University.

In any case, Kelsey's blogged the Nothing but Ghosts cover story today. Spend some time with her, on her site.

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