Writing in the Gallery

If you are familiar with the Hilliard Museum you know that some of our greatest strengths are in our campus and community partnerships. One of our partners, the National Writing Project of Acadiana, bring Teacher Consultants to the museum and they utilize our collections and exhibitions as the basis for this powerful writers program. Their Summer Institute toured the museum in June, and I requested excepts from the writing they did in response to our exhibitions. The following three excerpts were based on photographs by Philip Gould included in our exhibition titled Dedans le Sud de la Louisiane: le Retour. The exhibition remains on view through August 25th. I hope you enjoy these contemplative compositions as much as I do.

Pecheurs de Crevettes par Philip Gould

by Katherine F. Schexnayder

Pecheurs de Crevettes par Philip Gould

It is a way of life or a longing in the chest. At least, it used to be. Now it has to be supplemented at the end of a season with some other task which never smells as ripe with satisfaction as this haul does today. Not a word between them, the materials of their labor making the only sounds louder than the shrimp filled waters frothing around them. Each deep in his thoughts about whether this season, this haul, this solitude found in this gulf, will be his last chance to feel the same gravitational pull to these waters as his forefathers felt.

They are brothers in arms. They have chosen the same life, and even though that life was laid out for them by great-great-great grandfathers whose names they can’t remember, that still means something. It means something to withstand the solitude and early morning hauls- to crave it; their bodies syncing with the seasons. It is that certain longing only found in men more comfortable walking on water than on land, which is why the building of a house never quite resonated in them the way catching shrimp did. They are seafaring men.

Braveheart sat matted and framed on his wall like it was already a relic- an outward symbol of a life already lived. I listened to them talk about the season.

“I don’t think I’m gonna make it out this season, man. I can’t cut my expenses enough to make it work. It’s all we can do to keep Daddy and Gene up.”

A salty stinging wave welled up in my heart and made its way to my throat as I stared blankly at the picture of his vessel.

“Guess, I’m gonna lay wire for NASA. I just can’t stand the thought of being inside all day and Braveheart sitting there all by herself out of the water. What am I going to do with her?” is what he said. But that is not what I heard. I heard, “What am I going to do with me?”

What are we all going to do when the shrimp come from the contaminated waters of Thailand or China? What will we tell our kids when we have traded their health and their jobs for a cheaper shrimp cocktail? Who will employ us when our trade is extinct? Who will tell the stories of the life we lived? Who will etch them on cavern walls for the descendents to see: to know these men settled here and worked and fathered sons who also worked these waters and fathered sons. What will we say to our sons when we no longer need to teach them how to cast a net? What will the family do on the first Sunday of the season? Will they still gather the way they are gathered now, waiting for the first catch to come in?

These questions weigh heavily on these brothers as they ready to cast again. The women are waiting and so are their fathers and sons. Tonight, they are warriors welcomed home from battle; their tribal cries between boats will solidify their victories. As their vessels ready to kiss the land that holds their families separate from this maritime life they lead, they will turn their faces to the sun and the shoreline to feel the full grace of a welcome return and the water under their legs for a few moments more. Tonight, they will feast and drink.

 

Still Dancing

by Bonny McDonald, inspired by Philip Gould's photograph Le Bar a Fred, Mamou Louisiana

Gallery view of Le Bar a Fred, Mamou Louisiana by Philip Gould

Stop awhile at this grandmother-face,

open-mouthed, singing.  Note the silken texture

of her fine blouse with its high, ruffled collar.

Behold her best jewelry: big ruby ring, pearls,

and the gold weave bracelet that was her mother's.

Where his hair has thinned, see the delicate make

of his head, the tenderness of his stiff shoulders

in his starched shirt. Though his face is turned away,

pressed against her cheek, imagine he is also singing.

Notice the way her hand clutches without clinging.

Can you hear the melody trembling in her throat,

the Cajun waltz they dance on a good cypress floor?

See their background--a whirl of light and music,

the silt of memory from which their love alone emerges.

See here how they hold each other up.

 

The Dance

by Carmen Bourque, inspired by Philip Gould's photograph Le Bar a’ Fred, Mamou, Louisiane

Gallery view of Philip Gould's Le Bar a’ Fred, Mamou, Louisiane

The colorful neon illuminations set the tone in this dimly lit backwoods bar

Brown glass beer bottles line it

People are gathering, listening, watching, visiting, and laughing

Admiring the beauty of the love seeming to emanate

From an elderly couple swaying in unison on an old rickety dance floor

They hold each other firmly, but ever so gently

Caught in the moment, her body language and facial expression tells a story

Her arms envelope his back and neck

Her eyes – so passionately focused – unsure if it is on the man, song, or dance

It seems as if she still feels a strong love for him after all these years

Butterflies flutter from my heart, to my stomach, to my lower essence and back again

His tight grasp is comforting, yet almost smothering at the same time

I feel so safe and secure out on that dance floor

The bar is hazy because of cigarette smoke, unlike my memory

The lights are dim - allowing for the neon beer signs to stand out

We are lost in the moment as we sway to the slow music

No one is there - yet everyone is there

This was just the beginning – never let go …

She is dressed to impress

Her coarse, white hair stays neatly in place

Her soft, wrinkled ears are adorned with greatly oversized pearls

They match her crisp, white, long-sleeved, buttoned-down, ruffle-collared blouse

I wore a crisp, white, long-sleeved, buttoned-down, ruffle-collared blouse that magical night too

I know how she feels as they waltz across the dance floor cheek to cheek

Gratitude

- thankful for that night

- thankful for that time

- thankful for that dance

- thankful for that man

I know how she feels

- Enjoying the dance

- Enjoying the trance

Never wanting that song to end.