If I'd seen this image elsewhere, I'd have assumed Halloween was trampled by Christmas prancing in. Though would also wonder, what happened to Thanksgiving?
I'd have assumed this was shot no later than the final quarter of Julius' 2025.
Wrong Wrong Everything Wrong Tra-La-La La-La...
I took this photo the first week of September, 2026, amused by Death's skeleton framed by a gold-dotted red bow, Frosty smiling all the way, and most closely framed in Jesus' Holy Star.
Like the whole world, and everything everywhere all at once these holes somehow holding it all together holes through fabric, space between bones, time's illusion shredded, our multi-parallel holidays throughout the centuries, whole days, holy days, wholly holy days
So many living parallels in this image I gift you the game of Name Your Own and hope gratitude is giggling in the shadows rather than vaporized by the rise of everything but
At twenty-five, Sumi Foley saved her grandma’s silk kimonos from the trash after her grandma had tired of them, which inspired Sumi’s “For My Love” series.
Art by Sumi Foley, photo by Elizabeth
Sumi deconstructed the kimonos and added silk organza to hand-stitch a patchwork that she then embroidered with unsketched roses and hands.
Art by Sumi Foley, photo by Elizabeth Weaver
Here’s an interview with Sumi and George Cuttress at Pomona’s Main Street Gallery about this series.
Crescents of tangerine cool nipples that purse like lips as O of navel grips its slice & taut shiny glans raises its section to the sun, hot through blue-green leaves of eucalyptus;
tongue slides between citrus & skin belly arcs smooth,
teeth release juice bursting through this moist cavern, tongue, lapping in slow pulses, swallows, wet open flames.
I once showed a party of Sioux chiefs the sights of Washington, and endeavored to impress them with the wonderful achievements of civilization. After visiting the Capitol and other famous buildings, we passed through the Corcoran Art Gallery, where I tried to explain how the white man valued this or that painting as a work of genius and a masterpiece of art. “Ah!” exclaimed an old man, “such is the strange philosophy of the white man! He hews down the forest that has stood for centuries in its pride and grandeur, tears up the bosom of Mother Earth, and causes the silvery watercourses to waste and vanish away. He ruthlessly disfigures God's own pictures and monuments, and then daubs a flat surface with many colors, and praises his work as a masterpiece!”
Elizabeth Oakley Weaver 