Film still from “All the President’s Men,” 1976; Alan J. Pakula, direction; Gordon Willis cinematography.
I am a visual artist and professor. You can find my artwork on my website. My academic career began about 30 years ago at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Inspired by Tim Rollins who was a visiting lecturer, I helped launch an arts mentoring program for at-risk teens in New York City – a social art project advocating tolerance. I worked at New York University and The Cooper Union and later took a tenured position in Paradise Valley, Arizona. As a community college teacher, I enjoy the privilege of supporting students of various ages with diverse experience and aspirations, including veterans; parents returning to school to complete degrees or reinvent themselves; and people with disabilities.
In 2017 I had the fortune of participating as a scholar at The School of Criticism and Theory, held at Cornell University in summer. The seminar was hosted by Faisal Devji, an historian at St. Antony’s College, University of Oxford. Readings touched on various topics including the enthrall of technology (Heidegger); human rights and totalitarianism (Arendt); and transhumanism (Braidotti). A stellar cast of intellectuals visited to lecture and conduct symposia, sharing their work in process and benefiting from feedback. Among visitors who left a lasting impression on me were Shoshana Felman and Avishai Margalit. At the time of this scholarship, I had thought to start a practice of essay writing on 20th century art and culture. But the plan was derailed.
Months after trekking the hills and gorges of Ithaca while visiting me that summer, my mother took suddenly ill with Guillain–Barré Syndrome after taking her annual influenza shot. She became paralyzed –completely unable to move all but her head. She died two months to the day that she entered hospital. I was shocked by the experience in several respects, not the least of which was as witness to the dereliction of the healthcare system in a wealthy enclave of New York City. As she was shuffled between hospital and rehabilitation center, she would be held up in hallways outside the emergency room overwhelmed by patients. This was November–December 2017.
More than a decade earlier, my father suffered a traumatic brain injury from a fall at the hospital’s outpatient center. He was waiting for his ride to show up. Despite the proximity of the facilities situated down the street from one another, he lay unconscious with a head trauma in the parking lot for an hour awaiting an ambulance summoned from a distant location. I had thought that tragic bungle was a fluke. But it may be that the hospital system is one of many that cannot be depended on for the type of care that Americans think they can expect. The ER bears the name of my cousin, former long-time director of the hospital system. My father gave him his first job as a lawyer. Perhaps it serves the family right to be among the hospital’s victims if the dysfunction were the result of his mismanagement. That thought is hard to reconcile with the extraordinarily generous nature of my parents who were beloved people deserving of gentler deaths.
The pandemic tore asunder so many of the sociopolitical tenets and historical foundations that had undergirded my worldview. As I navigated the surreality of lockdown and related countermeasures I found myself groping through a Twilight Zone—what I am calling the Parking Lot—that exposed deception and a dark-side to phenomena that I had previously regarded wholly benevolent and progressive. I emerged resilient with a backbone grown upright, a healthy skepticism, and renewed interest in scholarship and writing. I have found a most welcome virtual society on the self-publishing platform, Substack. After an inauspicious debut in January with tedious long-form essays, I plan to post brief blogs frequently over summer recess. All readers are welcome. I hope that you will consider subscribing for free, commenting and sharing.
Thank you for your interest.
Peace and love, Poppy
Enter the Parking Lot
I'm not the best when it comes to communicating in this world, however, I want to convey how much of an inspiration you are to me personally. I'm so grateful to have had you as a professor and instructor. I look forward to your posts and the conversations they spark between Jason and I. With that being said, we weren't prepared for what you'd be sharing today. It weighed heavy on our hearts. I just felt the need to reach out, and that we're listening.