Brece Honeycutt: Shades of Blue, Early Fuchsia, and Sharp New Greens of Spring

Honeycutt_instar_page 1.jpg

On a sunny day with ice still underfoot and tulsi tea in hand, we wandered and mused on flower names, process, and Emily Dickinson with artist Brece Honeycutt in her Sheffiled barn studio.

In her own words...


           shades of blue            early fuchsia            sharp greens of spring            shades of blue                     early fuchsia            sharp greens of spring            shades of blue            early fuchsia            sharp greens of spring            shades of blue            early fuchsia            sharp greens 

Shades of blue, as well as the early fuchsia and sharp new greens of spring

Shades of blue, as well as the early fuchsia and sharp new greens of spring

  1. The Poems of Emily Dickinson, edited by R.W. Franklin
  2. An American Dictionary of the English Language by Noah Webster
  3. The Paper Garden: An Artist [Begins her Life's Work] at 72, Molly Peacock
A few favorite reads...

A few favorite reads...

Artists that Inspire:

Patience Gray for the way she lived off, for, and by the land.

 Lois Dodd for her color, her observations, and her flowers.

Susan Howe for her archival mastering, Dickinson delving, and poetry building.

Mary Oliver for reminding us "to pay attention, that is our endless and proper work.

What is an artist? A maker.

What is an artist? One that looks at the world and wants to question, enhance, posit, educate, and better.

What is art? Actions taken. Objects made. Thoughts considered and pursued.



How do you identify as an artist?

Finding facts and bringing them to the fore.

Finding joy in making with my hands.


On the constants in her practice: research, the natural world, and the realm of women's work.


On the value of art: Awareness. Joy. Pathways of exploration.


What is your greatest challenge as an artist?

To be current, both in step and out of step with the world.

What has been a victory for you as an artist?

When the circle is completed.


It is a whole life... When the circle is completed.


Words and handwriting, Brece Honeycutt. 2018.

*She is leading a wildflower walk at Bartholomew’s Cobble, 105 Weatogue Road, Sheffield MA Sunday May 13 at 3pm


Grand Jury Duty

By Annie Bielski  

To smell fresh and avoid responsibilities, go to the department store to look at the luggage.


Discounted notes of springtime new president good posture future transience. Turn over that price tag.


I don’t do bathroom humor or yoga.
I hate waiting on line at parties for bathrooms
because I hate looking like i have needs.
 I just got health insurance.
But I do breathing exercises.
So i thought we could do some of those
together now just to warm up. Lighten up a
little bit.
Try to not breathe
Until you believe you are a well-loved dog


They say time is money I tell the cashier when I buy the two pairs of panties. People thumbed em on the
racks, not like they were all packaged up or whatever, not like they were clean or whatever, people aren’t
clean. Still, I'm a people person.
I’m a get away from me a little closer type person.
And I’m a real mess because I give all my energy to people.
Who wants to tidy a house without a witness?


I used to write about holes.
I’d be like My guy at the bank got a sinkhole in his backyard!
I’d talk about dental cavities
The bath tub
Laboring, digging,
My Debt
But that’s stuff of the past. Now I’m all about filling it up.

 I want to be the lady at the doctor's office who has donated all the magazines.
 She’s torn off her address, but incase she is reading: Please let me find you


(For Robert Kelly)

A chain lets go of a rocket-shaped car
The sun above the pier is a prop
I don’t trust men in fluorescent vests driving green golf carts
If an accident happens it won’t be to them
Confidence is measured by an ability to avoid disaster
He quit drinking after he fell trying to climb the fence into Trinity churchyard
He said, “Do you think our friendship can stand another fuck?”
A cook is never the animal he butchers
Modernism, abstract expressionism, the Black Mountain School
I don’t know what movement I’m part of and I’m not part of it anyway
Bellied fathers, boys in cargo shorts
It’s difficult to sympathize with or relate to others
The loudspeaker plays “God Bless America”
Resistance is conspicuous and confusing
The beach is fully half water
Bullet trails cross the surface of waves
The wind hits me all at once and is constantly renewed
It’s sensual and loving, like a snake
No one can tell me how to do this
My feet are firmly planted
Every experience is singular
A bomb in Paris, corruption in government
will not expand into the future
This is a mild form of suffering


copyright c Karen Schoemer 2016

Karen is the Virginia Scholar for Autumn 2016

(A collection of images by Karen Schoemer during residency)

(A collection of images by Karen Schoemer during residency)


Jays screech on either side of me.  
A train passes north to south.
The sky is white along the tree line.
Insects sing to summer, which is leaving soon.
I said, “Tell me things you’d tell me if you were drunk.”
It’s a game I play, myself against an opponent I can’t see or describe.
I lean into his shoulder, cupping into memory.
The chain of events peters out, ending mysteriously.
A catbird complains, then falls silent.
Leaves spread and scatter light.
Why is it as if there’s always something wrong?
Minute injustices I’ve committed follow me across night into day.
From afar everything seems innocent.
All words are one, each pinned to each object in the field of language.
I don’t hear the jays—I note their absence.
Then I hear them—a ghost sound.
copyright c Karen Schoemer 2016
Karen is the Virginia Scholar for Autumn 2016


Some strange bird is crying.
I hear a rumble, maybe a train.
Around the rim of the field trees begin to turn.
Summer holds on, as winter does, long after you expect it to be gone.
I said, “I love you because you let me.”
I still don’t know if I was right.
A loving gesture in the context of alienation is lonelier than silence.
The thread of disaster is impossible to follow through time.
Blackbirds rise in small bunches and resettle.
The sun sinks behind hills and stretches a shadow.
How do words join action? By what slender tissue?
My mouth is hard and flat, thinking about it.
Language plays with me, pushes me around.
Consciousness fools me into thinking I’m subject instead of object.
Water flows under the bridge and is gone.
The certainty of love rises after anger dies down.


copyright c Karen Schoemer 2016

Karen is the Virginia Scholar for Autumn 2016

(Collection of images by Karen Schoemer during residence)

(Collection of images by Karen Schoemer during residence)