February 17, 2013

Amaranth Borsuk & Lisa Radon

Sunday, February 17
7:30 pm

211 SW 9th
(between Burnside and Oak)

Amaranth Borsuk is the author of Handiwork, and, together with programmer Brad Bouse, of Between Page and Screen, a book of augmented-reality poems. Together with her collaborators Kate Durbin and Ian Hatcher, she is the recipient of an Expanded Artists' Books grant from the Center for Book and Paper Arts in Chicago, which will allow the team to create an artist's book and iOS app of their generative performance text Abra in 2013. She teaches in the School of Interdisciplinary Arts and Sciences and the MFA in Creative Writing and Poetics at the University of Washington, Bothell.

Lisa Radon recently completed a residency at the Resource Room at Portland Institute for Contemporary Art (PICA) that resulted in a talk, a book, and some rocks. She is the editor of the new journal EIGHTSPublications include A Reading (PICA, 2012), Sentences on Sentences on Paragraphs on Paragraphs (Publication Studio, 2011), and The Book of Knots, a book-length poem (c_L, 2013). She's exhibited at White Box, Car Hole, Worksound, and Gallery Homeland. In 2011 she curated the exhibition Reading.Writing. 

Character Anatomy


Few things the hand wished language could do, given up on dialect's downward spiral: words so readily betray things they're meant to represent.


Words tasted like other things. Type refused to look machined, showed the strokes that unbalanced, grew spurs against stress, each swash, spine, shoulder, tail a fresh mark of the hand that had no hand in it.


Arms broken, tissue mangled, the hand was ready to try body's cant: a disappearing text, past and future pressed into skin's plies. Grammar's ultimate loss: surface, each nanosecond, dead and reborn in microscopic fragments.


Take take take take take--that's how body ensures its own survival. The hand couldn't trust it long enough to decipher its cipher: empty vessel with hands. The body had false papers, could not be identified, clearly could not represent. It didn't look like the pictures anymore, would only sit still to be counted, so the hand learned to trust numbers--observable, firm--needed something to count on without fingers or toes now that fingers and toes were gone. Fingers and toes wouldn't cut it.

Amaranth Borsuk