Berry Moon

by Pam Noles, based on Berry Moon: Laments of a Muse by Camilla Bruce

Wrap skirt with quilted panel. Cotton, cotton/poly blend, satin.

This piece will be auctioned off to support the Interstitial Arts Foundation at iafauctions.com

Tags: interfictions2auction, interfictions2, interstitialartsfoundation, interstitial, berrymoon, camillabruce
Uploaded: November 11, 2009
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    IAFAuctions.com is part of the fundraising arm of the Interstitial Arts Foundation, a not–for–profit organization dedicated to the study, support, and promotion of interstitial art.

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    A Taste of Interfictions 2
    • “Every day for three decades, the abandoned house strains against its galling anchors, hoping to pull free. It has waited thirty years for its pipes and pilings to finally decay so it can leave for Florida to find the Macek family. Nobody in its Milford neighborhood will likely miss the house or even notice its absence; it has hidden for decades behind overgrown bushes, weeds, and legends. When they talk about the house at all, the neighbors whisper about the child killer who lived there long ago with his family: a wife and five children who never knew their father kept his rotting playmate in the crawlspace until the police came. The house, however, knows the truth and wants to confess it, even if it has to crawl eight hundred miles.”
      From: Remembrance is Something Like a House by Will Ludwigsen
    • “My brother Pedro was born on the floor of our apartment. That was when we lived above the Good Foot. It was three-thirty on a Saturday morning when my mother pushed him out. Downstairs in the club, my father used to say, there was a band playing with twenty drummers, two basses, two guitars. Big horn section, lots of singers. It was some party down there. My mother said that my brother didn't cry once. He just hit the floor, put his ear against it, and started taking it all in right then. The band, the cheers from the crowd, the stomping feet against the club's floor. He never cried. But never slept either. Just listened and listened.”
      From: Interviews After the Revolution by Brian Francis Slattery
    • “She paid admission. Then they walked the direction all visitors had to go, through the museum and toward doors leading out to the historic village. With its coke machine just inside the entrance, the museum seemed a harmless, well-regulated place, comforting and normal. Yet the discontent he had noticed when his feet hit the gravelly parking lot, out by the split-rail fence, still held on and was with him yet as they walked out the back door.

      He could control it even so: a trifling weight he would shrug off, somewhere, if only he could find the right place.”
      From: Stonefield by Mark Rich
    • “The first time the Black Dog showed up I was five. We were living in Miriwinni and it lurked behind the low, chain link fence that marked out our backyard, hunkered down in the long grass filling the space between the fence line and the train tracks. No-one else could see it, not even my parents. It was good at hiding when other people looked.”
      From: Black Dog: A Biography by Peter M. Ball

    Click here for another excerpt

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