The Singer
The Mighty Queen
Libby
Julian, my son
An Art for the Horrible End of Things
What art can we make from despair, anonymity, failure, poverty, disease, deterioration, subjugation, folly, rejection? What if our feelings are of regret, bitterness, confusion, envy, fear, cowardice? Where is the quixotic pixie dust, the creative alchemy that can transform this mess into art?
