Charlotte Day Wilson – Work
AG2025_1177964a
Author: dig
Conferring in the corner
Of the light in my room:
Its mood swings,
Dark-morning glooms,
Summer ecstasies.
Spider on the wall,
Lamp burning late,
Shoes left by the bed,
I’m your humble scribe.
Dust balls, simple souls
Conferring in the corner.
The pearl earring she lost,
Still to be found.
Silence of falling snow,
Night vanishing without trace,
Only to return.
I’m your humble scribe.
Secret History, Charles Simic
AG2025_1200812a or so very distant
When night comes,
I am so flushed with wine,
I undo my hair slowly:
a plum calyx is
stuck on a damaged branch.
I wake dazed when smoke
breaks my spring sleep.
The dream distant,
so very distant;
and it is quiet, so very quiet.
The moon spins and spins.
The kingfisher blinds are drawn;
and yet I rub the injured bud,
and yet I twist in my fingers this fragrance,
and yet I possess these moments of time!
Poem by Li Ch’ing-chao, translated by Arthur Sze
Present
Bakehouse at Forty: Past, Present, Future, November 8, 2025 – April 17, 2026.
Present offers a dynamic glimpse of the creative life of Bakehouse today, foregrounding the multiplicity of voices and modes of expression by which artists both reflect and reimagine the world around us. Against the backdrop of great precarity for cultural producers everywhere, Bakehouse artists have forged their own systems of support– not only through shared resources, but through daily acts of showing up for one another. Across this space, ideas flow beyond studio walls, conversations spill into hallways, and countless gestures of kinship and collaboration become integral to the artists’ practice. Representing a microcosm within a broader cultural ecosystem, these fusions– whether intentional, intuitive, or incidental– embody the transformative possibilities of collective care and community building.
Featuring work by 28 current resident and associate artists, Present reflects the breadth of perspectives, disciplines, and identities that define Bakehouse and, by extension, Miami’s cultural landscape. Rather than advancing a singular theme, the exhibition traces various shared touchpoints, highlighting a strong sense of place rooted in the specificity of South Florida; generational connections and divergences; and an emphasis on the here and now that resonates as both timely and timeless.
wanders a never fixed nor dormant landscape
Delay
Poststructuralism and Self-Censorship at Palais de Tokyo, Louise Darblay (ArtReview)
“Unfolding across the whole of the Palais de Tokyo, Echo. Reverb. Delay. is underpinned by a premise that feels both so evident and yet has rarely been articulated in an exhibition until now: that American artists (and the academia before them) have long absorbed, transformed and re-exported the ideas of French and francophone thinkers from the 1960s onwards, not only echoing but reshaping these ideas in the process. (Although one could argue Beckwith is here picking up where the 1977 Pompidou show Paris-New York, which traced similar transatlantic connections from early-twentieth century to the 1960s, left off.) Simply put, it’s a show about how the circulation of ideas can spark radical transformation.”
Anastasia Samoylova: Atlantic Coast, Norton Museum of Art, on view through March 1, 2026.
The reach of peace
Out in the sky the great dark clouds are massing;
I look far out into the pregnant night,
Where I can hear a solemn booming gun
And catch the gleaming of a random light,
That tells me that the ship I seek is passing, passing.
My tearful eyes my soul's deep hurt are glassing;
For I would hail and check that ship of ships.
I stretch my hands imploring, cry aloud,
My voice falls dead a foot from mine own lips,
And but its ghost doth reach that vessel, passing, passing.
O Earth, O Sky, O Ocean, both surpassing,
O heart of mine, O soul that dreads the dark!
Is there no hope for me? Is there no way
That I may sight and check that speeding bark
Which out of sight and sound is passing, passing?
Ships That Pass in the Night , Paul Laurence Dunbar
The reach of peace, the sky, the pines,
Leave me no more perplexed,
In which a memory divines
That bodies, buried, yet arise
Across the reach of all the skies,
Unburied and unvexed.
As arisen are the grass, the pines.
In upward-grown, delighted lines —
As a swimmer with one wave declines
And rises with the next.
The Swimmer, Witter Bynner
And I reach out my hand and pluck a nectarine
Goaded and harassed in the factory
That tears our life up into bits of days
Ticked off upon a clock which never stays,
Shredding our portion of Eternity,
We break away at last, and steal the key
Which hides a world empty of hours; ways
Of space unroll, and Heaven overlays
The leafy, sun-lit earth of Fantasy.
Beyond the ilex shadow glares the sun,
Scorching against the blue flame of the sky.
Brown lily-pads lie heavy and supine
Within a granite basin, under one
The bronze-gold glimmer of a carp; and I
Reach out my hand and pluck a nectarine.
The Matrix, Amy Lowell