SPARKLING DEBUT BY YOUNG POET AT ARTISTS WITHOUT WALLS’ SHOWCASE

“Jillian Buckley had us spellbound with her beautiful poems straight from her heart; she delivers with a disarming innocence. Her writing is wise and touchingly emotional far beyond her years. A poet surely on her way to wider and wider acclaim. We can’t wait to have her back.” David Goldman, singer/songwriter

“Listening to Jillian’s poetry was wonderful. We all witnessed the combined power of a young talent emerging with deep vulnerability, truth, and sincerity.” Martha Pinson, Filmmaker/Director

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And we received this from John Buckley, Jillian’s father:

“I can’t express enough my appreciation for the opportunity for Jillian to perform, but even more so the opportunity for her to experience the artistic environment that was provided.    As I’ve mentioned to many people it is one thing for her to hear from Mom & Dad or friends how great we think her writing is, but for her to share it and hear from fellow artists means so much more.

And I could tell (from a distance) that the conversations she had afterwards with fellow performers were not perfunctory “Oh, you were good…” but legitimate feedback and conversation with her.

 

Your website suggested that you had very talented performers, but I must admit I was really impressed with the quality and diversity of talent that performed.   While Jillian probably would have performed the same no matter what, I was happy you placed her second because after your opening act I wondered if any pressure was building up in her to perform at that level.  And then to have Niamh follow her and say “Tough to get up and speak after that performance” brought even more tears to my eyes.

I know Jillian enjoyed the experience and the conversations, and I hope she uses it as a springboard to search out additional artist venues/workshops to continue her development. It is through opportunities like this that she will grow and determine where she wants to go with her writing;   the more exposure to different environments will only help her in her journey.

Thank you again for the opportunity;   greatly appreciated.   Looking forward to the next gathering.

John”

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Photos by Mitch Traphagen

MITCH TRAPHAGEN’S PHOTOS from ARTISTS WITHOUT WALLS’ SHOWCASE at THE CELL 6/26/2018

Niamh and Charles,

I just wanted to drop a line to express my sheer joy attending last night’s performances.

I literally laughed & cried.

Every single performance was given & accepted in such a heartfelt manner. I was proud to be part of this nurturing environment.

Thank you,

Debi Javier

—–

Niamh and Charles,

The ART community is so very lucky to have your dedication, passion and energy in their corner…with or without walls.

Thank you for another really special night at AWoW.    And thank you for continuing to provide this incredible platform where artistic gifts, hugs, tears, laughter and hope are shared.   AWoW ….WOW.
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This embracing community of richly talented artists sharing their gifts with us; an appreciative supportive audience , makes Tuesday nights very special indeed.
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Each diverse performer brought something that each of us could hold close.   So happy we could be there last night.
.
All the best,
clyde berger
.
David Goldman and Niamh Hyland
Peter Nolan and Amanda Mottur
Michael Muller
Jillian Buckley
Charles R. Hale
Niamh Hyland, Cecil Hooker, Charles R. Hale, Michael Muller, Amanda Mottur, Jillian Buckley, Peter Nolan, Sam Adelman, David Goldman, Katrina Crawford and Martha Pinson
Renata Hinrichs
Sam Adelman and Katrina Crawford

Cecil Hooker and Peter Nolan

MY GRANDMOTHER FROM DUBLIN: A BEAUTIFUL STORY ACCOMPANIED by the PERFECT SONG

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STORY: MY GRANDMOTHER FROM DUBLIN: Written by MARTHA PINSON

SONG: ASHOKAN FAREWELL, written by JAY UNGAR, and performed by Doc and the Lady. I urge you to read and listen simultaneously.  You can listen by clicking on the link at the bottom of the page.  

 

RHYMES WITH TIME

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Someone who loved order must have spared the twin maples twenty paces in front of the old, clapboard farmhouse. They lent a symmetry otherwise lacking and graciously shaded the lawn. The bank dropped sharply to a dirt road and a swampy pasture where weeping willows concealed the Dead River but not the fields rising beyond. All this, common birds and butterflies, a rusty cultivator, and whatever else was carelessly left, formed my Grandma’s view from the long, weathered porch where she worked on summer days. “How can a river be dead?” I wondered.

 

img_1356It was all tangles of green and, like they say in wordy books, “dazzling sunny patches interwoven with deep shades.” The atmosphere was languid, though alive with peepers. High winds and high tensions passed over the tops of surrounding hills.

 

She sat rather still, did Ellen Marie Kilaren Deeny. (Right, age 16) Tired, I guess, with 77 years behind her by 1951. A hungry child in Dublin, at thirteen she’d crossed the Atlantic where she said, “many brave hearts are asleep in the deep.” Here in New Jersey, she became a dairy farmer’s wife. I later learned of 13 pregnancies in 20 years, two miscarriages, three dead in their first year, seven raised, one dead at 37 from a heart infection. Now, her oldest daughter, also Ellen Marie, my mother, (Below with author) who moved back home after college to help her parents, was ill and (no one dared to think) dying from the same disease.

 

mommy-and-marty-2-2Grandpa was dead. The only person he could stand was my father, and vice versa. Daddy was good with him, gave him a shave every morning. His father had died some 20 years prior and I guess he thought a crazy old man was better than none. Old Hughie wasn’t suited to his fate. A skilled cabinetmaker, he remembered dancers and teachers among the Deeny’s in Donegal. He was a pretty good farmer anyway, but not good enough against the Farm Depression of the late 20’s and 30’s. Nevertheless, he sent his brilliant children to college, Radcliffe and such.

 

But somehow, Grandma Deeny accepted all things in life. She loved her children, did what she could, and left the rest to Providence. Daddy said she was the only good Catholic he knew (he loved to exaggerate) and drove her to Mass every Sunday. I watched her, comfortably stooped in a straight chair, wearing an old cotton dress, shelling peas. The soft wind just lifted her wisps of hair. She split the pods, gave me that melancholy smile, and said nothing. I said nothing, too. A child respects a reverie sometimes, I’ve discovered.

farm-in-winter-4Swiped peas are the sweetest, warm as the day as they rolled off her thumb and dropped in the kettle ather feet. I don’t think she minded, though they were to be cooked for supper and many people were entitled. They were mine after all. My mother and father had planted and picked them and so on, and on and on spun my simple universe.

 

What was she thinking? Did I remind her of herself as a girl of three and make her long for her most green home? Did she wonder where the hungry tow-headed elf with her eyes would find her strength in adversity? Was she recalling her life in the light of the Immortality of the Soul and the Forgiveness of Sins? I don’t know. She was lost to me in the secret ecstasy of woman’s work so rhythmic and expert the mind is free to exult or pine, the eye to be caught by a butterfly. And she stays with me that way.

 

Still I strain to hear her voice, to find her words. “I’m sorry, Miss, it’s impossible. No records were kept.”

 

 

“But I want to know and there’s nowhere else to look.”

 

 

“Well, that’s not very good, is it?” says the complacent bureaucrat with finality. Furious, I walk away, but soon silently singing of Ellen Marie.

 

 

–Martha Pinson, summer 1982, edited 2011

New York City

 

Click here for more about the very talented Martha Pinson.

 

MY GRANDMOTHER from DUBLIN, IRELAND by MARTHA PINSON

 A number of those in attendance at last night’s “AWoW Rocks the Living Room” event asked me to reprint Martha Pinson’s beautiful and evocative story of her grandmother.  The story is put to the music of “Ashokan Farewell,” another beautiful and evocative work, which was written by Jay Ungar for the Ken Burns Civil War documentary film. You can listen to Ashokan while you read by going to the bottom of the page and clicking on the youtube link.

 

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RHYMES WITH TIME

 

Someone who loved order must have spared the twin maples twenty paces in front of the old, clapboard farmhouse.  They lent a symmetry otherwise lacking and graciously shaded the lawn.  The bank dropped sharply to a dirt road and a swampy pasture where weeping willows concealed the Dead River but not the fields rising beyond.  All this, common birds and butterflies, a rusty cultivator, and whatever else was carelessly left, formed my Grandma’s view from the long, weathered porch where she worked on summer days.  “How can a river be dead?”  I wondered. 

 

img_1356It was all tangles of green and, like they say in wordy books, “dazzling sunny patches interwoven with deep shades.”  The atmosphere was languid, though alive with peepers.  High winds and high tensions passed over the tops of surrounding hills. 

 

She sat rather still, did Ellen Marie Kilaren Deeny. (Right, age 16)  Tired, I guess, with 77 years behind her by 1951.  A hungry child in Dublin, at thirteen she’d crossed the Atlantic where she said, “many brave hearts are asleep in the deep.”  Here in New Jersey, she became a dairy farmer’s wife.  I later learned of 13 pregnancies in 20 years, two miscarriages, three dead in their first year, seven raised, one dead at 37 from a heart infection.  Now, her oldest daughter, also Ellen Marie, my mother, (Below with author) who moved back home after college to help her parents, was ill and (no one dared to think) dying from the same disease. 

 

mommy-and-marty-2-2Grandpa was dead.  The only person he could stand was my father, and vice versa.  Daddy was good with him, gave him a shave every morning.  His father had died some 20 years prior and I guess he thought a crazy old man was better than none.  Old Hughie wasn’t suited to his fate.  A skilled cabinetmaker, he remembered dancers and teachers among the Deeny’s in Donegal.  He was a pretty good farmer anyway, but not good enough against the Farm Depression of the late 20’s and 30’s.  Nevertheless, he sent his brilliant children to college, Radcliffe and such.

 

But somehow, Grandma Deeny accepted all things in life.  She loved her children, did what she could, and left the rest to Providence.  Daddy said she was the only good Catholic he knew (he loved to exaggerate) and drove her to Mass every Sunday.  I watched her, comfortably stooped in a straight chair, wearing an old cotton dress, shelling peas.  The soft wind just lifted her wisps of hair.  She split the pods, gave me that melancholy smile, and said nothing.  I said nothing, too.  A child respects a reverie sometimes, I’ve discovered.

 

 

farm-in-winter-4Swiped peas are the sweetest, warm as the day as they rolled off her thumb and dropped in the kettle ather feet.  I don’t think she minded, though they were to be cooked for supper and many people were entitled.  They were mine after all.  My mother and father had planted and picked them and so on, and on and on spun my simple universe.

 

What was she thinking?  Did I remind her of herself as a girl of three and make her long for her most green home?  Did she wonder where the hungry tow-headed elf with her eyes would find her strength in adversity?  Was she recalling her life in the light of the Immortality of the Soul and the Forgiveness of Sins?  I don’t know.  She was lost to me in the secret ecstasy of woman’s work so rhythmic and expert the mind is free to exult or pine, the eye to be caught by a butterfly.  And she stays with me that way.

 

Still I strain to hear her voice, to find her words.  “I’m sorry, Miss, it’s impossible.  No records were kept.”  

 

“But I want to know and there’s nowhere else to look.” 

 

“Well, that’s not very good, is it?” says the complacent bureaucrat with finality.  Furious, I walk away, but soon silently singing of Ellen Marie. 

 

–Martha Pinson, summer 1982, edited 2011

 

New York City

 

Click here for more about the very talented Martha Pinson.

 

 

 

MARTHA PINSON, AWoW MEMBER, TO DIRECT SCORCESE PRODUCTION "TOMORROW"

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As befits the modesty of the multi-talented Martha Pinson, she recently wrote at the tag end of an email, “Not much else new. Oh, by the way, I’m making my big-screen directorial debut on a film called, Tomorrow. Scorcese is the executive producer.”

  

“You’re doing a film with Scorcese, Martha? Right, not much new!”

 

But it’s really not surprising.  In addition to her directorial skills Martha is an accomplished playwright, screenwriter and filmmaker. She has written a number of off Broadway plays in addition to several award winning shorts. Of one, Don’t Nobody Love The Game More Than Me, director Sidney Lumet said, ” I’ve just looked at Don’t Nobody….It’s wonderful. It’s so tender and funny and deeply touching, and because of the passions of the people in the movie, it’s somehow very romantic….It should be seen!”

  

martin_aTender is a word that also can be used to describe Martha’s writing style. A number of months ago I read a touching tribute to a woman Martha loved and admired, her grandmother.  It is an exquisite piece of writing meant to be savored and read slowly. Grandmother from Dublin, Ireland

 

I asked Martha to comment about her latest success. As always, she deflected her well earn praise onto another, “I am extremely grateful for the support of Martin Scorsese, a great filmmaker and a great man who I have had the honor to work with.”

  

I’m guessing he feels similarly, Martha. Brava, Lady!

  

Set in London, the movie is set to shoot this year.  For more on Martha’s directorial debut: Martin Scorcese Executive Producing Martha Pinson’s Directorial Debut

 

Website: MarthaPinson.com