THE WORLD THROUGH THE EYES OF AN ARTIST
Lib Briscoe
My father studied literature. My mother loved music and film. And they both loved theater. Destiny didn’t have a difficult task in leading me to be what I am today – a performing artist in all that I am and all that I do, a soul-encompassing calling, coming forth from my essence through my body into the space that surrounds me, from my heart through the expanse of my arms to my fingertips, through my belly and legs, down to the earth that gives me life.
I have always been a creative artist. I heard that voice and knew it from the time I was very young, though it took a while to name it. My mother took my sister and me to Broadway musicals and Radio City Music Hall every year and I was hooked. Watching the tap dancing, high kicking Rockets or hearing Pearl Bailey and Cab Calloway singing in “Hello, Dolly “, I was hooked. Joining the dance group in my Girl Scout troupe, performing simple but expressive movements, I was hooked. Dancing in the musicals and singing in the choir in high school, I was hooked. The shy, silent girl that I was, found her way to be in the world, by joining the world of “pretending”. But it wasn’t just pretending. It was a journey, finding hidden parts of myself and giving them room to breathe, space to become and a voice to finally reveal and share what was inside.
And now in my life, writing, though not exclusively, takes precedence. And it is different. The community network of the performing arts does not apply here. Writing is solitary and lonely. Writing is heart-wrenching and thrilling. Writing is daring to commit to oneself and frightening when it is honest. Writing is learning to trust, learning to ignore all the other well-meaning and cherished voices and focusing on one’s own. Writing is taking possession of words in an order and defying anyone to touch them. Writing is taking a moment, magnifying it, and placing it in an eternal reality.
It is an honor and a joy to share what can be shared, the empty page waiting to be filled, with my daughter. I saw her creative spirit even before she could say the words and watched it take form and find its freedom through so many years and experiences. Her work possesses a clarity of form, a passion in its content, an unapologetic honesty and a deep human compassion. And I am proud.
We have had many kitchen conversations over the years, struggling with issues of heart, of home and of existence, and through the art forms we both love, we have looked for the meaning of things, what meaning there is to be found.
The world is a sad and frightening place in these times, but there is always hope. That hope lives when we speak out - demand and work for the better way that we know can be. Each of us has a voice that plays out in its own unique way. This is ours.
Lennora Esi
The Black Kitchen.
My mind loves to take journeys. It always has. It will mount a gust of wind, float up to a cloud in the sky and set sail to wherever it desires. Finding past experiences, revealing wishes and discovering new worlds on it's path. So as soon as I learned how to write two words, I started creating stories. I loved creative writing in elementary school. Mind you my grammer was „interesting“ and my spelling „inventive“, but I could sit and write for hours. Lose myself in the lives of imaginary characters and the landscapes of my mind. Poems, essays, fairytales … you named it … I wrote it! And then came highschool.
My mind still took journeys but instead of calling me „a dreamer“ it now read „unattentive“ in report cards.
My grammer went from „interesting“ to „incorrect“ and my spelling from „inventive“ to „inaccurate“. And all I got for my love of stories and characters were D's and E's for not fitting a standard society expects from an 11 year old. I lost faith in myself. I developed writers block before even given the chance of becoming one. I continued writing … I always wrote … but I could never finish a story. I never showed anyone my poems, always thinking they weren't good enough for anyone else to read.
Seven and a half years lie between my graduation from school and writing this introduction. I have composed a theater play, cowritten two childrens plays, created songs, poems, essays and short stories. And I am nowhere near where I want to be. I believe that everybody is entitled to making what they love a big part of their lives. And there are too many drafts of poems and ideas for short stories, scribbled on fragements of paper for me to pretend, that I have made my love for writing a priority in life.
And that I wish to change! I want to make „could have been“s „will be“s.
The L Generations.
Lib Briscoe, my Mom, has three holes in her left ear. So when I decided to get my ears pierced for the third time, I got one hole in my right ear. I liked the idea of making myself her reflection.
I have always been close to my mother … and that is an understatement. In the english speaking toddlers' group, she was the only mother who could never get a moment's peace, because I would never leave her side. When I stayed over night at a friend's house, she had to leave me her shirt, because I just could not fall asleep without something of hers close by.
Some of my best memories involve my Mom. Eating cheese soup and goose with red cabbage in one of our favorite towns or working on her play together.
She is one of the most wonderful people I know and her modesty and often unawareness of it makes her that much more special. A good friend of mine once said: „She fills the room with her presence!“ She takes your breath away when she dances and calmes your heart when she sings. Her lifestories have made me laugh tears and what she has overcome in life has made me cry them.
She has been my teacher, my role model, my colleague, my spiritual guide, my doctor and healer, my inspiration and biggest critic.
Is she perfect? Of course not! Who would want her to be? Not being perfect is what makes us human, being human is what makes us relatable and what you can relate to, touches you.
I was a stubbern child, troubled teenager and am a very confused adult. My mother has always met me with nothing less than patience, understanding and love. I am thankful to work with such a talented artist and am proud to call myself my mother's daughter.
The Voices.
I look around and there are so many things I want to write about. Society, politics, the world. What my friends experience, what I have experienced.
Writing has always been therapeutic on the one hand and a way to express my views on the other. I am no fast thinker and I don't do well under pressure. I often lack words when speaking or discussing and my mind loves to wander. When I write I can arrange those thoughts my mind has come across on its journey and take the time to find the perfect words and phrasing. I am no journalist nor psychiatrist, no scientist nor scholar. I am merely an artist … portraying the world as I see it. Letting my voice be heard. Throwing words I wrote in secret, at a kitchen table … out into the open.
My mind loves to take journeys. Always has, always will. I might as well let people take part in them.
My father studied literature. My mother loved music and film. And they both loved theater. Destiny didn’t have a difficult task in leading me to be what I am today – a performing artist in all that I am and all that I do, a soul-encompassing calling, coming forth from my essence through my body into the space that surrounds me, from my heart through the expanse of my arms to my fingertips, through my belly and legs, down to the earth that gives me life.
I have always been a creative artist. I heard that voice and knew it from the time I was very young, though it took a while to name it. My mother took my sister and me to Broadway musicals and Radio City Music Hall every year and I was hooked. Watching the tap dancing, high kicking Rockets or hearing Pearl Bailey and Cab Calloway singing in “Hello, Dolly “, I was hooked. Joining the dance group in my Girl Scout troupe, performing simple but expressive movements, I was hooked. Dancing in the musicals and singing in the choir in high school, I was hooked. The shy, silent girl that I was, found her way to be in the world, by joining the world of “pretending”. But it wasn’t just pretending. It was a journey, finding hidden parts of myself and giving them room to breathe, space to become and a voice to finally reveal and share what was inside.
And now in my life, writing, though not exclusively, takes precedence. And it is different. The community network of the performing arts does not apply here. Writing is solitary and lonely. Writing is heart-wrenching and thrilling. Writing is daring to commit to oneself and frightening when it is honest. Writing is learning to trust, learning to ignore all the other well-meaning and cherished voices and focusing on one’s own. Writing is taking possession of words in an order and defying anyone to touch them. Writing is taking a moment, magnifying it, and placing it in an eternal reality.
It is an honor and a joy to share what can be shared, the empty page waiting to be filled, with my daughter. I saw her creative spirit even before she could say the words and watched it take form and find its freedom through so many years and experiences. Her work possesses a clarity of form, a passion in its content, an unapologetic honesty and a deep human compassion. And I am proud.
We have had many kitchen conversations over the years, struggling with issues of heart, of home and of existence, and through the art forms we both love, we have looked for the meaning of things, what meaning there is to be found.
The world is a sad and frightening place in these times, but there is always hope. That hope lives when we speak out - demand and work for the better way that we know can be. Each of us has a voice that plays out in its own unique way. This is ours.
Lennora Esi
The Black Kitchen.
My mind loves to take journeys. It always has. It will mount a gust of wind, float up to a cloud in the sky and set sail to wherever it desires. Finding past experiences, revealing wishes and discovering new worlds on it's path. So as soon as I learned how to write two words, I started creating stories. I loved creative writing in elementary school. Mind you my grammer was „interesting“ and my spelling „inventive“, but I could sit and write for hours. Lose myself in the lives of imaginary characters and the landscapes of my mind. Poems, essays, fairytales … you named it … I wrote it! And then came highschool.
My mind still took journeys but instead of calling me „a dreamer“ it now read „unattentive“ in report cards.
My grammer went from „interesting“ to „incorrect“ and my spelling from „inventive“ to „inaccurate“. And all I got for my love of stories and characters were D's and E's for not fitting a standard society expects from an 11 year old. I lost faith in myself. I developed writers block before even given the chance of becoming one. I continued writing … I always wrote … but I could never finish a story. I never showed anyone my poems, always thinking they weren't good enough for anyone else to read.
Seven and a half years lie between my graduation from school and writing this introduction. I have composed a theater play, cowritten two childrens plays, created songs, poems, essays and short stories. And I am nowhere near where I want to be. I believe that everybody is entitled to making what they love a big part of their lives. And there are too many drafts of poems and ideas for short stories, scribbled on fragements of paper for me to pretend, that I have made my love for writing a priority in life.
And that I wish to change! I want to make „could have been“s „will be“s.
The L Generations.
Lib Briscoe, my Mom, has three holes in her left ear. So when I decided to get my ears pierced for the third time, I got one hole in my right ear. I liked the idea of making myself her reflection.
I have always been close to my mother … and that is an understatement. In the english speaking toddlers' group, she was the only mother who could never get a moment's peace, because I would never leave her side. When I stayed over night at a friend's house, she had to leave me her shirt, because I just could not fall asleep without something of hers close by.
Some of my best memories involve my Mom. Eating cheese soup and goose with red cabbage in one of our favorite towns or working on her play together.
She is one of the most wonderful people I know and her modesty and often unawareness of it makes her that much more special. A good friend of mine once said: „She fills the room with her presence!“ She takes your breath away when she dances and calmes your heart when she sings. Her lifestories have made me laugh tears and what she has overcome in life has made me cry them.
She has been my teacher, my role model, my colleague, my spiritual guide, my doctor and healer, my inspiration and biggest critic.
Is she perfect? Of course not! Who would want her to be? Not being perfect is what makes us human, being human is what makes us relatable and what you can relate to, touches you.
I was a stubbern child, troubled teenager and am a very confused adult. My mother has always met me with nothing less than patience, understanding and love. I am thankful to work with such a talented artist and am proud to call myself my mother's daughter.
The Voices.
I look around and there are so many things I want to write about. Society, politics, the world. What my friends experience, what I have experienced.
Writing has always been therapeutic on the one hand and a way to express my views on the other. I am no fast thinker and I don't do well under pressure. I often lack words when speaking or discussing and my mind loves to wander. When I write I can arrange those thoughts my mind has come across on its journey and take the time to find the perfect words and phrasing. I am no journalist nor psychiatrist, no scientist nor scholar. I am merely an artist … portraying the world as I see it. Letting my voice be heard. Throwing words I wrote in secret, at a kitchen table … out into the open.
My mind loves to take journeys. Always has, always will. I might as well let people take part in them.