June 2, 2010
posted by Caroline Picard
From Newcity’s 411 section:
You can read the whole piece by going here.
It’s a gallery! It’s a performance space! It’s a bookstore! It’s a café! The revived Green Lantern Gallery, temporarily housed at Chicago and Maplewood in Ukrainian Village, permanent location TBD, is aiming to be Chicago’s answer to Gertrude Stein’s living room. It’s an expanded vision of the original Green Lantern Gallery, which director Caroline Picard once ran out of her apartment. When the city shut it down due to an ordinance against such ventures, it left Picard with a choice: go big or go home (no pun intended). She’s going big. The new dream is a joint collaboration with featherproof books, another independent press interested in books that cross the boundaries between visual art and literature. “It’s like a high-school mega crush,” featherproof’s Zach Dodson says of the relationship between the presses. Picard recounts their fateful meeting at the NEXT art fair as a “marathon… of gossip and story-swapping and big-bang idea speculation.”
April 7, 2010
Summer, AWP, Drinking, Denver. Put ’em together and what do you got? Shots ‘n Shorts! Featherproof Books and Green Lantern Press are joining forces to bring you spinning wheels, shots, and shorts (the clothing as well as the story version) in a fabulous AWP Off-site event.
A fabulous line up of authors will be displaying their gams and literary prowess at Skylark Friday April 9th at 7pm. Each storyteller will step up to spin Nicolette Bond’s Wheel of Drunken Shame, determining which shot they will take or what fate they will endure before reading their short short. With returning authors from the national Dollar Store Tour, you can bet your sweet bippy this is going to be a gratifying night.
Leggy Ink Slingers include:
The juicy details:
Friday April 9th 7pm
140 S Broadway
Denver, CO 80209.
Featherproof offers the perfect remedy to snoozy A.W.P. readings with this boozy H.O.T. reading. After you’ve slept it off come visit the featherproof table at AWP, #E17. There will be author signings, free mini books and more.
Be sure to check out Shots ‘n Shorts. It ain’t your average reading. Fantastic writers sporting short shorts and giving our stems a moment in the spotlight!
April 2, 2010
posted by caroline picard
You can read the article in its entirety by going here.
The Literary Death Match return to The Hideout was an April Fool’s evening rife with surprise, as Caroline Picard of Green Lantern Gallery & Press outdueled The Encyclopedia Show’s Robbie Q. Telfer in the strangest, most un-finale finale ever (detailed below), to take home the Literary Death Match championship.
But before the finale April Fool’d anyone, the night began with Picard leading off against Opium9 250-Word Bookmark Contest finalist Kevin Leahy. Picard threw the first punch, moving through a tale that had the audience and judges gripped, before Leahy read a short piece about Pac-Man’s struggles as he turns 30.
The hosts — Opium’s Todd Zuniga & Comedy Central blogger Dennis Diclaudio — then handed the mic over to the judges — Zach Dodson (featherproof books), Trap Door Theatre’s Tiffany Joy Ross, and hilaritress Cameron Esposito — were then handed the mic, where they blurted affectionate critique, with Leahy’s workday shirt undoing his chances, and Picard was chosen as the night’s first finalist.
After a booze-fueld intermission and a commercial break hyping Opium Live’s iTunes channel, the second round led off with Telfer going up against Uncalled For’s Tim Jones-Yelvington. Telfer, a slam poet extraordinaire thrilled with three poems — the first: a man’s one-sided conversation in which he wanted his neighbor’s bear out of his yard. Then up stepped Jones-Yelvington, dressed for battle in a black, sequined shirt and sequins on his face, who’s pitch-perfectly-performed story featured the use of a real-life Taylor Lautner standee.
October 12, 2009
re you ready for the greatest literary week of all time ever!?!
Scortch Atlas book release party
No Coast Collective
1500 W. 17th St, Chicago
Tuesday, Oct. 13th, 7:30 p.m.
QUICKIES!!! Reading Series FUNdraiser
For only the second time ever, we are asking for handouts. In return, we will give our audience the best reading they have ever seen ever and if they’re lucky, a few audience members will win PRIZES.
1935 W. Thomas, Chicago
Thursday, Oct. 15th, 7 p.m.
Another Chicago Magazine (ACM49) release party
Stop Smiling HQ
1371 N. Milwaukee Avenue, Chicago
September 1, 2009
posted by Caroline Picard
Featherproof put out Blake Butler’s book recently and I thought I’d post an excerpt. The following section, read in Atlanta as part of the Dollar Store Tour this summer, is called:
The Gown From Mother’s Stomach
by Blake Butler
The mother ate thread and lace for four weeks so that her daughter would have a gown. She was tired of not being able to provide her daughter with the things many other girls took for granted. Their family was poor and the mother’s fingers ached wtih arthritis soshe couldn’t bring herself to sew. Instead she chewed the bed sheets until they were soft enough to swallow. She bit the curtains and gnawed the pillow. With one wet finger she swiped the floor for dust. God will knit it in my womb like he did you, she murmured. When you wear it you will blind the world. She refused to listen to reason. She ate toilet tissue and sheets of paper and took medication that made her constipated. She stayed in bed instead of sitting for dinner. Carrots don’t make a dress, she croaked. Her stomach grew distended. She began having trouble standing up. Her hair fell out and she ate that too. She ripped the mattress and muched the down. She ate the clothing off her body. The father was always gone. He worked day and night to keep food the mother wasn’t eating on the table. When he did get home he as too tired to entertain the daughter’s pleas to make the mother stop. Such a tease, that woman, he said in his sleep, already gone. Such a card. Because her mother could no longer walk, the daughter spent the evenings by the bedside listening to rambles. The mother told her about the time she’d seen a bear. A bear the size of several men, she said. There in the woods behind out house, when I was still a girl like you. The mother had stood in wonder watching while the bear ate a whole deer. It ate the deer’s cheeks, its eyes, its tongue, tis pelt. It ate everything but the antlers. The mother had waited for the bear to leave so she could take the antlers homs and wear them, but the bear had just gone on laying, stuffed, smothered in blood. The mother swore then–her eyes grew massive in the telling–the bear had spoken. It’d looked right at the mother and said, quite casual, My god, I was hungry. Its voice was gorgeous, deep and groaning. The mother could hardly move. I didn’t know bears could talk, she said finally, and the bear had said, Of course we can. It’s just that no one ever takes the time to hear. We are old and we are lonely and we have dreams you can’t imagine. Over the next six days the mother continued growing larger. Her eyes began to change. Her belly swelled six times its normal size. Dark patchwork showed through her skin. Strange ridges on her abdomen in maps. Finally the dauther called a doctor. He came and looked and locked the door behind him. Through the wood the daughter could hear he mother mother moan. A wailing shook the walls. Some kind of grunt or bubble. The doctor emerged with bloody hands. He was sweating, sickly pale. He left without a bill. In the bedroom, the air stunk sweet with rotten melon. The gown lay draped over the footboard. It was soft and glistening, full of color–blue like the afghan that covered her parents’ bed–white likethe spider’s web hung from the ceiling–gray and orange like their two fat tabbies–green like the pine needles pst the window–yellow and crimson like how the sun rose–gold like her moether’s blinkless eyes.
The daughter wore the gown thereafter. It fit her every inch. It sund in certain lighting. She liked to suck the cuff against her tongue. There was a sour taste, a crackle. She could hear her mother murmur when she lay a certain way. The father, fraught by wht he’d lost unknowing, began staying home all day. He stood in the kitchen and ate food for hours. He ate while crying, mad or mesmerized. He didn’t answer when the daughter spoke. Sometimes he shook or nodded, but mostly he just chewed. Most days the daughter took to walking as far from the house as she could manage. THe gown made her want to breathe new air. She’d go until her feet hurt her or until the sun went low. When it rained the gown absorbed the water. It guzzled her secret sweat. She got up earlier, patrolled. She wanted to see something like her mother had, like the bear, so that one day she’d have a story for a daughter. She saw many things that you or I would gape at–two headed cattle, lakes of insect, larvae falling from the sky–all things to her now everyday. The earth was very tired. The daughter found nothing like a talking bear. She wondered if her mother had been lying or smeared with fever. At school the other children threw sharp rocks. They ripped the daughter’s gown and held their noses. The daughter quit her classes. SHe walked until he feet bled. Her father didn’t notice. Like the mother, he took on size. His jowls hung fat in ruined balloons. He called for the mother over mouthfuls. Her name was SARAH. The way it came out sounded like HELLO. The daughter couldn’t watch her father do the same thing her mother had. She decided to go on a long walk–longer than any other. She touched her father on the foreheard and said goodbye. She walked up the long hill in her backyard where in winter she had sledded. It hadn’t been cold enough for snow in a long time but she could still remember the way her teeth rattled. She remembered losing the feeling in her body. Now every day was so warm. She swore she’d sweat an ocean. She walked through the forest well beyond dark. The gown buzzed in her ears. It buzzed louder the further from home she went. She kept going. She slept in nettles. She dreamt of sitting with her parents drinking tea and listening to her tell about all the things she would soon see. She dreamt of reversin time to watch her parents grow thinner, younger, while the earth grew new and clean. She walked by whim. She tread through water. She saw a thousand birds, saw lightening write the sky, the birds falling out in showers. The world was waning. The sky was chalk. She felt older every hour. She had no idea she’d come full circle to her backyard when she found the bear standing at a tree. It was huge, the way her mother had said, the size of several men. It was reaching after leaves. It sat up when it heard her. It looked into her eyes. Hello, bear, she said, rasping. It’s nice to finally meet you. The bear stood up and moved toward her, its long black claws big as her head. The collar of her dress had pulled so tight she found it hard to speak: What do you dream, bear? I will listen. She didn’t flinch as the bear came near and put its paw upon her head. It battered at her and she giggled. It pulled her to its chest. She didn’t feel her head pop open. She didn’t feel her beart squeeze wide. The bear dissembled her in pieces. The bear ate the entire girl. It ate her hair, her nails, her shoes and bonnet. It ate the gown and ate her eyes. Inside the bear the daughter could still see clearly. The bear’s teeth were mottled yellow. Inside its stomach, abalone pink. The color of the daughter became something soft–thens omething off, then something fuzzy, then something like the gown, immensely hued; then she became a strange flourescence and she excited the bear–she spread across the wrecked earth and refracted throught he ocean to split the sky: a neon ceiling over all things, a shade of something new, unnamed.