posted by caroline picard

The following poem was written by Lily Robert-Foley and published as part of National Poetry Month on the Angel House Press website. While what follows is merely an excerpt, you can read the poem in its entirety by going here. Did I mention how awesome Lily is? Lily is awesome.


spine the body mortal immortal fuel the head the head fuels spirit head spirit the head is on spine
spine the head heading of head: head. head hair hair of head hair on head head on on head spine
spine on body where there is head there is face faces faces face faces face face top to top of spine
spine temple body is side of face eye to see bridge of face to see eye look down face bottom spine
spine cheek kiss or slap.head is both body and spirit in language.palm lay pillow on cheek spine
spine earmark place where a mouth mouths mouth writes mouth open mouth close ear to spine
spine live in body body lives in crevices its own a neck long leadings into chest rest holding spine

posted by Caroline Picard

Our hero, (former volunteer and North Georgia Gazette transcriber/poet), Lily Robert-Foley recently published the following article in Issue 2 of Critiphoria. I’ve included the very beginning of the piece below but you’ll have to go to the original site to read all of it.

What Once to Read to Write: Locating the Other in Veils.

Lily Robert-Foley

Who writes the other. Well, Emmanuel Levinas for one. Or rather, Jacques Derrida. Or rather, Emmanuel Levinas, “…precisely where the words seem to get carried away and become disidentified in a discourse that opens each signification to its other (relation without relation, passivity without passivity, “passivity…more passive than every passivity,’ etc)”, writes Derrida. To open to the other in discourse is to disidentify the same with itself. It is
not written, the other is the other, or the same is not the other, or the other is not the same, but the same is not the same (the same without the same). Who writes the other. No one. Who: Something that is not, or won’t be, or isn’t yet, what it is. (I have a sudden memory of
Beckett, the final lines of Molloy, it’s Adieu, “It is raining. It is not raining.”).

Veiliiis is not a book by Helene Cixous. Veils is not a book by Jacques Derrida. Veils is a book by Helene Cixous and Jacques Derrida. Veils is a book of two: both authors not the other, two voices, too genres, two sexes too. Veils begins with a trope; Helene Cixous begins her Veils as a trope, “Myopia was her fault, her lead, her imperceptible native veil”iv. Leaving aside for the moment that both myopia and the veil function as a trope, both synonymously and antonymously at varying moments in Veils, this first phrase in isolation forges what will become a “prehistoric” alliance: a metaphor. What happens to Cixous’ veil and its substantiative counterpart, myopia, as it traverses and mutates (through) the text? In the beginning there was myopia, near ignorance, or a kind of ignorance that is based on indeterminacy. At first she has some sight, and navigates her way through the city based on little breaks in its “refusal” to her: there is a point of discrepancy between what she sees of the world and what the world is. If this makes her a foreigner to the world, unable to see what others see, it also locates her in a state of constant ambiguous unresolve, “To be and not to be were never exclusive”. The world, her vision, her self, is entrenched in otherness, in complete otherness, in “limitless pale nothingness…death” .

Read the rest by going here!

polarsketch by rebecca grady

posted by caroline picard

Remember how we went to AS220 with “Isolated Fictions?” Now we’re taking the North Georgia Gazette to Philadelphia! The following artists are going to be in a group show based on the book. You can go here to get a copy!


featuring the work of Amanda Browder, Nick Butcher, Jason Dunda,

Rebecca Grady, Devin King, Carmen Price & Deb Sokolow

Exhibition Dates: February 6 – March 6, 2010

Opening Reception: February 6, 2010, 7 – 10 pm

Gallery Hours: Saturdays 12 – 4 pm or by appointment

FLUXspace is pleased to present Isolated Fictions, a group exhibition featuring work by Amanda Browder, Nick Butcher, Jason Dunda, Rebecca Grady, and Deb Sokolow, and curated by Caroline Picard, Founding Director of Green Lantern Gallery & Press (Chicago, IL). Isolated Fictions is an Independent Project of Philagrafika 2010, Philadelphia’s international festival celebrating print in contemporary art. There will be an opening reception for the exhibition on February 6, 2010 from 7 – 10 pm. In conjunction with the exhibition, FLUXspace will also host a temporary reading room in the gallery and launch a new project, the yet-to-be-named archive.

About 200 years ago, a fleet of English ships got stuck in the Arctic ice for a year. Their Captain had them run up canvas, covering the ships’ masts. They battened the hatches, so to speak, and watched as the sun set for winter’s entirety, waiting with unimaginable patience for spring. They waited for their passage home to melt. Under Captain Parry’s orders, the fleet printed a newspaper: the entries of which were solicited from the men on deck, under the condition that nothing depressing be published. These men also put on plays.

Chicago’s Green Lantern Press is proud to announce the re-release of this manuscript, The North Georgia Gazette. Touring the country along with this book is a group exhibition, Isolated Fictions, featuring contemporary artists from the publication. The book has been published in an edition of 250 with original silk-screen covers and features excerpts from the Captain’s Journal, the newspaper in its entirety, an essay by contemporary Arctic explorer John Huston, end notes by transcriber/poet Lily Robert-Foley, original artwork by Daniel Anhorn, Jason Dunda, Rebecca Grady, and Deb Sokolow, and a limited edition 7″ record by Nick Butcher. The North Georgia Gazette will be available at FLUXspace for $30.

Isolated Fictions features works on paper by Deb Sokolow that address the second person, incorporating that viewer into the Arctic landscape; large gouache paintings of impossible wood towers by Jason Dunda that parallel the newspaper’s impossible success; maps of the Arctic, as well as a sculpture of an ice floe by Rebecca Grady; and a 7” record made of wood glue by Nick Butcher that plays on repeat.

The Newspaper itself functions as a metaphor for an inherent aspect of humanity: whether the Arctic is a devastating place, or a place wild with imagination and longing, it represents the unknown. That unknown can exist in the world, between neighboring communities. But often that unknown space is within oneself, and though it is essential to try and communicate those territories—to study them and map them out, they maintain a mysterious ground. And it is in the failure of exposing everything, or knowing everything, that we accomplish great heights of beauty.

In conjunction with Isolated Fictions, there will also be a reading room in the gallery space; books, magazines, newspapers, and a variety of printed ephemera will be on display and available for perusal. The reading room will be part of a new project at FLUXspace, the yet-to-be-named archive, which aims to collect printed documents from Philadelphia’s visual art scene, and also books and magazines of general interest.  We hope to build this archive over time and would welcome submissions from other art spaces. Materials included in the archive thus far: Arts Exchange, Green Lantern Press, machete, Megawords, New Art Examiner, and various Philadelphia exhibition postcards and printed materials.


Caroline Picard is the Founding Director of The Green Lantern Gallery & Press, and a Co-Editor for the literary podcast The Parlor ( Her writing has been published in a handful of publications including the Philadelphia Independent, NewCity, Ampersand Review, MAKE Magazine, the Chicago Art Journal Review, and Proximity Magazine. Twice a year she meets with a performance group and records improvised music under the collective alias Thee Iran Contras. She continues to paint and exhibit her visual work.

Born in Missoula, MT in 1976, Amanda Browder currently resides in Brooklyn, NY. Amanda received her MFA/MA from the University of Wisconsin at Madison in 2001, and taught at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago from 2001-07. She has exhibited nationally and internationally at the Nakaochiai Gallery, Tokyo, Japan; Lothringer 14, Munich, Germany; White Columns, New York; Mixture Contemporary Gallery, Houston, TX; The Missoula Museum of the Arts, Missoula, MT; Gallery 400-UIC, and The Hyde Park Art Center, Chicago, IL. She is also a founding member of the art-podcast:

Nick Butcher is an artist and musician living in Chicago, IL. Since the summer of 2006, Butcher has run a studio space/printshop with Nadine Nakanishi called Sonnenzimmer. While the focus is poster design and printing, they also host exhibitions and art events. Recently, Butcher completed a solo-album called “Bee Removal.”

Jason Dunda received his BA in Fine Arts from York University, Toronto and his MFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and currently lives and works in Chicago. Jason has previously exhibited in Toronto and Chicago.

Rebecca Grady is a Chicagoan by way of Alaska and Maine. When she was too little to walk, she was pulled around on a sled by a German Shepherd called Namer. When she grows up she wants to be a sailor. Meanwhile, she is an MFA candidate at the University of Illinois at Chicago, where she also teaches drawing. Mini comics, mix tapes, tropical storms and more can be found on her website:

Devin King is an artist who lives and works in Chicago, IL. Using text, music and performance as a coalescent medium, King has performed a variety of one-man operas, including most recently “Hadyn’s Head and Madame X,” as part of The 2010 Rhinoceros Festival. His long poem, CLOPS. is due out spring of 2010 with the Green Lantern Press.

Carmen Price’s work creates new relationships between familiar visual elements to express joy in contemporary culture. His celebratory drawings use personal symbolism and a strong faith in the accidental to form occasionally narrative and often confusing scenes. Originally from Kansas City, MO, Carmen Price currently lives and works in Chicago, IL.

Deb Sokolow’s recent projects include site-specific installations at the Van Abbemuseum in the Netherlands, the Kemper Museum of Contemporary Art in Kansas City, MO and at Inova [Institute of Visual Arts] in Milwaukee, WI. She is an Illinois Arts Council Visual Arts Fellowship recipient, and her work is in the permanent collection of the Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago, IL. Sokolow received her MFA in 2004 from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. She currently lives and works in Chicago, IL.

The Green Lantern Gallery & Press is a 501(c)3 non-profit gallery and paperback press dedicated to the study, presentation, and archive of contemporary art practice. Because we believe that independent cultural production and idiosyncratic effort is the fount for meaning and friendship, The Green Lantern also hosts monthly art exhibitions for emerging artists and publishes limited-edition books by new or forgotten writers who are making significant contributions to today’s cultural landscape. With a focus on the visual arts, The Green Lantern establishes paths of accessibility between the work and its audience by contextualizing its events through writing, a literary reading series – The Parlor, video, performance and music. For more information please visit

FLUXspace is a Philadelphia based 501(c)3 contemporary arts space which provides artists, curators, and instigators the opportunity for unrestricted and uncensored experimentation, professional presentation, and critical dialogue for the purpose of exploring and creating new art practices and media.  FLUX consists of an exhibition space, an artist residency program, as well as public programming including artist lectures, panel discussions, workshops, movie nights and performances.

Last night at Café Lapon, a Finnish restaurant in the 17th Arrondisement, somewhere a few blocks from Place de Clichy, a woman asked me if we celebrate All Saint’s Day in America. I replied that, yes, in a way, but it’s called Halloween. The woman replid, “Well, that’s not really the same thing, is it.” Embued with one or two or several glasses of wine, I took up arms, “It’s the same basic idea, I told her. The same principal.” And being French of course, she was hell bent on making me look like a fool or at least contradicting me endlessly until I relinquished in exhaustion (which of course I had no intention of doing of course) and instead launched into a diatribe about how completely misguided it is to try to conceive American traditions along the same axis as European Traditions.

We don’t have traditions, I said, we have SIMULACRA of traditions. We have greeting cards with jack-o-lanterns. We have plastic child sized broomsticks at K-Mart. We have poisoned fun-sized Mars bars. We have the apocalypse. You… you Europeans, you could never understand Halloween.


– written and posted by Lily

Green Lantern Press Foreign Correspondent



the newest hottest thing in cliterature and literary erotica is now available. 


This edition’s theme:  The Invisible Corset.  Featuring works by Catherine Borders, Marissa Ayala, Meg Nafziger, Lily Robert-Foley, kristen cerda, Jane Agnes Quinn, Scott Hess, Chandra Smith, Rebecca Serle, Caroline Picard, Katherin Cox, Michael Sidman, SarahS, Circadies, Matthew Dexter, Brian Burton and Ryan Block.  Compiled, edited and fabricated by Catherine Borders and Marissa Ayala. 

Omnia Vanitas is available for purchase on

Or visit the new, astoundingly beautiful website (designed by Isaiah Dufort):

Omnia Vanitas is also accepting submissions for forthcoming editions. 

Contact the Omnia Vanitas editing team at:

Mexico City February 2009

Kelly and I lay on the floor surrounded by books.

“What question should we ask next?”  Kelly asked, aware of the absurdity of her question, as though asking a question can only ever be preceded and followed by an infinite loop of questions about the question itself:  “What is the question?”  “What was the question?”  “What is the answer to the question?”  “What does the question mean?”

We had been asking questions about God, and existence, the nature of nature, the mind-body connection, problems of philosophical methodology, reflection, and language.  But our limbs had fallen slowly to the ground like petals.  I had not found the post office.  We were becoming younger.

“Should I go back to the Marxist?”


“No, I’m not asking you, I’m answering your question.”

She opened a book.

“Shall we ask Freud?  Or perhaps Pessoa?”

“Pessoa,”  I answered.

She leafed through the book

“To think about God is to disobey God,/Since God wanted us not to know him,/Which is why he didn’t reveal himself to us.”

“What does that mean?”  Kelly and myself elegantly and imperceptibly becoming of one mind, a woman talking or thinking to herself.

“It means you are conflicted.  That you are caught between two impossible halves of a division—like a Chinese finger trap.  You cannot know God without betraying God, but you cannot know not to know God without first knowing him.  Therefore you are in constant betrayal.  There is no option that does not lead to betrayal.”

“Did I not know that already?”

“You can’t ask Pessoa these things.  You want answers, you must go to someone who gives answers.”

“Who, like God?”

Kelly made a chiasmic facial gesture, raising her eyebrows and lowering, cocking her chin, her face splitting, breaking open, apart, like the earth, over time.  An expression that indicates both possibility and direction.

She reached over to my copy of the English bible laid out next to the Spanish one on the coffee table amidst my drafts of translation.

“Dear God, please give this poor young woman the strength to make a choice in this most infuriating dilemma.  Please guide her by giving her quick and easy answers so that she will not have to take responsibility for her own decisions.”

I grabbed the Spanish version off the table and threw it at her mouth, where her words had come out.  She raised the English version just in time to block her face and the Spanish one collided with it mid-air, and fell to the floor, open faced, it’s onion skin pages curling and bending.  Kelly laughing, the books scattered around us like the rests of a Bacchanal.

“Old Testament or New Testament?”

“Who cares, god is God, right?”  Jubilation.

“And Joshua gave their land to the tribes of Israel as a possession according to their allotments.”

“What is that supposed to mean.?”

“No idea.  Joshua sounds like a dick, though. Try the Spanish version.”

“El cadaver de Jezabel sera como un abono que se esparce y ni siquiera se podra decir: “Esta es Jezebal.”

“You opened to the part about Jezebel?  Unbelievable.”

“Let’s see…”  I rifled through my papers.  “The cadaver of Jezebel will be like a dispersed interest payment and not even the most insignificant shit will be able to say, ‘this credit card statement is Jezebal’”

“Your Spanish is really crap, you know.  How are you going to translate the bible if you don’t even speak Spanish?”

“Shut up, I’m working on it.  Besides, it’s the language of God I’m translating, and God speaks directly to me.”

“You’re fucked up, you know?”

“What’s it to you?  What does the New Standard Revised have?”

“Oh here it is, The English version says, ‘the corpse of Jezebel shall be like dung on the field in the territory of Jezreel, so that no one can say, This is Jezebel.”

“What are yout talking about?  It’s practically the same as my translation.”

“Joshua and Jezebal sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g!”

“Oh shut up.  I’m asking Bolano.”


“Bolano!  Our saviour!”

“Oh shit, I opened to Cesaria Tinajera’s poem.”

“You know, sometimes I think 2666 is actually based on the bible.  Like the Satanic Verses is based on the Koran.  The Satanic Verses of Mexico.”

“There is no doubt that Mexico needs its copy of the Satanic Verses.  There is also no doubt that we must do more to expose the tyranny of biblical dissemination in Mexico.  That it was the most heinous of the weapons of the Conquest, and remains to this day the principal instrument of oppression, never ceases to astound me.”

“Perhaps Bolano was trying to do that.”

“Perhaps… but Bolano has his own dialectic—or his own dialogue, I suppose.  Don’t you think?  He would never construct such a simple allegory without destabilizing its structures of correspondance…”

“To think about God is to disobey God.”

“Don’t think about God!”

“Ah!  I’m thining about him, I’m thinking about him!”

“Sinner!  Sinner!”

And at that I lunged across the room and began to wrestle with Kelly the two of us sisters, locked in a linguistic battle over the truth of God.  Our arms moving through each other’s, around each other’s bodys, our hands holding onto each other’s hair, our  mouths in flight, two angels, the wandering interpretation of texts.

“Oh what’s this?  This book of fairy tales opened all by itself!  Let’s see what it says”

They unraveled and laid flat on their bellies on the cold tile floor.

“Close your eyes and point.”

“ ‘Go West in a week,’”

“Now that’s some advice I can follow.”

– transcribed (loosely based on reality) and posted by Lily.


– posted by lily.  designed by isaiah dufort and conceived of collectively with ellen cronin.

Devin King at The Whistler

September 26, 2009

Finally!  At long last, the long awaited videos of Devin King performing his response to the North Georgia Gazette at The Whistler bar on Milwaukee Avenue.  September 3, 2009.

The North Georgia Gazette, a republication of a series of newspapers written onboard a ship landlocked in the Arctic Circle in search of the Northwest Passage at the beginning of the 19th Century, was released from The Green Lantern Press on September 3, 2009.  It will be available for purchase… someday soon…?

– Posted by Lily Robert-Foley

Call the Hollow Tree Line

September 25, 2009

Dear Callers,

I am collecting stories about the Great Plains for a sound installation at the annual Art Harvest here at the Art Farm in Marquette, Nebraska on October 24 and 25. Maybe you’ve lived on the plains for your entire life, maybe you arrived recently, or maybe

you’ve only traveled through in a bus, a train, a car. Maybe your grandparents passed along letters or stories about traveling the plains by choice or force or economic necessity. As a Californian with generations-ago roots on the plains, I experience the landscape here as a pile-up of stories, conflicting versions of similar events. How about you?

I invite you to leave a brief, anonymous phone message on The Hollow Tree Line voice mailbox ( 206-426-5613) about a prairie journey of any kind. You are welcome to talk about something handed down across generations or something all your own, to describe a long voyage or a small transformation or a change in perspective, to record ducks

flying overhead or imitate the sound of a cat giving birth in a barn, to sing-yell the words of a broken treaty—whatever you are moved to contribute.

The Hollow Tree Line got its name from a trip that I took with my family the year after my grandfather died. In Council Grove, Kansas, near where he was born, there is a hollow tree still standing where pioneers in wagon trains used to leave letters for travelers coming along behind them. We talked with hog farming cousins who had stayed

in the area and visited the old family house, and I later learned that Council Grove was the site of a treaty signing between the US Government and the Osage tribe, an important turning point in the often violent history of western expansion. What were we hoping to

find there? Maybe we went to Kansas as a way of trying to connect with Bert, as if the hollow tree might have held one last letter from him, sent across an impossible threshold.

Now I am spending two months away from my California home as an artist-in-residence at a farm on the Nebraska plains—not too far, relative to California, from where my great-great-grandparents homesteaded. There’s a dip in the prairie nearby where the Oregon Trail passed through. We rip out old phone lines and climb the barn roof chasing cell phone signals. In light of this weird confluence, I am interested in the traces we leave of the journeys that we take, and the ways that our efforts to communicate mark the landscape. How do we connect across this space of the prairies, whether we are the ones leaving home, or the ones staying behind?

I thank you so much for reading, and hope that you will call The Hollow Tree Line at 206-426-5613, and that you will ask your grandma and your neighbor and your kids to call as well. I will post the final sound collage on this site at the end of the project.


Amanda Davidson

Excerpt from Jiji, a novel in progress by Lily Robert-Foley

One afternoon, while Jiji and Jel were visiting Jel’s grandparents house in the Great Plains somewhere, a small dusty town with no roads, no stoplights, the houses situated aleatorically like scatter point plots on a graph.  The organization of community.  Jiji sat on top of a picnic bench, her feet on the bench part.  Jiji liked to appear different, sometimes by not using chairs, using other things as chairs, or using chairs in the wrong way.  Jel stood across the “road” from her.  The road here being the accidental space between buildings.

In Chinese Philosophy, the sky gives force, energy, light, whereas the earth makes things grow, gives things shape and being.  Either things explode from these very small obits of light falling out through the sky, or as things are born the sky is pulled down and embues them with motion.  Sky or heaven.  The Great Plains was one of the few places Jiji had ever been where the Sky was larger than the earth, took up more space in comparison with the human body, seemed more important.

Jel stood across this unroad from her, separated only by the negative space between structures.  The bond that held them together was a Sky bond, made from a charged, beingless, surround sound gray, a gray that gleaned like silver, infused with air as breath is, as the lungs are.  Lungs, the organ of mourning, the organ that gives sigh.  They looked at each other, were together, absorbed in this gray light, condensed by love.  They perhaps loved the quiet so much because the quiet enabled them to hear one another better.

And as they stood there staring, seeing the golden animation of heaven emanate out of each others clay bodies, a tumble weed rolled out of nowhere, on a mission, and passed between them.  Dense, hairy, monstruous obstruction, plowing through the molecular tether that held them together through centrifugal force, like a momento mori smeared across the base of a painting.  So absurd, a deChirico, a chair alone in the middle of a room, a dog on a table, something unexpectedly falling from a window, not understanding betrayal, not understanding death.

And their faces like the surface of the soil, erupting with water, laughter, a tumble weed!  And it went off comicly, to another planet.

And later, Jiji watched Jel as he stood on the crest of a plain, at his grandfather’s funeral, as he mourned next to the other grandsons, watcing the Sky colonize the Earth.  And even though he is an alien, he had long assimilated into a family that moved on slow Plains time, the oddly round clock of renewable energy, and Jiji felt too that to be in love is not to own someone, or even to understand them.  She who turned chairs upside down or backwards before she sat on them, made chairs out of mounds of earth, tufts of grass, window sills, washing machines, granite cornerstones or gravestones.  Made chairs up because she had no time, no time to learn to be like others, no time to watch the Sky take over the Earth.

– posted by Lily Robert-Foley

Two weeks ago on September 3rd, The Satellite version of The Green Lantern Press assembled a book release party at The Whistler for The North Georgia Gazette—a book (mostly) of newspapers written by sailors onboard the HMS Hecla and Griper in the beginning of the 19th Century, while the ships were landlocked in the Arctic Circle in search of the Northwest Passage.

Below, after a brief introduction on the work, Basia Kapolka, the Green Lantern’s resident actor reads a poetic selection from one of the newspapers by a sailor named Wakeham entitled, “Reflections on Seeing the Sun Set for a Period of Three Months or More.”

– posted by Lily