Review of Homebody by Connor Coyne

This weekend it was my honor and delight to preview Desiree Duell‘s new installation “Homebody,” (or, rather, a series of connected exhibits) created and assembled as a part of her MFA thesis for University of Hartford. Desiree is a good friend of mine and I’ve been convinced of her brilliance ever since we first worked together on the Our Town residency back in 2013, so you won’t be surprised to hear that I was impressed with Homebody as well.

But for most Flintstones, you’ll have just one opportunity to experience this project, from 1 – 10 PM on Friday, June 8th, 2018. That’s tomorrow, and the weather is supposed to be fine, school is out for the summer, and the streets will be full of smoke, laughter, and the smell of barbecue. I really, really urge you to stop by 810 S. Franklin in Flint’s College-Cultural Neighborhood to check it out.

The reason it’s worth sharing the sights and sounds and smells of early summer is that Homebody inhabits its name perfectly. So much of its power derives from the fact that it is not based out of a gallery or storefront, but out of a very lived in home and you can almost feel the daily routines playing out in the air about you as you take in the installation’s sites.

“When Apologies Are Too Late,” in which you confront a year’s worth of full and empty and hung and filagreed plastic bottles, shares the space with a functional kitchen. “Washing Away Snyder’s Sins” makes a second story bathroom resemble a scene from Psycho, and there are more than a couple things you can read into that. “In All Of Her Positions” is an intimate collection of collages, mementos, and reflections gathered in the artist’s bedroom. And, most poignantly, “Moonlight’s Magic,” in her son’s bedroom, features a series of woven “God’s Eyes” he made to protect the house and his inhabitants after a spate of violent crime in the neighborhood a year ago.

Homebody is a multi-dimensional project with plenty of political and social observation, often asking questions and occasionally offering answers. The water crisis looms large in many rooms, but others deal with pervasive and persistent aspects of poverty, exclusion, and institutional violence directed against women and the poor. In some cases, the exhibits pose an intellectual puzzle, as “Flint Chronicles” presents a series of transcribed stories alongside a field of uncaptioned photographs and official transcripts; the Chronicles tell the stories of Desiree’s maternal grandparents, but the blank spaces and the untold passages are as captivating as the photos and anecdotes. It reminded me powerfully of W.G. Sebald’s brilliant novel The Emigrants.

But the overall experience of Homebody is one of emotional engagement, and it all feels a little voyeuristic. Walking through the artist’s home, hearing the neighborhood living its own life outside, observing past relics and future foreshadowing of trauma, resilience, and innovation, all inspire feelings of both trespass and of solidarity.

What a guest (as opposed to an audience) does with these feelings is a provocative question. I’ve seen “progressive” essays claiming that both empathy and catharsis are indulgent, vestigial responses in both art and cultural life. If this were true, Homebody would be shackled because its appeal is precisely in its ability to arouse empathy and invoke catharsis. And yet, those reductive critiques always seem to turn on the assumption that, emotion achieved, one’s business is done. Whereas Homebody, I believe, means its guests to take their empathy and catharsis out into the world and to channel them toward meaningful action, though the nature of that activation is left in the visitor’s hands.

My favorite room of all, “Dandelion’s Den,” is a rainbow-colored bedroom assembled out of hundreds of panels of painted cardboard, festooned with flowers and paintings. As the explanatory card details, the room was inspired by the aesthetic of Target stores and the availability of cheap and free materials. As colorful and composed as the room appears, it also looks a little ragged and uneven. This is intentional. What do we do when we want to build a haven or sanctuary, but we lack the tools for stained glass and a heavy marble altar? How do we build sanctuary wherever we are?

Homebody maybe be viewed free on Friday, June 8th, 2018 from 1:00 – 10:00 PM, 810 S. Franklin Ave, in Flint.

Connor Coyne is a novelist living and working in Flint, Michigan. His first novel, Hungry Rats has been hailed by Heartland prize-winner Jeffery Renard Allen as "an emotional and aesthetic tour de force." His second novel, Shattering Glass, has been praised by Gordon Young, author of Teardown: Memoir of a Vanishing City as "a hypnotic tale that is at once universal and otherworldly." Connor represented Flint's 7th Ward as its artist-in-residence for the National Endowment for the Arts' Our Town grant, through which artists engaged ward residents to produce creative work in service of the 2013 City of Flint Master Plan. Connor's work has been published in Santa Clara Review, Moria Poetry Zine, East Village Magazine, Flint Broadside, Moomers Journal of Moomers Studies, The Saturnine Detractor, and Qua. Connor lives in Flint's East Village, less than a mile from the house where he grew up.

Making Room For Living

The Brazilizan poet and writer, Paulo Coelho once wrote, "Only once we actually commit to taking an action does the universe give us the energy to do it.”

In 2010, I was diagnosed with severe PTSD. This crippling and misunderstood illness affects everyone differently. In my case, the ability to write coherently was greatly diminished. Without warning, words became jumbled as my mind blanked out staring at a computer screen. Mustering all my energy to construct words on the page-brought  incoherent sentences devoid of grammar. My interior voice had relocated to some sunny destination while my body scrambled in chaos trying to prepare for the next storm.

Writing is an extremely uncomfortable act for me, except when I am angry. Anger prompts me, beyond anything else, to overcome fear. This is not a healthy way to live. I have lived in fear most of my life, so that when injustice happens on any level- it burns a fire inside to act. This creates a sense of urgency that moves me beyond paralyzing fear to action very quickly. Unfortunately this causes exhaustion because my body is crashing and burning with intense bursts of energy and requires extended amounts of rest to recover. This was how I lived until PTSD.

For years, I have been trying to build a habitual practice of writing everyday. I will spend hours syncing my calendars both digitally and in hard copy to remind myself to do an hour of writing. Then when the alarms go off to remind me-I have already forgotten. I have chosen to do something else. I have great admiration for my artist friends that are extremely disciplined in their daily practice. I make art in between the lulls of my chaotic existence as a single-mother living under the poverty line.    

In order to heal from PTSD, I have had to sit uncomfortably in fear of relationships, living, and myself. I can no longer afford to crash and burn-my body doesn’t have the strength to endure the consequences. I am forced to move through the discomfort of fear and anxiety to become responsible for my own safety, becoming friends with my fear. I have had to retrain my body memory to form a habitual practice of writing everyday instead of under intense pressure.

I have tried in the past to cultivate daily rituals, but they never stick. Living below the poverty line creates an insecurity of living moment to moment. It’s nearly impossible to prepare, plan, or even dream of a future. I have learned to put my head down and focus on the most immediate fire to put out for the day. Living in poverty is like being on a sinking ship-as soon as one hole is patched another one appears.  

In rare moments of reprieve, my body wants to sleep. It wants to stop my mind from its incessant chatter. The constant nagging voice that tells me that I’m not doing enough, being enough, and I have completely failed as a human being. This shame that I have internalized from being poor keeps me locked in this paralyzing position.         

Over the years, my writing has improved considerably through practice. I have also elicited some help from family and friends who are writers. Having a second pair of eyes to proofread and give me feedback has helped me practice consistency and critically review my narrative.

Writing feels very differently to me than making art, it takes a different type of energy to write than to make art. And sometimes it’s hard for me to switch from my art making brain to my writing brain. My interior being feels a lot like Michigan weather, sunny one day, dark and cold the next. The thought of writing gives me crippling anxiety.

So, writing everyday is more than creating a habitual ritual-it’s an act of restorative justice. Allowing myself the agency to be proactive rather than reactive. If I look at writing as a practice, the fear seems to subside.

In practice, it means that I don’t have be perfect, because I am learning. Learning doesn’t require a grade or a test-it requires attention, presence, and a willingness to be curious. Learning is like eating a delicious meal-taking information, observing its ingredients, digesting the information, and nourishing ourselves through knowledge.  

Today I commit to learning a new practice of writing. In this commitment, I seek to pull a thread of fear and weave it into regenerative action.