Silver Eye Center for Photography

Point of View Writing Workshops

The Point of View Writing Workshops are a collaboration between Silver Eye and Sherrie Flick, artistic director of the Gist Street Readings series (www.giststreet.org). These writing workshops introduce a new way of looking at and responding to photography. Through a series of generative writing exercises, participants construct short stories related to the gallery’s current photography exhibition. In this way, Silver Eye hopes to foster a dialogue between Pittsburgh’s writing community and its gallery space with this two-year audience participation project. This project was funded through the Arts Experience Initiative of The Heinz Endowments. Click here to learn about upcoming program dates.

Click here to read an article about Point of View from the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review

The following is a selection from the previous exhibitions that have been used as source material for an extension of the Point of View workshops. Silver Eye has commissioned five Pittsburgh writers to respond creatively to upcoming exhibitions. Sherrie Flick is curating these poets and prose writers, whose work will be posted on this web site and who will participate in one of two upcoming public readings. The exhibition is used as a jumping off point. Sometimes the work is directly related to the image in the photograph, to its details. Other times, it’s the mood or the tone that helps writers connect to the image.

Process report from the author:

"In any given gallery, certain objects/images

will speak to you more than others. Nearly allof Shen Wei’s Almost Naked portraits

whispered something to me. I just tried to

honor their vulnerability, while at the same

time retaining some unspokens."

–Marc Nieson

Full Piece

"I also tried to let the written words occupy a similar 8X10-ish imprint on the page. My hope was to create a diptych of sorts — the words serving the image but the image, of course, not needing the words."

–Marc Nieson

Full Piece

“I was struck by how I knew this was Texas before I’d even looked at the photo’s title. Something about the slab of pure blue sky, the blue jeans, the absolute confidence in the men’s bodies. For all its bravado, the image seems intimate to me. Eventually I found myself writing a poem that seeks a similar kind of openness and simplicity.”

– Lois Williams

Full Poem

The Pomegranate

So, what should I say?

One day even this will embarrass you, no

doubt. My dress, thick as drawing room

curtains yet just as revealing, your school

uniform with its creases of confusion. All like

some tapestry. Some tableau.

Perhaps Hamlet said it best — words, words,

words. Sumptuous, forbidden, divulge,

indulge. I’ll spare you the seasons of details.

Mostly, it’s not what you think. Let alone what

you’d ask. Of your father, you already know. At

least what’s felt necessary. Perhaps I’ve been

wrong to say so little. Certainly it’s ripe for that

talk too, but not today. All in due moments, I

promise.

The world is often halved. Our eyes typically

reveal less than our gestures. It’s all a pose. A

drama. Take note of the frame.

What else? Yes, take a big bite.There are many

seeds.

Marc Nieson is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and NYU Film School.

Currently he serves on the faculty of Chatham University in Pittsburgh, and is working

on a new novel, Houdini’s Heirs.

Room Service

That’s all I really wanted. Someplace warm for

the night. A room with a number, and tiny

mints on each pillow. Bible in the drawer.

Doesn’t seem so much to ask for, at least

tonight. Or that shoe store up the block with

the $10 sale. They’ll open at noon.

Outside it’s raining, not that you can tell. High

school was so easy, eight periods a day. Now

I’m between beds with this ocean in my head.

Still feeling kind of queasy. Footsteps next

door. They make it all sound so simple.

Directions you can follow written on the wall.

Do not disturb. Leave the towels on the floor.

In case of emergency, head for the stairs.

And in the morning it’s the maids who’ll come

knocking. They’ll clean up your mess, then roll

down the hall. I won’t speak their language,

won’t know from where they came. Maybe

they’ve got infants at home, maybe not. Maybe

I won’t go to hell.

Marc Nieson is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and NYU Film School.

Currently he serves on the faculty of Chatham University in Pittsburgh, and is

working on a new novel, Houdini’s Heirs.

Good Weather

Last night as I lay down with you

I took off my bracelets and locket,

my earrings and wedding ring.

I wanted nothing to rest on me.

Not even the thought of my happiness.

I wanted only the habit of our bed,

and beyond us the larger bed of this earth.

Were it summer, I would have walked

out to the garden and stood among

the plantings of aubergine and corn,

touched the tomato leaves whose scent

is giddying. I might have swayed

against the white hulk of the barn

and watched the landing lights of planes

dip into Pittsburgh. Instead, I let the covers

cover me, accepting the familiar weight

of your arm over my ribs. I felt you fall

into that place I still think of as a meadow,

and waited to follow you. Above us

the late flights from the Lake states kept coming home

in the good weather the satellites predicted

would spring them from the snow.

Lois Williams is a writer and teaches at the University of Pittsburgh.