The Writer
Bunny Byrne

It's all I can do to make it to the next party...

The Southern Collector’s Project

Posted By on March 22, 2013 in Blog, Writing | 0 comments

Thomasville Center for the Arts contacted me to be a part of their Southern Collector’s Project, and I jumped at the chance! There are two teams – a writer/photographer team + a writer/painter team {mine!} – and 30 collectors. The collectors are from in and around Thomasville and they collect everything from foo dogs to neckties. Yep, it’s gonna to be good!

The painter I’m working with is Kati Yates from Tally. Her work is detailed and almost grotesque at times {I lurve!}, so an interesting choice for portraiture. I’m all about getting a little grotesque, and our work compliments each other. For some reason, I find her work very funny, in the very best sense of the word, and it makes me laugh. I love how she’s captured all of these people that I know and adore.

The opening will be Sunday, April 21st, from 2-5 at the Center and will feature her large paintings and my words. Many of the subjects were already friends or acquaintances, and I really wanted to communicate the love I have for them into words that would make other people love them, too. I’ve heard from 2 pre-readers that they got a little teary reading the micro-bios, and that is the ultimate compliment! So gratifying. It gives me hope that in being able to accurately translate the essence of these real people into words, that I can somehow manage the opposite in my novel – to fabricate real people from an origin of words.

Here are two of the pieces that have already been shared with their subjects.


The snake bites the frog that eats the moth. And here you are, near the tail end of a line of seven generations. You belong there now, to this tree with many arms – wide, sweeping, welcoming. Your children were born in its branches and they don’t shy from critters in the yard. Your treasures aren’t beautiful like other glazed pottery, they’re more handsome, their intricacy inspiring. Your love for them seems contradictory to the soft polish you publish for the world. You’re a key and a fine point pen; keeping the door open to tradition, making your own marks. You’re the beauty of a once-burned wood; postcard perfect with living layers beneath every scale of bark.

The word Home resonates like a plucked string or a bee buzzing back to the hive. Home is where your hearts are, where each one beats in time, thumping a symphony so different from your old life. Home was a flock of letters for a while – NYC and LA. It became the place you left and by God you weren’t ever going back. Not never. Until a man came in the evening singing an old song well known… and you did. Soon it made sense and jagged edges fit and you designed a place for all the pieces of your heart you’d collected along the way.

Leave a Reply