"S, has an installation up in the library - saucepan on the floor with a chamois and gravel inside like some pioneer cookfire extinguished in a hurry; yard-sale squirrel-pelt quilt, very Pam Valfer stuck in a snowstorm; bit of precious junk here and there, print of a pink damask rose, cheesy red tea roses with blackout poetry on top. I want to ask her about it, ask her what she's up to, but she always looks half-asleep, hair hazily mussed, lazy cat smile. She's dreaming on her feet these days. She hears everything I say, but translates it all into her own language, stills the imperative of the teacher's words and plucks what she wants out of the air. " -Lightsey Darst
