Still Point Arts Quarterly - Summer 2016
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Summer 2016 issue Digital Access. 
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In this issue
The summer 2016 issue of Still Point Arts Quarterly features art and photography by Danila Rumold (Form and Formlessness), Debra Small (The Rim Fire Aftermath), Jane Soodalter (I Am the Lorax), and Carolyn WarmSun (Spirit of Nature, Nature of Spirit); fiction and non-fiction by Carol Harada (Starlings), Tim Keane (Drawn Into It), Michael Onofrey (Graphite on Paper), Nancy Schrock (Meeting Henry), Leah Van Vaerenewyck (Writing Again), and Christopher Woods (Comings, Goings); and poetry by Marita Garin (Landscape). Regular columnists are Peter Azrak (God-in-Love), Vincent Louis Carrella (Portal), and Leslie Ihde (You Are the Mountains). This issue also features images from Still Point Art Gallery's exhibition Still Point VIII.
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The Old Barn
The photograph above, by Jeffrey Stoner, is part of Still Point Art Gallery’s current exhibition, Solitude (see more images from this show on the previous pages).
Standing In The Stream
I had also become enamored with the beauty of a man — it was always a man — standing in a rushing stream about mid-thigh, sunlight winking off the whitewater, casting nearly in slow-motion, over and over again, the long thin line whipping back and forth, catching the light, before barely alighting atop the water.
Sea Foam And Clyde
Behind the house he hears the rustling of grasses that shine when the wind blows. The blades lift and turn and catch the sun and glitter like tinsel. He stands and sees the house. If you squint maybe it does look like sea foam.
The Restaurant De La Sirène At Asnières
The Restaurant de la Sirène at Asnières is crumbling; you can see it clearly when you stand up close, the bricks are split with age, the boards are warped with weather like the damaged spine of an old man. The building is a decaying, moldy monument to the men who look upon it.
The Art Of Solitude
Solitude isn’t loneliness; it’s different. With solitude, you belong to yourself. With loneliness, you belong to no one.
Wendy's Room
If sleep, a noise could reach in. Drag you out. Not sleep. No noise. No silence even. All walls sealed. Unconsciousness — the word she couldn’t think of twelve years ago. Except here she was. The mind watching itself. And wasn’t that the definition of consciousness? An ultramarine impasto. As if she knew brushstrokes. Odd, because in this life, Wendy Kochman had been an amateur violist. A failed academic and a mother. Never a painter.
On Throwing Things Away
I will work until my mind finds peace, even if that means I will work for a very long time.