Michelle Moloney King

5 miles of coloured pencils in mother’s hedgeschool

Michelle Moloney King, {she/her} neo-postmodern poet, asemic poet, & editor of Beir Bua Poetry Journal / Academic background ~ computer science, primary teaching & Hypnotherapy / Work published in Spillwords, streetcake, Artistic Differences Project, Babel Tower, & others / Holds Pushcart Nom  / Visual Artists Ireland member / 
Website ~ www.michellemoloneyking.wordpress.com  

Laura Hinton

is for Rapid City (or, Babysitter’s Husband)

The letter R is created by the artist Toni Simon.

Laura Hinton is a multi-media poet, literary critic, and editor as well as an educator. Her most recent poetry book is Ubermutter’s Death Dance (BlazeVox); she has staged this performance work in poetry venues from Tucson to Maine to New York City, where she lives and teaches. Critical books and edited collections include The Perverse Gaze of Sympathy: Sadomasochistic Sentiments from Clarissa to Rescue 911 (SUNY Press), We Who Love to Be Astonished: Experimental Women’s Writing and Performance Poetics (co-editor) and Jayne Cortez, Adrienne Rich, and the Feminist Superhero: Voice, Vision, Politics and Performance in the U.S. Contemporary Women’s Poetics (editor). She is a Professor at the City College of New York (CCNY of CUNY), where she teaches feminist and literary theory, poetics, film and visual studies, as well as creative writing. She is also the editor of the hybrid-poetics journal Chant de la Sirene (www.chantdelasirenejournal.com), and her website is at laurahinton-singingsirens.com.

Toni Simon is a multimedia artist and writer whose work encompasses the ways in which the future might appear, accessed through trance states. The process of channeled, automatic writing led to her illustrated book of experimental prose poetry Earth After Earth (Lunar Chandelier Press, 2012) and her current manuscript and video animation Telescope Highway. Her drawings have been exhibited at the Drawing Center, Odetta and A.I.R. Gallery in NYC.

Janelle Cordero

Janelle Cordero is an interdisciplinary artist and educator living in the
seventh most hipster city in the U.S. Her writing has been published in
dozens of literary journals, including Harpur Palate and The Louisville
Review, while her paintings have been featured in venues throughout the
Pacific Northwest. Janelle is the author of two books of poetry: Woke to
(V.A. Press, 2019) and Two Cups of Tomatoes (P.W.P. Press, 2015).
Her new book of poetry and artwork, Many Types of Wildflowers, is
forthcoming in December 2020 from V.A. Press. Stay connected with
Janelle’s work at www.janellecordero.com.

Madeline Cash

Sponge Cake

Your mom is birdwatching and you’re thinking about rapists. She points out a woodpecker or something. She use to be a big name in publishing. Now she’s retired. Now she makes sponge cake and points out woodpeckers. The walls are painted eggshell so she’s walking on eggshells as she’s climbing the walls. She has the best landscaper in Connecticut. You wonder if your mom has a rapist. She’d have the best rapist in Connecticut. Her trees are so lush that they’re top- heavy. Their trunks buckle under the weight of their foliage. It’s like their suicidal says your mom. The best landscaper in Connecticut bolsters them with structural reinforcements.

Your mom asks if you slept on the flight here and you tell her you don’t sleep. You try to shower but your mom’s faucet is in French. It says “chaud” and “froid”. It’s too froid. It isn’t froid enough. You think your mom could use a visit to Froid. She asks where your rapist is now and you say he’s in your pocket.

Your rapist is on instagram, hanging out with everyone. Everyone is like, so-and-so invited him. He use to be a big name in raping. Now he’s retired. Now he hangs out with so-and-so and this must have been some fluke thing because he’s a really nice guy if you get to know him everyone tells you. The trees are suicidal and it doesn’t matter what language the shower is in, you never feel clean anyway.

You have trouble breathing at night. Your mom asks where your rapist is now and you say he’s in your lungs. You go for a walk on eggshells. Your mom’s landscaper is the best in Connecticut. He waves you over to see where the trees are buckling. He tells you he got into the country in a shipping crate so small he had to dislocate his shoulder to fit inside. You tell him your rapist is on instagram, hanging out with everyone. He says sometimes life throws a lot at you.

Your mom has a hybrid dog. You scratch its belly and pick up its shit. Once it dislocated your mom’s shoulder by pulling too hard on the leash. She could have fit in a shipping crate, you think. The dog cocks its head at you. It tells you that it use to be a person, a person who threw a quarter in a well during a lightening storm and woke up in the body of a hybrid dog in Connecti- cut. Some fluke thing. You’re like why are you telling me this. He says sometimes life throws a lot at you. You ask what it’s like being a dog and he says it has its days.

Your mom is making sponge cake and you’re thinking about rapists. Yours is a really nice guy if you get to know him. Your mom use to work in Paris. Now it’s only Paris in her shower. Now she’s buckling but bolstered with structural reinforcements. Now she’s blanching the basil and deboning the branzino and she’s mastered the sponge cake which is very moist. Don’t patholo- gize the sponge cake says your mom. Eat up. Life is hard but not as hard as a stale sponge cake. She makes extra for the dog and the landscaper.

Madeline is a writer from Sarah Lawrence College living and working in Los Angeles.


April-July 2020

In late March 2020, A) GLIMPSE) OF) made an open call asking writers, and artists:

What is your NEST during lockdown? If you feel like sharing your thoughts during this time, send along your collaborative poems, your monologues and drawings, your tears, your aargh!, your sleepless nights, your manifestos, your curses, and your sadness.

To my delight, a lot of fascinating responses came in. Poems, sound poems, photo collages, sound and prose pieces, visual and prose poems, conceptual photographs, and drawings depicting worries, memories, longings, and changing habits in those extraordinary times. Works were published gradually.

Many thanks to Clara Burghelea, John Morgan, Daniel Whelan, Caterina Stamou, Anatoly Kudryavitsky, Tracy Gaughan, Zoe Sklepa, Tony Iantosca, Amy McCauley, Smaragda Nitsopoulou, Thomas Osatchoff, Daphne Xanthopoulou, Richard LeDue, Kevin Canfield, Oz Hardwick, Babak Ahteshamipour, L Scully, Catherine Chatzidimitriou, Sara Rosenthal, Hunter Gagnon, Kiriakos Spirou, L Scully, Catherine Chatzidimitriou, Sara Rosenthal, Christina Alexiou, Robert Sheppard, Anthoula Lelekidis, Marie Hervé, Zebulon Huset, Jessica Tyson, Nolan Hutton, Daniel M. Shapiro, Sam Heaps, Linda Kemp, Erika Hodges, Aea Varfis-van Warmelo and Jeremy Allan Hawkins for sharing their works with us.

Hope you are keeping well.
Enjoy the issue!


Jeremy Allan Hawkins

Paper Project Suite for Prospective Trees

Jeremy Allan Hawkins is a French-American writer, educator, and researcher. A former NYC Teaching Fellow, U.S. Fulbright Grantee, and Fellow of the Alabama Prison Arts + Education Program, his work includes poetry, criticism, architectural writing, and arts-based research in spatial design. He is the author of A Clean Edge, selected by Richard Siken as winner of the 2016 BOAAT Chapbook Prize. His poetry has been included in the Best New Poets anthology series, the extended program of the 2018 Venice Biennale of Architecture, and the Rencontre Mondiale de la Poésie, along with literary magazines in the United States and Europe. 

Aea Varfis-van Warmelo

Revelation Apocalypse


see if the dome still holds weight, see if that soil (of little interest now) can carry you, heavysoheavy as you are / θαύμα που θα ήταν να μην είχαμε πνεύμα, you say, you could rest easily without breath, you say, and then, forgive me αλλά θα σας μιλήσω στον πληθυντικό, αφού το σώμα δεν υπάρχει πια spirits as we are, awful as it is that you have wished both away and conjured more, but the soil that soil that cracks underfoot, not ready yet for more — have you thought of waiting longer, do you think, until we are ready — no, a dimple of a test will do, press your toe first and see the resistance, ready for a sole or something more and then /c/r//ck/ it does again — sorry sorry it was not meant to, you saidsaidsediment! — it will heal if we wait long enough —————————————————————— here it’s summer a quarter of a year that lasts a third / here it’s winter a quarter of a year that lasts a month — here o here the vantage point —δεν νομίζεις ότι απ’εδώ μοιάζει με νεκροταφείο? τόσο λευκό. like teeth, yes, dashed tombstones. notice the marble steps, the dent where feet have — ναι. αλλά μην νομίζεις ότι είστε συνδεδεμένοι, bodies have been here before but they are indifferent to us / the dent where the dent has the dent where feet have passed – not bodiesbodies sharing place αλλά απλά αναθυμιάσεις. contrary to popular belief the earth forgets it is dirt that remembers // I am here and / they are not ——— NO — to — hiss sickle more to — harvest of the — here to suffer more of — the sum has never been more more than it is to be here of here to here of here to here — NO — to the heliolatrist who is always looking up — NO — NO ————————————————————- is this a HOWL? is this a HOWL? what do you know to howl about you s/ttu/pid child. when the world ends you’ll be busy feeling sorry for yourself you narcissist you probably think artists will be mourned // the mode of disposal is simply forgetting —- when did you stop using language? Ι stopped when Ι forgot how to. frightened of το μεγάλο βάρος / that game of being understood / το μεγάλο βάρος που αυτό το όργανο σηκώνει. Και όταν ξεχάσεις πως να μιλάς την γλώσσα σου δεν θα το παρατηρήσεις until you begin to speak and find it missing from your mouth — NO — fear without language. How will we warn future historians not to study us? Kill them all! ——————— O — I have seen spring in theory only, time is misbehaving now —— does the face remain in the sand —- does the face — see its own works — I know I do know that utopias are achievable but only if you’re dead —- I have dust ///// in my hand —— ο οδυσσέας ήταν μάλλον άνθρωπος / και έτσι ήταν οι ναυτικοί του, με βουλο-κερωμένα αυτιά / μήπως προτίμησε τη θάλασσα από την Ιθάκη // μήπως προτίμησε το θαλασσόασμα — ναι μάλλον — the borders have softened now and there was lots of hugging lots of kissing and many deaths —— I / I I am bored of the self —— these bodies are only temporarily abled we will be inhibited at some point don’t worry ———————— I have feasted on resentment so long —————————————————————— and now the — hear the — here is — the spe/ech —— O — O —— τη βρήκαμε – βρέθηκε στις αναθυμιάσεις. troy will fall. she said troy will fall, wittering like a bitch // must not rome rise? aeneas flees at the cost of troy, so be it //e//e/////eeee μας είπε η Κασσάνδρα eeeeee///EEE/ee — μεταφραστή! μετάφρασε — she says you are naive to think narrative will survive us


Aea is a Greek-British writer and actor living in London.


Erika Hodges

37 stages


There are actually 37 stages of grief which are as follows:

Braided intestines
Now in your throat
Icy fingernails
Embering heat behind the cheekbones I got from you
All again
Miss you
Miss you can’t be in here Maybe I’ll wake up
Not at all
Fine. Fine. Shrug
Dirty back of teeth
That candle was a wish for you to exist somehow
Never who
Tunnel corners
Ein Sof


This piece is a sound poetry piece written and composed by while in quarantine. I spent the last few months inside my Brooklyn apartment listening to the endless sirens and walked past the hospitals with reappropriated ice cream trucks loading corpses into them from the stretchers on the ER bays. My father died on a ventilator a few years ago and because of extenuating circumstances I was not able to be with him at the time of his death. I listened to him die over the phone. I was also not able to have a funeral for him. My experience with death is now so many others’ experience with death because of COVID. and so this poem that I wrote after my father died is now extended through this sound piece to all the grieving families that are not able to access their grief because of distancing orders. A collective offering of mourning together.


Erika Hodges is a gender expansive poet and performance artist living and breathing in Brooklyn, NY. They are a graduate of Naropa University and an MFA candidate at Pratt Institute where they are the current Leslie Scalapino Fellow. Their work can be found or is forthcoming at Flag + Void, CALYX, The Adirondack Review, The Poetry Project and others. They are a 2020 Can Serrat residency fellow as well as a Brooklyn Poets Fellow. They are also the 2020 Rougarou Poetry Contest winner. Erika is a volunteer at The Poetry Project as well as a poet’s assistant and archivist for elder poets in the community. Their work and life is deeply devoted to queer love, troubling the dystopian values of borders and binaries and the ideas of poetry and lineage as a sort of home.

Linda Kemp


analyses indicate increases in loneliness predicate inconsistencies
through externalising suggestibility the adolescence of developmental
highlights the unpleasant variety of negativity the paucity of
distrust in outcomes particularly recent leading relationships the
adaption of has been & the well documented risk achieved of
increase in the not the number of investigative clauses
hypostasised interpersonal increase the greater the final together these
actual lack in the circumagitate indications of risk rate peak & norm the
focus on poorer phases of intervention the expansive waste of influence
consistent across the middle-childhood the behave exists
longitudinal into not because the lone of during affect & respectively
in these between the base & how the inclusions exclude the found statistically
constituting thoughts endorsed endorphins report attempt
measuring widely used & subscale liminalities the problem
combines in computational reflections the displacement across adolescence
investigative decreases in ratings to change the during thought the hold
& risk of participative indications to sample external the
conduct with demonstrations through binary logistic regressions see
not associations the idea increases the specifically alone with both
middle indirectly demonstrating extremes fizzing out behaviour
modelling the particulate thus in demonstrating
time intent to seriousness conflating risk with delight &
distinction to attempt the however is to adverse the logic to high-
light relationships implications for undergoing finally the find to
negligence in investigative change continually to displace

Linda Kemp‘s publications include Lease Prise Redux (Materials, 2016). Other poems can be found in DATABLEED, Erotoplasty, Front Horse, Splinter, Tentacular, Zarf and elsewhere. They edit Enjoy Your Homes Press.

Sam Heaps

A Father A Son A Market

I tell them. This is the morning I haven’t bought the gun for. They tell me, it is hard for you, but, if you say it again I’m going to have to call the cops or something.

Standing in the shower. Showering two, three times a day. Wishing I knew how to drown. Incompetent even in this want. A painting. Hands over a body in a shower. Baby blue hands. Another painting. A woman reclining, hovering, a crouch and also a rest. Her right breast exposed to the viewer and the paint is thin near the center of the meat so it is like a light comes from inside her. A white figure, bigger, hunching, leaning over, lips extended to kiss the highest arch of the front her neck — which you could slice a wire through. A line of thick black, of empty space, between the man’s lips and the woman’s chin. As though the black touches each of them. As though the space is dense and part of their touching their closeness their want. But, thin enough to taste the space on either side where they are apart. Death. On the far left. Laughing. Death’s hand supporting the slenderest bit of the woman’s back.

And life too, to the right. Headless.

Music to cover the relentless weeping the talking in the mirror for the neighbors. You are here. You are right here. To the mirror. You are here. Touching the body seeing the woman who is you touch the body. You are right here. Cambodian rock from the ‘60s. No don’t think about the torture. The body. The nipples. The lesions. The photos. The bodies. All dead. The stack of the musician’s bodies. The empty spaces in the sounds. The circles of pavement the market. The circles of pavement the market. Aerial view then slipping amongst the pillars running and laughing and you remember the smell of the fish and the heat. Trying to say, in the now, “I am here,” to the streets as you begin to sob by the trash cans. Streets emptied from the virus which remind you of the photos again and then suddenly a man in a mask with a son. I am here. I am here. I am here.

No matter the boy’s age no matter the look of the father. Sweating. Gulping for air that is not wet with you A. Orange robes and hot. And the circles of pavement and the market.

Our last night. When you stand with me in the shower I am so cold and you touch me and you tell me, but no sex I just want to touch and you say, why can’t we just lie together? But I don’t want to get out of the water drinking beneath the hot stream and standing like that I feel the loss of you. The loss at the end of the summer. The sudden black space where before there was.

The thick black line between our faces on the street. The whole world is hot with my want to cross the line to touch.

I will not again use the word love. This is too painful to be love. The way you left me is not love. What you have with them is love. Whatever we had was something else. Maybe just void. What exists before void. When now there is only void. What is before.

And we fight. You tell me, you are impulsive. You lack boundaries and patience. Do you like that she is threatened by you? I beg you not to look below my shoulders.

You ask why I want to punish you. I tell you it is not meant to be torture, but that there are consequences to your leaving.

You tell me to look at how good you have been. You tell me, you have to trust me.

You, touching my breast, and I cannot feel the hand like my skin has turned to callous. So eager to be in the scalding water with me you leave the key in the door. Forgetting.

But we are already dead.

And when I consent and lie with you and touch my hand to your cheek as you cry, as I cry, and you say. Will it help with the pain if I have sex with you? And I say yes when I mean no. But I have been begging for you the whole night, and so you must think you are doing a service. And you fuck my body like it used to be fucked by you. And I am in my body, I suppose I must be. And this too feels like mourning. And I ride you and hold your hands above your head. And you tell me it feels so different. You tell me it does not work for you the way it used to, and I don’t know how to tell you it is because I am not there, that I don’t know how to find a way back into my body after your betrayal. When you are finished you are hungry, not for me but for food. Your body longs for sustenance elsewhere as I have not given it enough.

You leave me like this, lying naked in the bed, and you never return.
And the bed to my left. And the same walls. And the same shower. And I am here every day looking at the gravesite. And I am here every day sleeping in the grave. Too much sun in the windows. Outside endless channels of empty pavement. Grids. But, wavering.

And you leave.

A letter I keep on yellow paper. You sit with me before returning to your child. Why can’t I give you to him willingly when it means you are good? When it is good. I refuse the martyrdom offered me to instead remain a parasite.

The letter is written in all caps on yellow paper. Your wife must know this is how you write, must be so intimate with this writing. A shopping list. A love letter. An apology. A note so you don’t forget. A photo of her sitting on a hotel bed. Young. A shiny sleeveless dress. Brightness between you, the way she looks at the camera. The look mortar.

In the letter you say you can do nothing to help me deal with the pain. But you think of me. You say better, when you mean worse.You leave. And before you leave I am stroking the tears from your cheek.

The skin along your jaw, loose. The tears. And. Your cheek in my hand. Your cheek in my hand. And. You leave.

My own hand to my own cheek. To the mirror. You are here. You are here.

Your neck beneath the cheek. I have spent too little time thinking of the neck that supports the grace.

I am an emerging writer but have published in a few small journals including Entropy, & Of Other Things and Collected. I hold an MFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago where I was the recipient of a New Artist’s Society Full Scholarship and a nominee for the James Raymond Nelson Fellowship. I currently work as a Master Lecturer at the University of the Arts in Philadelphia.

Daniel M. Shapiro

THE NEST ISSUE | Daniel M. Shapiro

Daniel M. Shapiro is a special education teacher who lives in Pittsburgh, PA. His poetry books include How the Potato Chip Was Invented, Heavy Metal Fairy Tales, and the forthcoming (This Is Not) a Mixtape for the End of the World.

Zebulon Huset

On Tables Named Lack

We were drunk and played the floor is lava
                          while the world outside was on fire. You
              came home and made the bold claim that
                                         imaginary friends are for children like cartoons
              or believing in Santa or eating your vegetables.
Just because flat-packed tables aren’t real wood
                          and they don’t use real screws and we got a real
              gash on the shin. You were essential, selling
                                         houses to rich people. 100,000 have died, we said
              but you said you didn’t want to hear it. Old news.
True, we replied like a Greek chorus. It’s up
                          at least another thousand since this afternoon.
              While some locals fight their facemasks,
                                         last night, a guy kidnapped his three year old
              twins and full-on Duke’s of Hazzard-ed his truck
into the Pacific because his estranged wife
                          was getting the police involved. We won
              with rum and fruit juice and you joined the jumping,
                                         crumpling cheap tables and chairs to the molten
              floor like they were the furniture for paper dolls, lava
everywhere, setting fires and shifting the ground.
                          They said the Yosemite super caldera was overdue
              for a huge eruption—wipe out the dinosaurs
                                         huge. But who’s got the decades to wait on that plug.
              We’re not on geological time here—this
is something different entirely.

Jessica Tyson, Nolan Hutton, Zebulon Huset

Quarantine Exquisite Corpse Project* #1

it was impossible to tell if the neighborhood kids were shrieking in terror or joy
         the siren was like a baby down a pitch-black hall
                     sitting on the back of the garden chair in the rain
the Chinese elm tree hissed leaves roiling before
                                                         the exasperation of poverty
and                          is this the peace you seek?
         Only ever                sings for you,         if it ever does.
Discovered in Budapest without shoes
the sound of a small motor and metal grinding and zydeco music down the alley
                     as ants carry more weight than any of us.
Before the calves got ornery, as they say—
         the pericos, as Pete called them, erupted from the branches
                                                         without a ticket or fare—we proceeded
                 filling the sky behind the siren—
                                         truth that bleeds into the space between your breaths
         he believed that wood milled on a full moon was somehow stronger.

  • A series of exquisite corpses completed by poets online, from their various nests.

Zebulon Huset is a teacher, writer and photographer living in San Diego. His writing has recently appeared in Meridian, The Southern Review, Louisville Review, Fence, Rosebud, Atlanta Review and Texas Review among others. He publishes a writing prompt blog Notebooking Daily and is the editor of the journal Coastal Shelf.

Claire Donato

My Ex-Husband’s Doppelgänger

Once a month, I take a walk with my ex-husband’s doppelgänger, a graphic designer with whom I share a checkout shift at my local food cooperative. At the food cooperative, my ex- husband’s doppelgänger and I cooperate with one another. Can you bring this cart back to its vestibule, I ask my ex-husband’s doppelgänger, who pushes the cart away from the register where I check strangers out. During lulls in service, my ex-husband’s doppelgänger stands next to my register, offering me blueberries. It has become routine, this offering of blueberries. I was thinking about your blueberries earlier today, I tell my ex-husband’s doppelgänger, and extract a blueberry from its plastic shell. As I place the blueberry in my mouth, I think about micro-plastics getting caught in fishes’ gills and, in my mind, envision a fish—a carp, tilapia, or mackerel; a haddock, cod, or rainbow trout—washed up on a sandy shoreline. Its colorful likeness, encumbered by the micro-plastics, is captured from above, as if by a camera drone. Its eyes face skyward. How will it find the ocean? Via this question, a foreboding melancholia plagues me. This feeling feels at odds with the blueberry’s bright hue. As the fish limply drapes across the surface of my mind, I cannot perceive whether my melancholia is in response to it, or to its exterior world. Nor do I imagine my ex-husband’s doppelgänger possesses the sort of interior sensitivity that might attune him to this quandary. For the sensitivity I possess is as rare as hen’s teeth: most days, I smell the past or taste the dead and am awash with grief.

On our walks, which span approximately 20 blocks, my ex-husband’s doppelgänger tells me about his family. In it, there is one mother, and one father, although these two archetypes are no longer married to one another. One archetype—the mother—is now married to someone else. My ex-husband’s doppelgänger does not care for the mother’s new partner. Together, we commiserate. What else is there to do, after all, but bitch? I have to go home for Christmas, my ex-husband’s doppelgänger says, and I squeeze his hand with my eyes, because he will not let me touch it. This is because my ex-husband’s doppelgänger is devoted to a life partner who makes demands on his attention, and so too demands his sexual exclusivity. And this demand is fine by me. I no longer want to fuck just anybody. That period of my life is complete. Now I am in a new period, wherein I desire to walk down familiar streets with someone unbeknownst to me, beginning at one point and ending at the next, as if we are attempting to draw a line between the past and a future with our bodies. When I attempt to draw these lines alone, the lines do not exist. Only in the company of a stranger is the passage of time real.

Claire Donato lives in Brooklyn, NY, and is the author of Burial (Tarpaulin Sky Press, 2013), a not-novel novel and The Second Body (Poor Claudia, 2016; Tarpaulin Sky Press, reissue forthcoming), and is currently at work on a number of writing projects, including a novel, a collection of short stories, and a full-length LP of songs. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in publications including The Believer, BOMB, Territory, Poetry Society of America, DIAGRAM, Bennington Review, The Brooklyn Rail, Fanzine, and The Elephants. Currently, she teaches in the MFA/BFA Writing Program at Pratt Institute, where she received the 2020-2021 all-campus Distinguished Teacher Award.

Marie Hervé

Composition pour une longue explication

Il s’agit d’une production de textes et schémas sur un rouleau de papier (15cm X 3.50 m) découpé à la scie, Composition pour une longue explication – un long monologue tentant de donner une réponse à l’angoisse de la page blanche, l’état de vide, de veille, d’immobilité comme possible décision politique.
Scindé en trois actes, le texte développe le monologue absurde d’une femme qui attend, Sieste; puis le Manifeste pour une pratique de la sieste, et finalement une Longue explication sur le fait d’écrire, pour rien.
Le “rouleau”, en phase de traduction vers l’anglais et l’italien, se déploie sous la forme de séquences d’images, de pièces sonore, de vidéos.

Marie Hervé Retranscription Virtuelle Composition pour une Longue Explication

À la suite d’études en hypokhâgne-khâgne, Marie Hervé intègre l’École Nationale Supérieure de la Photographie d’Arles, où elle poursuit actuellement son cursus. Elle y développe un travail d’auto-publication et de mise en espace de photographies, textes et images en mouvement où sont interrogés les usages contemporains de l’image photographique comme fantôme, ruine personnelle ou mémoire commune dégradée; depuis l’archive familiale et l’espace du musée jusqu’à l’image de téléphone portable. Dans le même temps, elle développe des projets personnels et collectifs sur le territoire méditerrannéen, notamment lors de Roundtable #3 pour Lucy Art Residency, Kavala, Grèce ou encore Transformer Project pour Blitz, Malte, ainsi qu’en collaboration avec l’Arthotèque de Vitré. Elle a exposé en France durant les Rencontres de la Photographie d’Arles, à Égine, Grèce ou encore à Lyon.

After a two-year intensive preparatory course for French Grandes Écoles in Arts, Literature and Langages, Marie Hervé entered the École Nationale Supérieure de la Photographie d’Arles, where she is pursuing her studies. Through spacial installations and self-publications, her work interrogates contemporary uses of the image as a phantom, a personal ruin or a damaged memory; from family archives and museum conservation to cellphones images. She is currently developing personal and collective projects within the mediterranean area, during Roundtable #3 – Lucy Art Residency, Kavala, Greece or Transformer Project at Blitz, Malta, as well as in collaboration with the Vitré art space, France. She exhibited her work in Arles during Les Rencontres Internationales de la Photographie, as well as in Aegina, Greece and Lyon, France.