Author: Hanna Hall

Negative Space

//Negative Space// Negative space means giving emptiness weight, making material objects disappear. Negative space means letting shapes rule. You could be subtracting or adding or molding the shadows. It is like hearing what isn’t said in a conversation. Suddenly the silence becomes all the more important.  (Turn the world inside out, and perhaps you can feel the fraying stitches and seams like the inside of a sweater.)

Dawn&Dusk

Above is “Self-Portrait” in charcoal by the lovely Kathleen Gao, who has agreed to let me publish this work here. ________________________________________________________________ Dawn Dawn’s red Eye cracks open and blinks back light. Gulls shriek. I spit grits of sand in the pale morning. Another sunrise, bleak & wriggling like my son in the backseat. I smell feathers. And today the sky seems to watch my every move. But I was wrong, the Eye is grey. It reaches its pall around the city and smothers it. Grime coats the buildings, and they stand like sandcastles before on-coming foam. An old man shivers and flaps his arms and sad rags like wings. I thought I didn’t want to be young, but I was wrong. My heart is an empty red sand pail, rolling around on concrete. _________________________________________________________________ Dusk _________________________________________________________________ I’ve been attempting to try new things with poetry lately. Like trying the technique of having certain words or images repeated in a poem, like “red” or the idea of flying in the first poem, kind of like a …

Jelly Bean Memories

A few weeks ago, I was going through old photos at my grandma’s house. Each drawer I opened seemed to be hiding sheafs of memories, like a flock of paper cranes ready to take flight. Even in the middle of boring suburban New Jersey, I could find fifty years plus worth of history and stories and emotions. It makes me wonder where else old histories might be hiding. What other memories lie forgotten in the drawers of our minds? _________________________________________________________________ home           summer is the taste of watermelons. i grew up in the warm sepia glow of lamplight at night, the vague sound of distant fire trucks that somehow tell me everything is alright. the air conditioning is too cold, the fan’s face rotates its gaze around the room, protecting me, reminding me that i am where i belong. outside, the cicadas join a sound that is already in my head. (i translate every touch from japanese, i try my best). summer means long, hot nights where i lie flopped on …

How to be a half-Japanese girl in America

the dust on old photographs i have of japan ask me, do you remember? or conversely have you forgotten? because somehow those seem to be two different questions. somewhere in japan a flower is blooming, pink petals reaching out to the morning, half-flower, half-bud. somewhere in america it is night-time and the grass is sighing under silent sprinklers. somewhere in between is a girl waiting to remember, or perhaps, to forget. Explanation for Diarist Series: As one of the first Tunnel diarists, I’ll admit I don’t really know what I’m doing. But, I have at least a hazy idea of what I might attempt to try to maybe do. In this diarist series, I’m going to use different art forms to explore how the geography of our lives affects who we are. I’ve lived in some different places (England, Japan, America) and I want to explore themes of multiculturalism, differing perspectives, the effect of nature on life. What is art, beauty, home, friendship? Our ideas of these things, although they seem like such reasonable, wholesome, turkey-sandwich truths, are …