FROM THE OBSERVER'S
INTERVIEW WITH GEORGE VENN
The Observer sec. Art Is People 16 March 1978: 36-38
When a La Grande newspaper reporter, Marcella Caine, asked me for an interview for a forthcoming special edition of The Observer (Art is People) tabloid, I'd just finished reading Saul Bellow's “Some Questions and Answers” in Vagabond, a small northwest magazine published in Ellensburg. Because the Bellow interview had seemed important to me, I thought that perhaps some significant statements might come out of a local interview, so I agreed to be questioned, suggesting that Marcella Caine write the questions and I would write the answers. In a few days, the list of questions appeared under my door with the suggestions that I write whatever I wanted and as much as I wanted. In three or four days, I completed five or six pages–single-spaced, and delivered them to The Observer.
When Art Is People appeared on March 16, 1978, I discovered that over half of the interview—all the passages in brackets [below]—had been deleted by Marcella Caine. When I retrieved the gutted manuscript and asked why the deletions had been made, she said that they had to cut “everything that didn't relate to poetry.” Later, I discovered in a women's issue of The Observer that Ms. Caine was a budding poet herself, replete with a pen name (I. R. Ferguson) and high literary ideals. After that blatant censorship, I stopped sending poems to newspapers and stuck to letters to the editor. Once, I broke my own rule and sent down a poem. The paper staff lost the title and invented another one and published the poem with their own title on it. So much for the local press. The following is an exact copy of the complete interview as submitted for publication with all the deleted passages in [ brackets ] restored and the four poems also deleted.
When Art Is People appeared on March 16, 1978, I discovered that over half of the interview—all the passages in brackets [below]—had been deleted by Marcella Caine. When I retrieved the gutted manuscript and asked why the deletions had been made, she said that they had to cut “everything that didn't relate to poetry.” Later, I discovered in a women's issue of The Observer that Ms. Caine was a budding poet herself, replete with a pen name (I. R. Ferguson) and high literary ideals. After that blatant censorship, I stopped sending poems to newspapers and stuck to letters to the editor. Once, I broke my own rule and sent down a poem. The paper staff lost the title and invented another one and published the poem with their own title on it. So much for the local press. The following is an exact copy of the complete interview as submitted for publication with all the deleted passages in [ brackets ] restored and the four poems also deleted.
Question: If someone from our area wanted to begin writing poetry, what would your suggestions be for getting started?
GV: Maybe go down to the drugstore and read all the greeting cards. If our would-be poet found one there that satisfied without any sense of compromise, then I'd suggest buying it and going home and not writing poetry. On the other hand, it that person came away from the greeting card. rack feeling dissatisfied, then it might be time to start writing.
[ Question: Are you suggesting that greeting cards, or light verse in general, isn’t poetry?
GV: I hope not. Light verse is poetry at play. In the Oxford Book of Light Verse, every kind of humorous poetry is present— limerick, doggerel, folk song. Greeting cards would be greatly improved in they published light verse. Think of finding even a simple jump rope rhyme on a greeting card:
Cinderella dressed in yella
went upstairs and kissed a fella;
made a mistake and kissed a snake.
How many doctors did it take?
One, two, three, four, five,
six, seven, eight...etc
I'd say there's more verbal excitement in that simple rhyme than in the majority of greeting cards.
Question: Then why send a would-be poet to the greeting card rack?
GV: A would-be poet needs to know that we live in a time when substitutes for knowing ourselves are very popular. This desire to escape from being human creates immense confusions in most of us. Love is confused with lust, comfort is confused with happiness, solitude is confused with loneliness, money is confused with wealth, knowledge is confused with wisdom, and so on. Greeting cards embody one of the most important confusions that a poet will face. ]
[ Question: How would you describe that?
GV: That our lives can be constructed with mass-produced, canned, government-inspected passions. Someone who intends to be a poet, or any person, for that matter, can't be told how he or she feels by an industry. Poetry does not neutralize or deny or dismiss definite individual feelings. Poetry does not assume that social marketplace values and realities are always the same
as human, personal, and individual values. ]
Question: What do you encourage your students to write about, and what does the beginning poetry student seem inclined to use as subject matter?
GV: Let's see if I can answer those questions simultaneously. Most of us start to write in the shadow of the greeting card rack or in the shadow of some famous ancestor. Thus, our early poems are loaded with literary fossils—dead metaphor, predictable sounds, public sentiments, emotional fakery. To most students, myself included, I say something like this: try to write in your own language about something you've never seen a poem written about before. Don't worry about end rhyme and regular meter. Just learn not to compromise or be compromised by what someone else has decided you should feel or think or say. Life is endless compromise; art is not.
[ Question: So after the beginner finishes the greeting card rack, then what do you suggest?
GV: Two things, maybe three. (This is beginning to sound like a class. I hope I'm not flunking.) A poet needs to learn early that people live by the words they understand and use and love. We die for words; we build our lives on words like progress and success. We lose our jobs over words in the union contract; we get rich with words in the fine print; we are deceived with words in most advertising; we are conceived with words. In short, a poet must understand and believe in the ability of language to create, shape, and order experience. ]
Question: What was the second thing?
GV: That writing is a means of discovery. Most of us start by writing what we already know. We set down our “great ideas” and disguise our little sermons and think we've written poems. After a certain period of time, this habit of writing what we already know leads to laying the same egg over and over; we admire that in chickens, but not in poets. Both the inside and the outside universe need to be rediscovered and recreated in every age. Writing poetry is taking the risk that you don't know what you think and that you're going to find out by writing. It's like heading into an internal wilderness with just a pencil and paper. Usually, you come back with something; usually, you feel lost for a while, as most explorers do. Sometimes; you wonder if something' s wrong when you come back—Rip Van Winkle again.
Question: How does writing locally relate to this process you describe—writing as an act of discovering the unknown?
GV: That's difficult to answer. There are so many different people writing now. Think of all the children in Wallowa County Schools working with the poet Kim Stafford this spring. Betty Cornwell is, no doubt, at work on another book. Local schools encourage a certain amount of writing. I think of Rob Miller, Mel Buffington, Dave Memmott, Rick Mack—they're publishing in magazines outside the area as part of that long apprenticeship which often takes 10 years or more. And there's a new poetry group meeting now in La Grande on Sunday evenings. So I guess it's impossible to generalize about all of those people and their work.
Question: Are there any great discoveries being made by local poets?
GV: I shouldn't judge that; the poets must do that for themselves. I will say that acts of discovery are preserved most easily in children's writing. Kids are willing to take chances with language, play around with words, make big mistakes, love the sounds of names—all important things for any poet to hold to. As we get older, we tend to become self-possessed—to take ourselves very seriously, or to take some set of ideas very seriously. That settlement of the imagination limits discoveries. I know an older poet who writes a great deal, but each poem is basically a self-imitation. No risks with form, no risks with passion, no risks with language—these add up to an end to discovery and the start of contrivance. A farmer can't harvest the same field over and over without major loss in yield. Eventually, he has to reseed—to renew the source—and that's difficult when you're a poet at 50.
[ Question: Assuming that a poet can hold onto that sense of writing as an act of discovery, what are some of the problems a poet in our area might face?
GV: Believing in the value of one's own work. A poet here has to be like one of those old yellow ponderosa with bark thick enough to stand the fires that go through in spring and summer. If a poet here believes that there will be spiritual or community support for art that does not, generally, confirm the status quo, such a poet will be very quickly disappointed. Poets generally don't want to go steady with a community's illusions about itself, since that is finally destructive to the community. Poets enhance our lives, in part, by saying “No” to our favorite self-deceptions, by asking us to see what we have missed.
Question: Could you give an example of what you mean here by poetry not confirming the status quo? This isn't easy to understand.
GV: I'll try. Most of us grow up, as I did, believing that poets are all dead. We grow up singing the hymns of poets who are generally dead. We grow up with a powerful Biblical tradition which is clearly not continuing today. Who's writing a new book of the Bible? Nobody. Most of that language and its use tends to persuade us that, in language, everything is decided.
The books are written, the hymns are written, Stephen Foster is written, Shakespeare is written—there isn't anything more to be said, is there?
In the presence of such a tradition, new language—art—will need to conform to and confirm public social values. Music Man, for instance, lets us go home and feel good; we had a nice time, everybody clapped, the salesman is converted, and love conquers all. How many people go to see such a spectacle? Maybe 3,500 people, maybe more. Compare that with Antigone, a Greek tragedy which portrays the absolute conflict between the individual and the state that leads to the death of the individual. Seeing such a play doesn't allow you to go home feeling perfectly relaxed. You've been challenged to contemplate an absolute human dilemma. How popular is Antigone? Maybe 300-350 people saw it. Even though the theater size might be a factor, the difference in the two art forms is clear. Social orthodoxy prefers not to be challenged; it prefers to be praised or entertained. I'm guessing that most poets would prefer Antigone to Music Man. Most of a community's self-deceptions don’t end with splendor, delight, and 76 trombones. ]
Question: Are there other problems a poet might face living here?
GV: Isolation. For an ambitious person, living here would be a terrific strain. This isn't “where It's at,” whatever that means. I'm sure there are poets who would languish here at the lack of contact with New York or San Francisco. Personally, I prefer isolation. I like two or three ranges of mountains and a healthy desert between me and all the fashionable blather of artistic capitals. New York tends to stink. There are so many poets there with capital P and so many avant garde with nothing to guard. I'd prefer going for a walk up the ridge behind my house; there's a herd of deer there—easy to see most days. Small towns, wildlife, farms, alone, walking, working, planting—I've spent my life that way and I like it. It has all the risks I need and plenty to defend with the Corps of Engineers around, not to mention to homegrown boomers.
Question: There seems to be a definite “back to nature” trend in the arts. Has this influenced the current writing of poetry?
GV: I remember a recent issue of Poetry Texas that included a poem by Vi Gale, a well-known Oregon poet and publisher. Her poem was titled “From Oregon On A Slightly Less Green Leaf,” and these two quotations preceded the poem:
“Sorry. We don’t use nature poetry. Ours is an urban society.” Eastern editor, 1959
“May we see some more of your ecology poems?” Same editor, 1975
I guess that might support the idea that there is currently a greater interest in poems that include the rest of the world. It would be about time, I suppose. But I don't think that poets I admire have ever stopped believing that “nature” was the most immediate source of imagery for any artist. Animals, plants, weather, rivers, lakes, mountains, birds—these are our wealth that helps us make sense out of experience. Without that universe, there'd be very little poetry and less understanding of ourselves. Think of this from Psalm l:
He shall be like a tree
planted by the rivers of water
that bringeth forth his fruit
in his season; his leaf also
shall not wither
and whatsoever he doeth
shall prosper.
Of course, the Psalms are poetry. Here, it is easy to see that the poet has found in the universe an image of wholeness, growth, endurance, strength, fertility. His opposite image follows:
the ungodly are not so
but are like the chaff
which the wind driveth away.
By putting the human together with the non-human, we make it possible to express ourselves. When thing and thing, person and object, go together, life can go on because we have achieved perception. This is what all poets go to “nature” for—the way folk speech says “He eats like a horse.”
[ Question: You've been involved in quite a bit of local dissent. How does that relate to poetry? Does a poet have some social role?
GV: You must be thinking of Catherine Creek, Mt. Emily Co-op, my disagreements with college administrators? Which? It doesn't matter, I guess. They're quite similar.
Question: How is that?
GV: They all tend to be dissent that involves my sense that language is being used to deceive or manipulate people. A poet has a political duty to defend one's language from corruption. When it's corrupted, people lose faith in what they hear and this leads to violence. Auden said it first.
Question: Could you give some example of that?
GV: I'll try. For instance, and this is a common pattern in the Watergate generation, a local advertising slogan says, “Since we're neighbors, let's be friends.” Sounds good, doesn't it?
But the intention of such a slogan is to encourage you to drop your guarded sense of exploitation when you enter a store. The words neighbor and friend are two of the most holy words in our language; they have powerful positive ancient feelings attached to them that all say “relax.” In such a slogan, those words are probably being used to deceive and manipulate people into buying more than they should, more than they can afford, more than they need. Most corporations and institutions frequently use language not to reveal the truth but to conceal it. These become subtle acts of violence that none of us should tolerate. I’m guessing that a lot of people see through such crap, but we’ve always got to be ready for the next little trick. ]
Question: Could you give us a layman's definition of a poem?
GV: I think poets resist an answer to that question because the answer is never abstract, as a definition must be. Gregory Corso said that poetry is fried shoes. Emily Dickinson said that poetry is what takes the top of your head off. Housman said that he could define poetry only by saying that you could tell when a terrier was chasing a cat or a rat but that was all. And so on. If I offered some traditional abstraction suitable for this moment, it would simply be that poetry is something said superbly which somehow helps us live our lives.
A poem is like bunchgrass—half visible, older than all of us. A poem is like a magpie's nest in the hawthorn—you can't get to it easily or take it apart or try to carry it home alive. A poem is like a grave—some mystery put to sleep that never sleeps. A poem is like a song—it takes over the singer and shapes his consciousness long enough to relieve him of himself. A poem is like Jack's burro—always coming through your best fences. A poem is like weather—arguing surprise. And so on. At its best, poetry confirms that our lives are as mysterious as the universe. Art is the energy of that mystery, the energy that keeps us alive—singing, wondering, loving, fighting, and so on.
Question: What qualities do you like in a poem?
GV: Why don't I answer that very concretely with three poems? I can let the poems talk for themselves. These will appear in my new book, Off the Main Road (Prescott St. Press, 1978).
REPRINTED POEMS
“Visitors in March.” Off The Main Road. 1978.
“Deliverance in Halfway.” Off The Main Road. 1978.
“Tame Oats.” The Observer (Art Is People) 16 March 1978: 37.
“Fall Dance.” Off The Main Road. 1978.
GV: Maybe go down to the drugstore and read all the greeting cards. If our would-be poet found one there that satisfied without any sense of compromise, then I'd suggest buying it and going home and not writing poetry. On the other hand, it that person came away from the greeting card. rack feeling dissatisfied, then it might be time to start writing.
[ Question: Are you suggesting that greeting cards, or light verse in general, isn’t poetry?
GV: I hope not. Light verse is poetry at play. In the Oxford Book of Light Verse, every kind of humorous poetry is present— limerick, doggerel, folk song. Greeting cards would be greatly improved in they published light verse. Think of finding even a simple jump rope rhyme on a greeting card:
Cinderella dressed in yella
went upstairs and kissed a fella;
made a mistake and kissed a snake.
How many doctors did it take?
One, two, three, four, five,
six, seven, eight...etc
I'd say there's more verbal excitement in that simple rhyme than in the majority of greeting cards.
Question: Then why send a would-be poet to the greeting card rack?
GV: A would-be poet needs to know that we live in a time when substitutes for knowing ourselves are very popular. This desire to escape from being human creates immense confusions in most of us. Love is confused with lust, comfort is confused with happiness, solitude is confused with loneliness, money is confused with wealth, knowledge is confused with wisdom, and so on. Greeting cards embody one of the most important confusions that a poet will face. ]
[ Question: How would you describe that?
GV: That our lives can be constructed with mass-produced, canned, government-inspected passions. Someone who intends to be a poet, or any person, for that matter, can't be told how he or she feels by an industry. Poetry does not neutralize or deny or dismiss definite individual feelings. Poetry does not assume that social marketplace values and realities are always the same
as human, personal, and individual values. ]
Question: What do you encourage your students to write about, and what does the beginning poetry student seem inclined to use as subject matter?
GV: Let's see if I can answer those questions simultaneously. Most of us start to write in the shadow of the greeting card rack or in the shadow of some famous ancestor. Thus, our early poems are loaded with literary fossils—dead metaphor, predictable sounds, public sentiments, emotional fakery. To most students, myself included, I say something like this: try to write in your own language about something you've never seen a poem written about before. Don't worry about end rhyme and regular meter. Just learn not to compromise or be compromised by what someone else has decided you should feel or think or say. Life is endless compromise; art is not.
[ Question: So after the beginner finishes the greeting card rack, then what do you suggest?
GV: Two things, maybe three. (This is beginning to sound like a class. I hope I'm not flunking.) A poet needs to learn early that people live by the words they understand and use and love. We die for words; we build our lives on words like progress and success. We lose our jobs over words in the union contract; we get rich with words in the fine print; we are deceived with words in most advertising; we are conceived with words. In short, a poet must understand and believe in the ability of language to create, shape, and order experience. ]
Question: What was the second thing?
GV: That writing is a means of discovery. Most of us start by writing what we already know. We set down our “great ideas” and disguise our little sermons and think we've written poems. After a certain period of time, this habit of writing what we already know leads to laying the same egg over and over; we admire that in chickens, but not in poets. Both the inside and the outside universe need to be rediscovered and recreated in every age. Writing poetry is taking the risk that you don't know what you think and that you're going to find out by writing. It's like heading into an internal wilderness with just a pencil and paper. Usually, you come back with something; usually, you feel lost for a while, as most explorers do. Sometimes; you wonder if something' s wrong when you come back—Rip Van Winkle again.
Question: How does writing locally relate to this process you describe—writing as an act of discovering the unknown?
GV: That's difficult to answer. There are so many different people writing now. Think of all the children in Wallowa County Schools working with the poet Kim Stafford this spring. Betty Cornwell is, no doubt, at work on another book. Local schools encourage a certain amount of writing. I think of Rob Miller, Mel Buffington, Dave Memmott, Rick Mack—they're publishing in magazines outside the area as part of that long apprenticeship which often takes 10 years or more. And there's a new poetry group meeting now in La Grande on Sunday evenings. So I guess it's impossible to generalize about all of those people and their work.
Question: Are there any great discoveries being made by local poets?
GV: I shouldn't judge that; the poets must do that for themselves. I will say that acts of discovery are preserved most easily in children's writing. Kids are willing to take chances with language, play around with words, make big mistakes, love the sounds of names—all important things for any poet to hold to. As we get older, we tend to become self-possessed—to take ourselves very seriously, or to take some set of ideas very seriously. That settlement of the imagination limits discoveries. I know an older poet who writes a great deal, but each poem is basically a self-imitation. No risks with form, no risks with passion, no risks with language—these add up to an end to discovery and the start of contrivance. A farmer can't harvest the same field over and over without major loss in yield. Eventually, he has to reseed—to renew the source—and that's difficult when you're a poet at 50.
[ Question: Assuming that a poet can hold onto that sense of writing as an act of discovery, what are some of the problems a poet in our area might face?
GV: Believing in the value of one's own work. A poet here has to be like one of those old yellow ponderosa with bark thick enough to stand the fires that go through in spring and summer. If a poet here believes that there will be spiritual or community support for art that does not, generally, confirm the status quo, such a poet will be very quickly disappointed. Poets generally don't want to go steady with a community's illusions about itself, since that is finally destructive to the community. Poets enhance our lives, in part, by saying “No” to our favorite self-deceptions, by asking us to see what we have missed.
Question: Could you give an example of what you mean here by poetry not confirming the status quo? This isn't easy to understand.
GV: I'll try. Most of us grow up, as I did, believing that poets are all dead. We grow up singing the hymns of poets who are generally dead. We grow up with a powerful Biblical tradition which is clearly not continuing today. Who's writing a new book of the Bible? Nobody. Most of that language and its use tends to persuade us that, in language, everything is decided.
The books are written, the hymns are written, Stephen Foster is written, Shakespeare is written—there isn't anything more to be said, is there?
In the presence of such a tradition, new language—art—will need to conform to and confirm public social values. Music Man, for instance, lets us go home and feel good; we had a nice time, everybody clapped, the salesman is converted, and love conquers all. How many people go to see such a spectacle? Maybe 3,500 people, maybe more. Compare that with Antigone, a Greek tragedy which portrays the absolute conflict between the individual and the state that leads to the death of the individual. Seeing such a play doesn't allow you to go home feeling perfectly relaxed. You've been challenged to contemplate an absolute human dilemma. How popular is Antigone? Maybe 300-350 people saw it. Even though the theater size might be a factor, the difference in the two art forms is clear. Social orthodoxy prefers not to be challenged; it prefers to be praised or entertained. I'm guessing that most poets would prefer Antigone to Music Man. Most of a community's self-deceptions don’t end with splendor, delight, and 76 trombones. ]
Question: Are there other problems a poet might face living here?
GV: Isolation. For an ambitious person, living here would be a terrific strain. This isn't “where It's at,” whatever that means. I'm sure there are poets who would languish here at the lack of contact with New York or San Francisco. Personally, I prefer isolation. I like two or three ranges of mountains and a healthy desert between me and all the fashionable blather of artistic capitals. New York tends to stink. There are so many poets there with capital P and so many avant garde with nothing to guard. I'd prefer going for a walk up the ridge behind my house; there's a herd of deer there—easy to see most days. Small towns, wildlife, farms, alone, walking, working, planting—I've spent my life that way and I like it. It has all the risks I need and plenty to defend with the Corps of Engineers around, not to mention to homegrown boomers.
Question: There seems to be a definite “back to nature” trend in the arts. Has this influenced the current writing of poetry?
GV: I remember a recent issue of Poetry Texas that included a poem by Vi Gale, a well-known Oregon poet and publisher. Her poem was titled “From Oregon On A Slightly Less Green Leaf,” and these two quotations preceded the poem:
“Sorry. We don’t use nature poetry. Ours is an urban society.” Eastern editor, 1959
“May we see some more of your ecology poems?” Same editor, 1975
I guess that might support the idea that there is currently a greater interest in poems that include the rest of the world. It would be about time, I suppose. But I don't think that poets I admire have ever stopped believing that “nature” was the most immediate source of imagery for any artist. Animals, plants, weather, rivers, lakes, mountains, birds—these are our wealth that helps us make sense out of experience. Without that universe, there'd be very little poetry and less understanding of ourselves. Think of this from Psalm l:
He shall be like a tree
planted by the rivers of water
that bringeth forth his fruit
in his season; his leaf also
shall not wither
and whatsoever he doeth
shall prosper.
Of course, the Psalms are poetry. Here, it is easy to see that the poet has found in the universe an image of wholeness, growth, endurance, strength, fertility. His opposite image follows:
the ungodly are not so
but are like the chaff
which the wind driveth away.
By putting the human together with the non-human, we make it possible to express ourselves. When thing and thing, person and object, go together, life can go on because we have achieved perception. This is what all poets go to “nature” for—the way folk speech says “He eats like a horse.”
[ Question: You've been involved in quite a bit of local dissent. How does that relate to poetry? Does a poet have some social role?
GV: You must be thinking of Catherine Creek, Mt. Emily Co-op, my disagreements with college administrators? Which? It doesn't matter, I guess. They're quite similar.
Question: How is that?
GV: They all tend to be dissent that involves my sense that language is being used to deceive or manipulate people. A poet has a political duty to defend one's language from corruption. When it's corrupted, people lose faith in what they hear and this leads to violence. Auden said it first.
Question: Could you give some example of that?
GV: I'll try. For instance, and this is a common pattern in the Watergate generation, a local advertising slogan says, “Since we're neighbors, let's be friends.” Sounds good, doesn't it?
But the intention of such a slogan is to encourage you to drop your guarded sense of exploitation when you enter a store. The words neighbor and friend are two of the most holy words in our language; they have powerful positive ancient feelings attached to them that all say “relax.” In such a slogan, those words are probably being used to deceive and manipulate people into buying more than they should, more than they can afford, more than they need. Most corporations and institutions frequently use language not to reveal the truth but to conceal it. These become subtle acts of violence that none of us should tolerate. I’m guessing that a lot of people see through such crap, but we’ve always got to be ready for the next little trick. ]
Question: Could you give us a layman's definition of a poem?
GV: I think poets resist an answer to that question because the answer is never abstract, as a definition must be. Gregory Corso said that poetry is fried shoes. Emily Dickinson said that poetry is what takes the top of your head off. Housman said that he could define poetry only by saying that you could tell when a terrier was chasing a cat or a rat but that was all. And so on. If I offered some traditional abstraction suitable for this moment, it would simply be that poetry is something said superbly which somehow helps us live our lives.
A poem is like bunchgrass—half visible, older than all of us. A poem is like a magpie's nest in the hawthorn—you can't get to it easily or take it apart or try to carry it home alive. A poem is like a grave—some mystery put to sleep that never sleeps. A poem is like a song—it takes over the singer and shapes his consciousness long enough to relieve him of himself. A poem is like Jack's burro—always coming through your best fences. A poem is like weather—arguing surprise. And so on. At its best, poetry confirms that our lives are as mysterious as the universe. Art is the energy of that mystery, the energy that keeps us alive—singing, wondering, loving, fighting, and so on.
Question: What qualities do you like in a poem?
GV: Why don't I answer that very concretely with three poems? I can let the poems talk for themselves. These will appear in my new book, Off the Main Road (Prescott St. Press, 1978).
REPRINTED POEMS
“Visitors in March.” Off The Main Road. 1978.
“Deliverance in Halfway.” Off The Main Road. 1978.
“Tame Oats.” The Observer (Art Is People) 16 March 1978: 37.
“Fall Dance.” Off The Main Road. 1978.