When we confront a great work of art, a great work of the spirit, we feel something, but how difficult, how impossible it is to say what it is.” —American poet Mark Doty, in his analysis of Rilke’s poem “Archaic Torso of Apollo.” It’s a short, intense poem with a gut punch of a closing line: “…for here there is no place that does not see you. You must change your life.” I love Rilke yet admit I have not read his words of late. It was one of ANE’s newest writers and esteemed sommelier, Paige Farrell, who brought the poem to me in a piece she’s working on for the March/April issue. I had to quote it here. Those lines—and Doty’s insight into our speechlessness when confronted with or by something powerful—is what I’m devoting Art New England to this year. I want to take you on a journey, each issue, to a place that leaves you enlightened and far more curious than you were before.

The symbolism of a “new year” fascinates me. What’s different from 11:59 p.m. on December 31st to 12:01 a.m. on January 1st? Technically nothing. And yet many of us apply our wishes and best intentions to that one second of time, that symbol of change and promise. And the confidence that a mystical, renewed source of strength will emerge within us to explore, conquer or change whatever we want in the chronological new year. Resolutions are fun, lists are invaluable. They focus us on how to, what to, when to do something. Change something.

Art New England is embracing a few changes itself. While my voice has influenced many a Publisher’s Letter over the years, this is the first time my name has appeared on this page and I am very proud. We’re also working on a design refresh of the magazine, welcoming new voices, delving deeper into literary arts, continuing our series on ANE writers who are artists themselves, and planning several events, the first of which will happen this winter at AVA Gallery in celebration of its 50th anniversary and the opening of John Stomberg’s From the Heart exhibition. Details to follow.

And while there is no formal theme for the January/February issue, we always highlight residencies and explore new directions in “Deconstructing Residencies,” a composite feature by Osman Can Yerebakan, Hilary Irons, and April Claggett. Kelly Holt and Craig Stockwell expand the conversation in their pieces as well.

We open the issue with a poem, a blessing from María Luisa Arroyo Cruzado, and you’ll find poetry references throughout, most unplanned. Terri Smith takes us deep into the MATRIX at the Wadsworth Atheneum; Carl Little and Jack Curtis offer two stellar book reviews; and Dian Parker demystifies sensuous Venetian Red in her Color Essay.

I consider myself a perennial student and am about to apply to Holy Cross after reading Chris Volpe’s column so I can spend my days in The Beehive, the college’s extraordinary new performance center. See you on campus! We also celebrate the renovated Huntington Theatre in Boston; ANE writer B. Amore in a Studio Visit by Abbi Kenny; artist and arts super woman Janie Cohen written by Cynthia Close; the stunning ink on paper exhibition of Park Dae Sung at the Hood; and our cover artist Nan Goldin whose film All the Beauty and the Bloodshed is reviewed by Loren King and commands our cover. Goldin’s story is a living, breathing gut punch and you need to know it.

I find myself going back to conversations with Paige as she and I discuss her series on wine and the arts, and the analogy she poses. “I consider wine and art a portal to my love of the poetics of language, and as such, a gateway to communicate the essence of wine. In its truth, wine is about the call to our senses. For me, the relationship between wine and other arts—painting, sculpture, photography, writing, music—lies within the echo of the pause. When we look to wine as a portal to a resonance deeper than what we smell and taste, see, and feel, when we listen to the dialogue wine is hoping to have with us, we see the effect of wine’s disposition, and its ability to transport us to its beauty, and its articulation.”

What I hope for this year is to, with each issue, transport you in some way to beauty. To expand our dialogue with art. To cause you to gasp by a new thought, a new artist, a film, a piece of music, or, perhaps, a poem, that freezes you and releases you in the same moment. “…for here there is no place that does not see you.” So much so that you are changed. It is how I feel as a student of this magazine, of my writers, and of all who make the art we write about.

Here’s to a great year.

With gratitude,

Rita A. Fucillo
Publisher

2023

Will be
about my walking into the waters
of Dindga McCannon’s Yemayá quilt
backwards como dice Mami
to feel weightless the stones
of 2022 toppling into the depths
to feel despojada santiguada purificada
as Yemayá holds her scepter of cowrie shells
pearls woven into her floating cottonwool hair
her resolute mahogany profile
looking forward perpetuamente
the memories of ancestors
slipping into hues of blue strips
women’s faces dyed into indigo
bordered by buttons sewn
onto this quilt that lives in my home
that contains and protects me
as I emerge into 2023
grateful
to be healed enough
by this work of art
by a living artist
to write

Let 2023 be
about us emerging
to visit studios & galleries
to become mesmerized
by living artists
who channel & shape
what makes them & us
feel human

Let us continue
to seek & ask & buy
works of art to bring
into the sanctity
of our homes
to remind us
of how artists
in studios & galleries
create
hope
heal

—María Luisa Arroyo Cruzado