Peg Bruhn and Joanne Lozar Glenn

Peg Bruhn
Golden Heart
Acrylic on stretched canvas, 28″ x 26″
Created using Joanne Lozar Glenn’s poem (below) as inspiration

Indian Summer
By Joanne Lozar Glenn

When you say you love me,

say it on a Wednesday morning,

after your fruit and cereal,

after you have met your first appointment.

Let the thought come to you unbidden,

not prompted by deliberate recall:

the weight of my arm draped over your chest

the candle flame licking our shadows on the wall.

Remember us when you are tapping your pencil

in the conference room: me, holding your face in my hands,

you, wrapping the blanket tenderly around my shoulders.

Let the images float up

Let them clutch your navel and pull it tight against your spine.

Exhale. You are safe. No one is watching.

Let tenderness leak into your eyes

and if the secretary glances your way

let her think you are making a pass.

Motion to adjourn. Walk to your office. Whistle.

Keep your door open. Dial my number.

Say the words. I will tend them like flowers.


Peg Bruhn
Acrylic on canvas, with attached canvas squares, 30″ x 30″.
Inspiration piece provided to Joanne Lozar Glenn

16 Ways of Coloring a Life
By Joanne Lozar Glenn

You are no stranger to the veil. You received it the day you became a woman. They said it would protect you. You believed them. You learned all the things the veil can do, especially how it keeps truth from spilling into the world, erasing your words as surely as if they’d never been spoken, never even been conceived.

You walk away, a blue ghost, sunshine lightly tapping at your shoulders.

Oh, the masks we wear to “tell it slant,” you think. You hover, not quite knowing whether to stay or leave.

Sometimes telling our truth is like trying to sail a ship in a desert. We are stopped cold by its sheer impossibility.

Sometimes, like a mirage, the desert fades away. The stone in our throat dissolves, the ghost and the sunshine trade places, and we alight, a momentary respite.

Once, wind blew the veil from your face. Slowly, like an image emerging in a darkroom, you came into focus. You even birthed a daughter. Yesterday she wandered away from where you were tending children at the playground. She could not find you. Every few steps she stopped, hiccupped your name, put her fingers to her lips, opened her mouth in a cry of protest. Our eyes locked. She stopped crying, kept walking. I could only imagine she was carrying your strength forward into the world.

You effervesce. Your secret self delights in this daughter’s pluckiness. She is your second chance at life.

She is the mother of the woman as surely as the child is the father of the man—all the passion you silenced, the creativity you sublimated into the making of this one precious gift.

9, 10
She is a seeker, and even in the purple chill of loss, she will resurrect seeds of hope.

Once, the veil became so diaphanous, you forgot it was there. She was going through a divorce. Wisdom struggled with instinct, with the desire to protect this treasure you’d brought into the world. She asked, why didn’t I hear from you? why did no one call when I was so alone? You didn’t know what to say, what to do, you told her. She was always so independent, you said. This time, instead of walking away, you moved toward her, enfolded her into your arms, your bodies leaning into one another like the apex of a triangle. You wished you’d said forgive me. She did anyway.

Was it choice or calling, this life’s work? Cobalt ice carved by a novice sculptor. The Davinia waiting to be released.

A constant chiseling away of ego, so that light can shine in places only hitherto imagined. Wisdom rises clean and new, and you realize the veil, too, is just an imagination.

One day, when only your memory lingers, she will smooth your likeness into clay and call it “Silent Longing.” She will—must— imagine conversations with you she’s never had. Your daughter, having forgiven you, may forgive herself. Her own visage has not yet gelled. Two palettes beckon.

The warm siennas of what you modeled, how you loved her.

The cool greens for growth and healing, what she takes as her own and evolves.

Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.



  1. good marriage of the two pieces…joanne’s theme of the reality of the masks we wear to peg’s imagery that forces us to create facial features for her subjects.

  2. This work is fantastic. Kudos to both of you!

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