Notes on the Virtual Exhibition

Madelon Powers Gallery East Stroudsburg University

The Living With Worlds As They End folio project began as an experiment in co-creation, a conversation across creative disciplines, location and time—between artists and writers as they explore the loss and challenges, glimmers of hope, and moments of poignancy and beauty that we find as we reckon with the impact of global warming.  We could have not known then that the conceit of this project would find new meaning during the COVID-19 pandemic and that the culminating residency and exhibition would by necessity become a digital experience. It is our great hope that in time the folios, artwork, and writing below will be exhibited in a physical space where it can find its fullest expression aside a proximate audience experiencing the material presence of each piece. 

Worlds end slowly, then all at once.


When we began working together on this exhibition, we were focused on one slow-moving catastrophe: sea-level rise and the concomitant threat of climate change. As an interdisciplinary group of artists, scholars, and writers, we wanted to explore what it means to live in a world that is ending around us, with our full knowledge. We understood climate change to be a meta-catastrophe: a collection of devastations that affected different people at different rates and in different places, but all stemming off the same branch.

Yvonne Love brought us together to work in conversation, making the process of our artistic dialogue both the method and one of the goals of our project. We began by circulating five bundles of folio pages via the mail in a predetermined sequence. Each member filled a single page in any way they chose, then sent the bundle along for a response from the next artist. In the process we created folios that are as much a form (and record) of multimodal communication as they are finished artistic creations in themselves. These folios became the basis for further works, as we reflected on the process, our relationships with each other, and our living with the world during these years. These final works, as well as selected folio pages, make up the content of Living with Worlds (As They End).




The natural world does not exist independent of us as actors and organisms, of our choices and ethics, our stewardship or negligence. Worlds are necessarily melanges, of plants and animals and fungi and weather systems and tectonic plates and people, and they are created by their definitions: their borders, their values, their members, and how they care (or don’t) for one another. Love’s work as a sculptor and multimedia artist focuses on this care. Her repeated imagery of birds—of flight and feathers, of flocking and migration—led us with an ethos of consideration, like a pair of wings stretched out to both guide and to embrace. When she picked up the red thread from several folio pages and made it the central material of her installation pieces, the theme of our animal bodies—and how our bodies’ needs tie us together—became central.

Gabriele Russomagno’s photographs and composites, which combine historical photographs with her own renderings, imagine a possible future that is inflected with the loss and the memories of the past and the present. Her instinct for capturing and transforming intimate moments is mirrored in Darlene Farris-LaBar’s multimedia work, which examines and plays with nature at scale; Farris-LaBar magnifies and minimizes plants, gardens, and her own human body, disambiguating layers so they can be viewed individually, or as a differently imagined collective than the one we think we know.

Britt Dahlberg, an anthropologist, responded to the group’s questions with more questions, gathering together bits of photography, oral histories, and her own journals and field notes, finding meaning in juxtaposition and curiosity rather than in firm answers. In turn, writer and historian Deanna Day elaborated on individual folio pages with a series of short stories, discovering in fictional worlds a way to find the truth of this one. Finally, poet Nancy Campbell was a guiding voice throughout, mixing sketches and prose to create an alchemical mix in which we all can scry for insight. 

Our work on this exhibition concluded in 2020, during a time when such insight seemed impossible and impotent. Our long-simmering concern about climate change was meeting the acute flares of anger, panic, and grief that came with the COVID-19 pandemic, the righteous protests that followed multiple high-profile murders of Black Americans by police, and the potential reelection of an American president who has made his singular mission the degradation of human (and all other) life on our planet. Climate change, our long-time subject, did not create these crises; they, like it, were born from the twinned seeds of imperialist greed and white supremacy. In this case climate change is not a source of catastrophe, but an accelerant.

Nancy’s culminating poem focuses on one of these immediacies: our current pandemic. Her poem’s intimacy calls on us to examine how, in our aging western worlds, we have adapted to the pandemic with the same strategy we have been using to adapt to climate change: by loading the burden of change and consequence onto the least powerful among us. Life has changed aggressively for some—for essential workers, for people of color, for the elderly and disabled—who are forced to accept deadly risks so that “the world” can survive. But what world is saved by this action? And for whom?




With apologies to Orwell for the paraphrase: worlds end slowly, then all at once. But sometimes, they don’t end at all. We have been facing the end of our world with fear, anxiety, and dread. But is it possible that the scarier, more worrying fate is that we may have to continue living in this one?

As we attend to what it means to live in a world as it ends, we also must face the truth of that world: that the problems with the power to end it are the problems that were baked into it from the beginning, the problems that are in fact constitutive of it. And if we see the world as it is—with its commitments to structural and environmental racism, to violence that we naturalize as inevitable—how does that change our commitment to saving it?

Many of us will survive the end of this world, and many of us will not. In order to live through this ending we will need to define our worlds—our communities and our borders, who we will care for, what we will value—so that we may bring them with us. The most important way to live through the end of the world may be to ask, what do we want to build for the next one?

Deanna Day

Los Angeles, December 2020

Nancy Campbell

Lockdown: 51.7326° N, 1.2272° W



In those first days, when death was still unusual, we became obsessed with rolls of toilet paper sold in multiples of twelve and twenty-four. We did not go to supermarkets, but everyone could see the news: the shelves empty, where a few people had bought up everything in store.


Surely there were other things that should have concerned us more.


Cherry trees blossomed and the avenues grew greener. Children painted rainbows in windows facing the street. It did not rain.


On Thursday evenings we heard the sound of applause drift over the suburbs; sometimes the beating of a saucepan, a car horn; a scattered clapping in praise of an unseen, underpaid performance.


Strangers began to edge away from one another. We acted like people on the verge of becoming lovers, afraid a touch might give away desire. We began to walk in zigzags, switching from pavement to opposite pavement.

The act of crossing the road to avoid someone was a courtesy now, rather than an affront.


We were ordered not to touch our faces. We began to mask the holes in our faces. There were debates about the kind of masks we should wear.


We covered our noses and mouths with little strips of cloth or cut-up socks because there were not enough masks to go around.


There were not enough scrubs or ventilators or hospital beds to go around.


People stayed home, shielding and spoke of flattening the curve. The curve was death. The figures that made up the curve confused us. Did they include the elderly in care? Should we subtract the people who might have died regardless?


And what of those who died alone at home, whose bodies had not yet been found?


I began to see a therapist. I woke myself in the night to write down my dreams.


I dreamed the world had been taken over by a pandemic.


The fact of living through a pandemic seemed so impossible that I disbelieved the dream even as I dreamed it, and when I woke it was the only aspect of the dream true to reality.


Reality became virtual and moved online to smaller and smaller screens, and work became streams and threads and scrolls from which people could never go home –


People were already at home. And they stayed at home, unless they were in hospital – and there were more people in the hospitals than the hospitals could hold.


In the capital a new hospital was established in a former convention centre. It was called Nightingale – not after the bird. Global infections reached five million.


The ambulance sirens sounded more frequent but further away. The ice cream van twinkled round its flat lure at four o’clock each day.


The crisis seemed immediate – then interminable. We began to talk of things not ever going back to normal. After ten weeks we quarrelled about the Thursday evening applause.


The government worked to evacuate people from abroad and return them to their homes. My passport drifted to the back of the drawer.


I made fewer trips to the post office.


Attention skittered. Our minds leapt from thought to thought. On television we watched twelve drag queens compete for prizes; one by one, they left the stage.


Queues grew longer as people distanced in order that infection could not pass between them. No one pushed in as they might have done before. Security guards were hired to make sure people obeyed the rules.


I planted lettuce seeds, placing each seed gently in a shallow trench a few millimetres away from the next. Two weeks later, tiny leaves sprouted from the soil.


Our government eased restrictions. The horseracing season started, and children returned to school on a date when they should have been breaking up.


One afternoon I heard the sound of chopping from next door: Top Wok had reopened. I ordered spicy aubergine as usual. Take-aways were classed as essential businesses. Many restaurants reopened as take-aways. The virus continued to spread.


It was the hottest spring on record, again. People held street parties in their cul-de-sacs and set up distanced deckchairs in the road. It felt as if we were experiencing the very slow explosion of a nuclear bomb.


On the 57th day of lockdown I finished the second bottle of whisky.


On social media some people voiced their frustration and fears; others pinned photographs of the first roses.


The mornings were so bright that rose petals hurt the eyes. The hours of daylight grew longer and the number of fatalities soared. Most shops remained closed.


Tree surgeons continued to operate. We heard their chainsaws and the crash of branches; suddenly there was more sky.


The skies were blue, without contrails, and the sunsets we saw (on our screens, through our windows) were extraordinary.


At night the police helicopters sounded so close, I wondered if the house was under attack.


We thought the food would run out. It did not. (It has not, yet.)



My skin prickled and I found it difficult to breathe. The mornings came with horrible regularity. Then it was the first day of June.


A family of foxes dug an earth in the scrubland behind our shed. The goldfinches and sparrows and the fox with half a tail were our only companions.


At night I was woken by our neighbour’s garage light, which flickered on every time a wild creature passed. It stayed lit for longer than any animal would linger, and then there was darkness again.

How To Discover
Ice Age
Black Hole
Compass Rose

Deanna Day


Inside, Mama is packing the last of their things, but the frantic running around from earlier in the week has faded. Every one of Mama’s movements now is slow and sad and heavy, and it makes the air feel like jam, gummy and foggy. Once when she was a little girl it had snowed, and the whole world went quiet and still. Every sound was muffled, but in a way that felt sharp, exciting. This is the opposite.

She’s sitting in the yard, looking over the water, with the quilt draped around her shoulders and the corners gathered in a pile in her lap. It’s the kind of quilt that’s messier on the front, a riot of knots spitting out baby-fine threads that tangle every which way. The back, though, is methodical: endless rows of tiny, exact stitches. Sometimes Mama rubs them like a rosary, muttering names she can never fully make out, but she prefers to swim her fingers around in the loose threads until they’re matted, then slowly smooth them back out into a new and different chaos.

Every time she tugs a little on the strings, the knots get tighter instead of looser; they’re a kind of knot she doesn’t know or understand, nothing like the knots that Sully teaches her out on the boat. She has sleepy memories of Mama making the quilt—the way Mama would sing and stitch on one end even as she was napping under the other—but she had always paid more attention to Mama’s voice than hands. She asked Sully once, and he just said that Mama’s kind of knots weren’t for doing, but remembering.

A few steps from the house, all she can hear is the shushing of the water as it curls over and over itself, the way the waves burrow into the rocks and pull silt back out into the sea. A little of the water always gets left behind, in crevices that fill and bloom and rot and dry in barely the time it takes to notice. At least, so far. Mama says the yard smells saltier than it used to and so they need to go, but she doesn’t remember it ever being any different.

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“We’re inevitable,” you’d always say. I would laugh, counting the cash in the drawer, or stacking the trays, but watching you, always watching you. You used to complain about being stuck inside when we were working, but I never felt trapped. I got to watch you coming from a mile away, walking slowly down the long hall between the food court and your game store that used to be a music store that used to be a video store. You would visit me, leaning against the pickup counter and flirting through your break, even though I always smelled like sweet grease. You liked to say that the smell was still better than the taste, which was true. 

They say that dead malls sprawl across America, to the extent that a monolith can sprawl, I guess. Apparently malls are being killed by big box stores, or gentrification, or Amazon, depending on who you ask. (You’d say, “Is it really killing, if they’re dying anyway?”) The malls, though, were killers, too. An old man used to stand outside the exit by the movie theater with a sign, yelling how the mall killed all the mom ’n’ pops. 

The food courts always seemed to hang on longest. After the game store closed you still came to visit me at ours, even though our ring of counters only threw off just enough light to make the darkened hallways spooky. “Like dead limbs,” you’d say. I would shiver, or laugh, or ignore you.

Until one day you dropped me off and I got all the way to the doors before I realized they were chained shut. “Mall’s finished, honey,” Tracy from the smoothie shop called from her car. I looked at her, then back at the padlock in my hand, like it might still fall open and let me inside. “Roof collapsed, down by the old Christmas shop. Too expensive to fix.” 

Through the windows, the fluorescents were still lit, making long stripes across the floor. I turned around to look for you, but I could already see your car at the far end of the parking lot, taking a right on red out onto the road. “You need a ride, baby girl?” Tracy asked, opening the passenger door. I took a deep breath, the opposite of a sigh, and turned back to her, and nodded.

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"The Window"


I don’t notice the hole until I turn it over.

We’ve always passed the book between us, making notes, sketching in the margins. It doesn’t matter if we black out sections, tear through them, spill our tea on the pages by accident or on purpose; every word has long since become fixed in our memories, through no real effort beyond endless repetition. The text is habit. At some point you underlined the word “nurture,” first with one tentative line and then, again, with a new pen, harder. I skipped over that bit, using one of my turns to underline “coexistence,” which, to be fair, you did, too. I don’t remember who did it first. 

I used to have a routine: I would scour the pages for every new change you’d made—not reading yet, just noting where they were—then go back to the beginning and sit with each one. But I’m not methodical about anything anymore. I open the book at random, running my fingers down the page to feel the slight relief of the printing, the grooves where a pen or pencil was pressed, where I can read your emotions by depth rather than articulation. There’s a passage about progress; you left a note there, but I can’t read it. You’re always putting words to the things I can’t say. Even when I can’t read them.

This time, when I flip the book upside down to hide it between my mattress and the floor, there’s a flash of white. I know this cover like I still know your face, so I pull, carefully, so carefully, on this new piece of thread peaking out of a small hole at the crease where the cover meets the  spine; I don’t want the entire binding to unravel. But with the slightest tug, a clump of netting falls into my hand, and behind it I see the tip of a square of intricately folded, subcutaneous paper. 

It’s a page from a different book. There’s a section ringed (not circled) in yellow crayon, short strokes jutting out like a sun. You’ve underlined: “A fence itself bears a promise of control.” “They feel a call in their bodies.” “Grass has a strategy that works.” Beyond the yellow crayon are whips of red, and I remember you, once, treading water well past the buoy line, cawing at a seagull.

I try, but I can’t recreate the complicated folds of the page. If I try to squeeze it back where I found it, I’m certain I’ll destroy the page and the cover both.



While I was growing her, I couldn’t help but dream up possible lives she might live. They sprouted, unbidden, incessant and iterative, linking together in an impossible web of futures. “Like a daisy chain,” I say, remembering. 

“Like weeds,” she says, laughing. “When there were weeds.”

She trawls her eyes through the charred underbrush, and gently places another mushroom in the sack. She spots the changes in texture and light that I usually miss; I tell myself it’s because she’s so much smaller. Closer to the ground. But it feels like we have different kinds of eyes. 

I let her peer into piles of leaves, and I watch her hair as the wind blows it over one shoulder. While I was growing her, I knew what my body was for. And before it was growing her, my body was growing me. I haven’t figured out yet what I’m growing now. I watch her digging gently through the earth, and my body feels like all the gas pumps, plinthed into cracked concrete, tubes ossified where they reach for empty tanks. 

I crouch down and drag my finger through a patch of old ash, drawing a crude, childish flower: a circle, five loops around it, a stem. “Love me, love me not,” I say, and she looks back at me. “We used to pull the petals off, to predict the future.” I thought she would be shocked, or angry, by the violence or the waste, but instead she tilts her head.

“But you knew the future,” she says carefully, and I think of my mother, the time I broke my arm in three places, the way she stared at the x-ray like something wasn’t adding up. In front of me, my daughter’s eyes squint. We live on opposite sides of the end of the world. She turns back, and drops another mushroom into the sack.

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– If the sky were infinite, would it be so full of stars that, from our perspective, there would be no 

   space between them?


+ I’m not sure. Would the planets get in the way? Other things? Hold this up to the line for me.


– Wouldn’t it be pretty though? If the sky were all stars? 


+ Maybe, for a bit. It might be overwhelming if the sky were so bright, all of the time.


– Maybe. Do you think the sky is infinite?


+ I’m not sure I could tell you. It looks finite to me, but so does everything. I can only see so far.

   Come along, next up.


– But if the sky is finite, then this other books says that means it’s growing. Where’s it growing 



+ More sky? I don’t know. What is anything growing into?


– Well, like how, when you’re a person, you’re growing into a new person all the time?


+ You’re certainly bigger now than you used to be.


– Don’t splash! I mean, our cells and stuff are always turning over, aren’t they? Like, we make new 

   skin under scabs. New blood. Our bits are always dying and growing back.


+ So, we’re living in new bodies all the time?


– Yeah. Is the sky a new sky all time?


+ By that logic. 


– If the sky is finite.


+ Are we new people all the time?


– Yeah?


+ Why?


– Because… we are our bits?


+ Are we anything else? Where did you put those—


– Here. You mean like how we have all these bacteria in our guts?


+ Sure. We’re made up of a lot of things we can’t see. All the things in the spaces between.


– Between what?


+ Between all the things.


– But there’s always more space between things? Like under a microscope. Are there always 

   more things? Where do they go?


+ Different parts of us grow in different directions. 


– In different dimensions!


+ Now who’s splashing? How do we grow in different dimensions? Like the bubbles?


– I guess?


+ What did you mean? Which dimensions?


– Like… we grow up? In time?  


+ I like that. What else?


– What about, like, us. The us that isn’t our bodies. Can that grow?


+ Yes.


– Where? Into what space?


+ The space between us. 


– For how far?

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Darlene Farris-LaBar

Vessels Within {Breath becomes night.}
Blood Beneath the Ice {Death of a glacier.}

Yvonne Love

The Red Thread

The Red Thread appeared in Nancy’s, A Compass Rose and Gaby’s Folio No. 3,  and then again in Britt’s assemblage, First I wanted to pick and choose; Naive Peach. Visualizing the thread’s ability to bind us together, to deliver blood, to point us north while the world falls apart – the cord that saves us – I knew it needed to be the primary material for my response not only to this project but to what was happening around us.  It wasn’t just the climate crisis, it wasn’t just COVID, it wasn’t just George Floyd, it was all of those things continuing  - the first time in history two hurricanes entered the Gulf of Mexico at the same time, two of the largest wildfires occurring at the same time in California, COVID cases continuing to rise, and deaths, while our president calls it a democratic hoax, and Jacob Blake is shot in the back 7 times – while his 3, 5 and 8 year old witness it from just feet away.

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The world continues to unfold in monstrous ways, I have a bell jar full of thread to wrap myself in, to sheath my chickadees, send out a few messages in studded brail, and throw out as a life preserver. I am grateful for this collaboration, for the sightlines each of my collaborators shared.

Gabrielle Russomagno


     Twenty Five Days in May

The photographs in Twenty Five Days in May were made during daily walks in my village graveyard where in those handful of days more burials took place than in the preceding 500 —proof that the pandemic was real, a protest against politicized news coverage and failures of the State.  In one way, making these pictures was an act of data collection and an archive of a particular and immediate loss. In another, they are a meditation, a way to reflect upon the frailty of life and to reckon with an incomprehensible event.

Britt Dahlberg


   Making Alone/Making Together


Project Journal: 


August 24, 2019:


The other artists have studios long set up. I’m making one around myself and this work as I go. I feel slow. I’m also delighted to do this, and have an inkling this collaboration is helping reshape and reorder my work, my life, a bit, in ways I’ve needed and are more me.


I delight in thinking towards this project. My journal has ideas interspersed when they arise, and small sketches. I delight in gathering and buying some supplies, and envisioning space to step away and dwell with just our pages, and *away* for a time, from other interactions or interruptions - there’s a stillness, a safety to soften and focus and play, without half attending to a million other things happening, or to be scanning, reading, noticing.


I say goodbye to others, and head to the basement. I’ll just play, work alone for a bit, but all the while, knowing I’m making a page for Darlene, and that she’s awaiting it.


September 7, 2020:


Ideas grew a bit more. They had their timing. (do I write about the photo album? or the cut outs or the torn away piece?)


When I created the torn piece I imagined the salmon ripped out of its webs of relations, but they still follow and sneak in. When I view it now in September, I also see pulling out of places that didn’t fit, to some freedom.


How do the salmon feel about these different settings where they find themselves?


Thinking of our adaptability.


September 20, 2020:


I felt a longing for doing slow things, that grow.


Now, I’ve lost the hope that there is space for that. It needs a community, or I need some.


The nature of these relationships where things can pour out unedited and a friend writes it down, and sees brilliance, and maybe I do too. but in most terrains not.


share: photo perhaps of destroyed work? in this realm I start and stop -


I kill things off before I ever see fully what it becomes, definitely before others do. / showing others.


and sometimes I just watch the caterpillars.


“I” planted this fennel, “I” created the conditions for their growth,


and I marveled and sparkled at the first, second, third batch of small caterpillars.


they started out no longer than the tip of a pencil, or rather, I first noticed them at that size. the next round of them I was looking for them, and learned to spot the eggs. Translucent. But they disappeared each time.


I think birds ate them.


This time I find them on different fennel than prior rounds: closer to the house or hidden among the branches of the lemon tree. Not in the main landing place of the sparrows.


and they’ve gotten big.


so big that they’ve eaten nearly all of the fennel plants they’re on.


I moved just a few - not sure I really know or see any more than the caterpillars do - I can see the breadth of the garden: that the remaining leaves and seeds to eat are in other areas, just not here (they’ve nearly completed the plants they’re on). But I’m pretty sure at this point they are also attuned to things I am not.


(and that I risk returning them into harm's reach of the birds. or, are they safely TOO big at this point for these birds to comfortably eat?


and sufficiently threatening with their new gel like bright orange ANTLERS that sprout out of nowhere when touched?)