Subscribe to our newsletter

Get the latest news, reviews, and commentary delivered directly to your inbox.

Support Hyperallergic’s independent arts journalism.

Posted inArt

Making Art from the End of Love

CHICAGO — It’s impossible to know when love begins. At best, we are mildly aware of its onset — a subtle brush of the hair, a lick of the lips, a quiet nudge of the hip, a gaze that lasts too long or not long enough. What we do know is that love finds us; we cannot search it out. Spanish poet Federico García Lorca wrote of lunar romance: “How the owl is calling. / Ay, it calls in the branches! / Through the sky goes the moon, / gripping a child’s fingers.” His lyrical words wrap themselves around a young, innocent type of love.