It's Our Anniversary! Donate to support Anthrow Circus.
Anthrow Circus

View From a Pandemic: A Journal Entry, Quarantine Day 12

WORDS BY JANE POTTHAST
PHOTOS BY MANUELA THAMES

This happens when I have been alone too long—the words start to leak out of everything and they will not stop. I cannot look around, I cannot take a single step, without it becoming prose, and it is not welcome. It thrusts me into a place where language imposes this acute separation between me and everything else—leaks its ink out of the bark, the pavement, the sky, flowing directly from itself to me in the form of a stream of words, and it will not let me rest.

The Argentine Surprise

TEXT BY JANE POTTHAST
PHOTOS BY ADELINE CAPARIN

I’ll be honest: It was Norway I’d begun dreaming of. My imagination was taken captive by images of fjords and pines, of iron and snow and bears, of iced sea light and a refreshing, starry cold. I was certain this was the next place beauty would greet me.

Subway Poem 1

TEXT, POEM, AND IMAGES BY JANE POTTHAST

For a long time, I worked somewhere different each day. I spent long hours on the subway, commuting from location to location. Collecting one lonely descent after the other, hours spent zoning in and out of the rhythmic haul of the trains, I started to feel like I occupied two worlds, spending half my time in the one belowground. Finding myself stuck in this closed circuit of city gears, I had nothing else to do but notice the strange aesthetics of this underworld. .

Masolino’s Annunciation

STORY BY JANE POTTHAST

In a holiday season full of the wonder of childhood delight mixed with the hopes and burdens of adults, our contributor Jane Potthast stumbles upon a favorite painting from childhood and wonders whether it holds something new for her now.

Two Paintings and an Encounter

STORY BY JANE POTTHAST

This week’s writer illustrates the power of art for guiding us to new places. For her, two paintings in a Vatican gallery thrust her into a spiritually profound encounter.

These, the “Pope’s paintings,” cried out to God more than any others as we wound through masterpieces in the sad, vast Vatican.

We were plodding through the quarters and it was less crowded than the other museums, as it was not on the path to the Sistine Chapel.

I started to tremble when we saw a Raphael, his last before death. A secrecy pervaded the image, forcing me to a craggy edge of longing at which my eyes watered.