Libraries of Stone and Wood

A Published Event, Slag heap, 2016. Documentation of a found event. Photo: A Published Event.

And this is our life, exempt from public haunt
finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
sermons in stones and good in everything.
William Shakespeare, As You Like It. Act II, Scene I, The Forest of Arden.

We are A Published Event. Our tools are our stones are our books are our publics. We were always more than human. Always and already permeated by other lives, other histories, other beings. If a human can be reimagined as an “organism that persons”, then A Published Event is the organism that persons us.

As collaborative artist, A Published Event (Justy Phillips and Margaret Woodward) makes long-term relational artworks through shared acts of public telling. Exploring chance encounter, constructed situations and the shared authorship of lived experience. We work with artists and writers, materials and ideas, to create fictiōnal writing, prose, book-works, video, installation and performance. Our use here of the prefix fictiō meaning “to make with”, differs from contemporary understandings of fiction, as “to make up”. Embracing fictiō, the Latin root of fiction, enables us to make-with and from lived experience, a process we call fictiōneering. Our hybrid works—a kind of fusing-distilling-slagging-attuning to the local—explore the metaphysical language and speculative publishing of lived experience. A Published Event is an offering to participate. A cut that releases and absorbs. Leaks and floods. In relations of body, duration and event. Propelled by a desire to connect with the more-than-human elements of everyday life, we seek a kind of solidarity built on affective attunement. Through our libraries of stone and wood we move speculatively but with conviction, implicated in every act of making-public, always with each other.

Since 2015 we have undertaken three large-scale publishing projects. In Fall of the Derwent (2016), we invite the river to write us as hydrographic score. In Lost Rocks (2017-21), a literary-lithic exploration of absence re-composed, we invent the fictiōnella as a gesture of experiential telling. In The People’s Library (2017-18), part performance library-part contemporary artwork, we offer an island the opportunity to publish its new and original works in any genre. In each of these works, we make books. We also make publics. Each of these things generates their own unique forces. Both books and publics are lively things—they are leakings, holdings, they are (w)holes. They are events that can feel and make themselves felt. They are openings.

In 2012 A Published Event travelled to Iceland, an island with many similarities to Tasmania. Iceland (unlike Tasmania with its 500,000 people and a functional literacy rate of only 51%), boasts a staggering literary output for a population of just 350,000. One in every ten Icelanders publishes a book in their lifetime.

In 2007, the American artist Roni Horn published Vatnasafn/ Library of Water— three related collections of water, words and weather reports. The work, housed in a former library in the Icelandic coastal town of Stykkishólmur, includes 24 glass columns containing melt-water from glaciers in Iceland. Libraries are more than collections of words on paper. In Horn’s library, they are constellations of water, weather, ice and ocean. The library is not simply a collection of objects but a leaking, fizzing field of attraction. An energetic field of emergent connectivity.

In Reykjavík, we undertook a month-long residency at SÍM (The Association of Icelandic Visual Artists). Chancing upon a newspaper article about the precarity of polar bears drifting aimlessly in Icelandic waters, we decided to drive in their direction, towards the Arctic Circle. On Iceland’s Skagí Peninsula we spent long hours staring north, waiting for a starving polar bear to swim out of the ocean. And we thought a lot about how hard it can be to move a thing from one relation to another. From water to land. Private to public. From one to many.

Until this point, we had been making multiples, limited edition works that were brought together in groups of more than one. Later that year, we found ourselves in México, as part of the SOMA Residency Program. In a green tank at Morelia’s Benito Juárez Zoo, we finally encountered our lone polar bear against a backdrop of fake rocks and chunky viewing wall. Children throw pebbles at the green-white bear and all we can think is why is this polar bear kept alone? Why not with other things that look like him? Other things in whom he can be seen. In our minds, this is the moment that we open ourselves to the many. And the library as living organism is born.

Running brooks

This Quarterly Essay is an offering that begins in the act of hand-to-hand publishing. This time it’s from our hand to yours. This concept emerged through the making of our hydrographic score, Fall of the Derwent (2015–16) when we brought into relation the fluctuating Energy in Storage Levels of the River Derwent and our walking-mythic-narrative-prose-thing. Each hydrographic score is completely unique. You can generate and download yours here. We wrote this score by walking over 200 kilometres from the sea to the source of two rivers Derwent (in Tasmania and England), drawing from these river(s) a living organism that re-composes with every reading.

With every reading, the reader blackens. The graphite-coated cover of the book touches the hand touches the face, leaves its shadow on the skin. Through a performative reading at Glenorchy Art & Sculpture Park, we distribute through hand-to-hand publishing, an edition of 100 hard-cover books to 100 people who come to meet the river meet the books meet the dust that quickly turns their hands to black. This is the first time we really shift our practice from the one to the many, from an edition of books to a library as living organism. A library of green-black water, barking dogs, the outstretching of an arm, unfolding of a hand, a helicopter passing overhead. In this collaborative act of making-public, we are able to carve a space in which to move, differently. This space manifests as a line. A holding apart of togetherness. Through the work of Canadian philosopher Erin Manning, we come to feel this “line” differently:

Temporality in liquid state and a body kissed on every surface by the memory of its wash. This is the “interval”, a duration expressed through movement that philosopher Erin Manning defines as the metastable quality through which the relation is felt. The interval, writes Manning, “never marks a passage: it creates a potential for a passage that will have come to be”. A multiplicity of bodies: a hole and a heart, a brick, a shadow, a lover, a stiff rabbit on the side of the road; black ice reaching for the sun.

Phillips, Justy, 2017. Crocoite II (p22).

Experienced through Manning’s “interval”, the hyphen becomes a way of holding, a way of moving in relation—with both the act of making and its public, of a public and its making. The hyphenated holding of making–public is the only consistent force in our work. A holding line that is not a line but a bridge, a cut, a fold, a (w)hole. This is how the library composes itself. This is how it gestures and pulls. Inventing itself, in all dimensions through the hyphenated force of its relation. This is the field in which we speculate our work. It is our site. Our studio. Our collaboration.

Since the Derwent’s hydrographic score first ran its waters through our veins we feel compelled to confront the complexities of this island’s holdings. Our current propositions; Lost Rocks (2017–21) and The People’s Library, 2018, build on lutruwita/ Tasmania’s generational libraries of stone and wood.

We look for patterns, little triggers that stimulate more complex patterns, that form layers of association, that bring forth air in your lungs, that fill pockets of air in your mouth, that bring forth words, that we can hear and understand. Not so much erased as rearranged. We are not concerned with recreating the things that trigger the associations. We are concerned with the points of connection between the things. The network that has been ruptured.

(Newitt, James. Fossil, 2018. p70).

We embrace the opportunity of this Quarterly Essay to pester the waters of a social engagement-with lutruwita/ Tasmania—a land continuously inhabited by Aboriginal peoples for over 60 thousand years. A land whose foundations emerged from a complex singularity—a tiny, non-dimensional point containing all of the mass and energy of our universe. For us non-indigenous peoples who have made this palawa land our home, it is imperative that any creative practice must acknowledge the ongoing effects of the colonial invasion of lutruwita by our European ancestors.

Tasmania seemed determined from an early date to be different to the other colonies. This meant, necessarily, being more British. Yet I do not feel the slightest bit British, and neither do the other Tasmanian Aborigines I know. We have a designated place in a story that is not ours.

(Lehman, Greg. Crystal Bone, 2017. p46).

Through a practice of collaborative art-making we offer our libraries of stone and wood as an opportunity to re-conceive local ecologies, beyond the Anthropocene.

We go in search of the same expanded voice that American cultural theorist and writer, Brandon LaBelle seeks to engage in his politics of the performative, “a voice full of imaginary drive, and those animate and poetical expressions that turn our bodies toward other species, other material forms, or immaterial apparitions, as well as each other.” (LaBelle). We ask two questions: Can libraries turn our bodies towards connection? And how might the making of libraries enable us to live contemporaneously-with lutruwita/Tasmania and the organisms (writings, bodies, rocks, hunting grounds, kelp and other) that person it?

Sermons in stones

Despite its small size, the geological diversity of lutruwita/Tasmania is quite remarkable. Present in abundance are mineral deposits and rocks from every period of the Earth’s Middle Proterozoic era, a period that began over 2.5 billings years ago. As the first continents appeared so did the first fossils of living organisms.

Here it is.

The Big Bang is thousands of rocks, meticulously selected for their colour, their shape, their history. All of them unearthed by him and set in two tonnes of concrete and a rusting iron frame on a patio out west. It is a map that can’t be held for its weight. He has lifted every segment from the mines. He knows each of their names and every rock is a coordinate of a place that he’s been. He sorts them. Jars and lunch boxes, ice cream containers full of sparkling stones. On shelves around the patio, lining the insides of small sheds, stacked across the sphagnum lawn; all of them handpicked and waiting to be set into a free standing universe. The map pinpoints his stories—he has a million—each is dewey-decimalled into the stone library of this wall.

(Jones, Sarah, 2017. Silver/Lead (p52–3).

In 2014 we found a disused rock specimen board at the Glenorchy tip shop in nipaluna/ Hobart’s Northern suburbs. Forty of its fifty-six Tasmanian rock specimens were missing, leaving behind forty dymo-tape labelled absences on Caneite board. Acquiring the board for four dollars, it became the conceptual heart of Lost Rocks (2017-21), a five-year slow-publishing library. Since 2016 we have been commissioning contemporary artists (Tasmanian, Australian and international) to each select an absence from this incomplete board and re-compose it, not with a geological specimen, but with a fictiōnella, a new kind of novella drawn from lived experience.

Crocoite by Margaret Woodward (2017). (00:04:59). Read by Margaret Woodward as part of Geologic Time, the 2017 Banff International Curatorial Institute Residency, Canada.

Lost Rocks (2017–21) is a library in-the-making, publishing four books twice yearly for a period of five years. It is an accumulative event of mineralogical, metaphysical and metallurgical telling. With a projected duration of five years, we have made the deliberate choice to slow down the act of publishing, exploring in one continuous seam, the potential of the hyphen as longue durée.

I am reminded of the time when you gazed down the brazen tube and saw caverns in a rock, “half filled with gas that tossed like spirits in perdition – and had done, … ever since the world began.” You said, that old Lapidary is long dead now, and that “someday, perhaps, the human race will grow old, and very grey, while the drops in the rocks roll on, and on – and on!”

Scott, Mary, 2018. Petrified Wood (p81).

Silver/Lead by Sarah Jones (2017). (00:03:21). Read by Becky Forsythe as part of Geologic Time, the 2017 Banff International Curatorial Institute Residency, Canada.

As artists, how might we enter into relation with lithic experience? How might the holding of a 506 million year old soft-bodied fossil from the Burgess Shale in the palm of a hand, compel one to compose the soft bodies of an accumulating library, differently. In turning towards each other, bodies of ore and flesh manifest new intervals of writer-reader-publisher. New opportunities for eyes and ears to touch.

Our active participation in the making of Lost Rocks (2017–21), both through writing (Crocoite, 2017, Woodward and Crocoite II, 2017, Phillips) and what we might loosely describe as literary curating (to date: 2017: Silver/Lead, Sarah Jones; Silver, Jane Rendell; Basalt, Ross Gibson; Conglomerate, Ben Walter; Marble, Ally Bisshop; Crystal Bone, Greg Lehman; 2018: Petrified Wood, Mary Scott; Fossil, James Newitt; Petrified Wood II, Therese Keogh) is a way for us to experience the transformative potential of the lithic (stone) through the storied materiality of both language and stone.

In Lost Rocks (2017–21), it is the material metamorphosis of absence that enlivens the library to its public. Not forgetting that the rock board itself is already a published work and has a public of its own, including amongst others, the person who compiled it, perhaps as a study aid; the salvage workers who saved it from the tip face; the 40 contemporary artists who attempt to re-compose it.

Marble by Ally Bisshop (2017). (00:02:24). Read by Penelope Smart as part of Geologic Time, the 2017 Banff International Curatorial Institute Residency, Canada.

The Lost Rocks (2017–21) fictiōnellas are gestures, small movements that shift the axis just enough to feel it move but not enough to notice it moving. They are not, as so much of contemporary art practice aspires to be, spectacular. The works are soft and deep and raw and sharp, much like the rocks that did or did not come before them. A pulping of lithic love no less.

Perhaps it was inspired by the mountain they were felling, a shard in the south-west with many cliffs that trembled at their exposure; the real risk of slipping off the rock. Strange and unfamiliar terrain. None of the safe, shattered steps and cracks of dolerite crystals or the sharp edges of quartzite; this was a rock built from fragments poorly mortared together. Unfocused and lacking clear identity.

Walter, Ben, 2017. Conglomerate (p09).

We publish each rock in an edition of 300 printed fictiōnellas, each in the form of a 96-page pocketbook. We have fifty subscribers to which we post each seam of rocks as it rolls off the press. We also sell the fictiōnellas individually or in odd groupings from our website, independent bookshops and art book fairs to both individual and institutional collectors. The in-progress library can currently be found in public and private collections that include; the Paul D. Fleck Library and Archives at The Banff Centre, the National Library of Australia, the State Library of Tasmania and Far Afield.

The Lost Rocks (2017–21) library is iterative, generative and accumulative. It is also unruly. Whilst maintaining a strict conceptual approach to the Lost Rocks (2017–21) fictiōnellas (all content should be drawn from lived experience), design style and production format (covers are printed in the same process red with text pages printed in black) and distribution; we allow the library itself (its holdings) to be punctuated by intrusions. In geological terms, an intrusion manifests as an inward burst, magma that cools and solidifies within the Earth’s crust. In the library, we explore intrusions as events that erupt and interrupt—between the writing of the rocks—creating new flows and relations between rocks, minerals, authors and readers. So far these intrusions have taken the form of live readings, curatorial residencies, installations of drawings, video and sculpture, lithic poetry salons and perhaps most intriguing of all, in the gifting of minerals and rocks. On one occasion, a Queenstown resident invites us to his apartment to see his cache of rare crystals. An hour later, we leave with six plastic tubs containing his entire collection of rocks, gems and crystals. The collection, the man believes, would be happier in our presence. On Tasmania’s West Coast, we are given spectacular museum-quality specimens of crocoite, twisted lumps of copper ore, polished serpentine. In nipaluna/ Hobart, a good friend regularly brings us highly polished beach pebbles from her hometown of Penguin. One of our most prized studio possessions is a small sample of atacamite, a copper-based mineral from the Atacama Desert in Chile, presented to us by a nipaluna/ Hobart-based Chilean artist.

In a way, these intrusions become the new bedrock—the new caneite board—and in doing so, become a way of holding context and materiality as one. An attempt to gain a bearing, to crystallise a voice.

Tongues in trees

In September 2017, in the midst of Petrified Wood. Fossil. Petrified Wood, our second Lost Rocks (2017–17) seam, we launched The People’s Library. An island-wide call to publish.

The tree rocked precariously in the strong wind. Looking up to where the branches of this tree met others, they all drifted back and forth together with each gust. The tstht, tstht, tstht of the stone on the wood offered a rhythm to the wind and a pulse to the anxious anticipation of the group who had gathered below. We stood about twenty metres back, out of line of the possible fall.

(Keogh, Therese. Petrified Wood II, 2018 p59).

In 2011, the Tasmanian woodchip industry fell. The now infamous demise of the private forestry company, Gunns Ltd saw the closure of the state’s only operating woodchip processing and export facility, located at Spring Bay, Triabunna. Ever since our visit to Iceland in 2012, two things had continued to play on our minds. One, how was it possible that so many Icelandic people, from all walks of life, found a way to publish their literary works? And two, it’s an odd thing that a country with so few trees (vast forests were felled by the Vikings) finds itself today, so heavily planted with books. For us, the book begins in absence, in the surface of lost trees. In the sap, in the rings, in the days and nights. In the fires that rage. In the chains that clear fell all the rare things that once were sheltered in the darkness of this horizontal green.

We are what we hold.

Tethered in everyday acts of writing and reading, The People’s Library, 2018 is a collective act of public telling. An invitation to swell a ground, to spill it through ear and eye and mouth. Part performance library, part contemporary artwork, in 2018, The People’s Library will publish 113 newly commissioned, original book-length works by Tasmanian writers. Through a state-wide call for unpublished works in any genre, the writers of The People’s Library share fiction, memoir, biography, non-fiction, history, crime, science fiction, thriller, poetry, plays and experimental other. For writer or public, The People’s Library is an opportunity to leave a trace, locate a life or sweep a narrative within a unique living library.

With the invitation, “Amateur or professional, we are actively seeking contributions from those who write for leisure, pleasure or necessity”, The People’s Library will be installed at Salamanca Arts Centre, nipaluna/ Hobart, in September 2018. This multi-use art space came into being in 1976, when the sandstone building, a former commodities storehouse and jam factory was purchased by the State Government for the “people of Tasmania”. Built upon the middens of the Mouheneer people, the site, rich in fish and shellfish, animals and plants carries over 5,000 years of Aboriginal history and lived experience. This contested space now holds Salamanca Arts Centre’s Long Gallery—a storehouse of knowledge, trade, information and belief systems, objects, fragments and traces. In September 2018 it will also house The People’s Library, unfolding a movement of public tellings—book groups, live readings, salon events and performances.

The multi-use library has a long tradition. In the Middle Ages, most libraries were attached to monasteries and cathedrals. By the Victorian era, many English libraries functioned as community hubs, co-housed with other amenities including museums, galleries, schools and public baths, some even included smoking and refreshment rooms, billiards rooms, lecture halls and theatres. Here in Australia, the state-run public library system followed these radical social movements, in particular through the establishment of libraries in Working Men’s Clubs and Mechanics Institutes. Australia’s first Mechanics Institute was established in nipaluna/ Hobart in 1827, complete with library. Its focus was the provision of education for skilled working men, including access to lectures, classes, and books. Tasmania was also one of the few recipients of Australian Carnegie grants awarded in 1902 to build a public library. The most important criteria for being awarded such a grant was proof that the community actually needed a library.

By New Year’s Day, 2018, over 170 people felt compelled to submit an expression of interest to The People’s Library along with sample pages of their writing, and 123 were selected to write book-length manuscripts—of these we have received 113. The fact that the final number of books landed at just over 110 is important as it put us in a direct path to a ready-made catalogue with narrative already in the game.

The 113 books of The People’s Library are catalogued both by colour and the sequence of their acquisition. The colour assigned to each book corresponds to the 110 colour tints of Werner’s Nomenclature of Colours: Adapted to Zoology, Botany, Chemistry, Mineralogy, Anatomy, and the Arts by P. Syme. Werner’s nomenclature corresponds with poetic lyricism and scientific precision to the most commonly occurring colours of the “natural’ world. Published in 1814 by eminent Prussian mineralogist and geologist Abraham Gottlob Werner, the palette was later adapted by Scottish flower painter and art teacher, Patrick Syme (1774–1845) to include additional colours observed in animal and vegetable realms.

Werner’s Nomenclature of Colours quickly became the go to companion for artists and scientists charged with classifying and cataloguing the colonies. This is the book Charles Darwin used to describe the colours he observed on his HMS Beagle voyages (1831–36). On this voyage Darwin visited nipaluna/ Hobart Town in 1836, where he was certainly accompanied by the Werner/Syme colour book on his walks around Sullivan’s Cove, the future site of the sandstone warehouse that now houses the Salamanca Arts Centre. In Darwin’s journals from the HMS Beagle voyage, the use of Werner’s colours is well documented, including the snake he found in 1835, described as “Primrose yellow” (Colour Number 63).

A Published Event, The People’s Library, 2018. Book Sixty Three. An Alphabet of Banksia serrata by Veronica Steane, (Back cover detail).

The process of recording the material world of lutruwita/Tasmania through European-tinted lenses was by now, well underway – the legacy of which persists as a deeply entrenched system of naming that continues to prioritise the European view.

Werner’s toolkit is an inventory of a European world. In Tasmania, it was used as a device to make sense of and impose a familiar order on an unfamiliar place. Our decision to furnish The People’s Library with Werner’s colour palette might be seen as yet another extension of the European impulse to catalogue and impose. And it is. It’s a deliberate strategy to recognise that this guidebook, this portable landscape that accompanied scientists, artists and colonists, is freighted with its own narratives and hierarchies of a nonhuman world: 24 Scotch blue; 40 Imperial purple; 48 Leek green; 76 Dutch orange; 95 Cochineal Red; 27 China Blue.

By way of turning our bodies away from these dominant histories and towards each other, towards “other material forms, or immaterial apparitions”, we add our own ecology to this weighty inventory of colour. At first we see if it’s possible to meet the demands of this ecology by using Werner’s naming conventions.

We decide to disrupt Werner’s system by inscribing three new entries on the colour register, named through our research in the material sites of The People’s Library. Returning us to the centre of all this growth is book 111, Repeat Pattern by Tracey Diggins. This free-verse poetry from the core is held in place by Defunct Board, colour matched to the Burgundy upholstery fabric of the boardroom chairs from the now defunct Triabunna Woodchip Mill. Swatch 112, Paintings in my mind, a book by Queenstown poet Leo Deacon finds its tint in the touch of Bulky Paperback. Swatch 113 inscribes the library’s final acquisition, Memoirs of a Travelling Sheila. Written by Dunally artist Gay Hawkes, a bookend of Modified Timber inspired by the Long Gallery’s pre-colonial timber beams.

Good in everything

When we found the writers of The People’s Library we did not know what it would mean for these individual works to leave the solitary care of their writers and find themselves side by side as public offering. We have books from first time writers, already published authors and national and international award winners, teenagers to nonagenarians. The books come from all over lutruwita/Tasmania, from Slopen Main in the South to Paradise in the North West, and rural and urban settings in between. The books are beginning to take form take colour take confidence from their nearly publicness. We are now in the proof-reading and design stage and have started the mammoth task of digesting every book. Thanks to Leo, Nancy, Leonie and Ollie we can start to imagine what it’s like to work in an underground mine, to live in a Wisconsin basement house or a coastal shack, to smell the banks of the Murray River. To immerse oneself in the entire library is to mediate these lived experiences with fantasy and imagination.

“Tell us your interests, needs and desires and we shall find you a book. One in the hand for each who shall enter”. Like breadcrumbs on a forest floor, these words inscribed on the gallery’s long white entry wall, are perhaps both map and calling. Inside, the storehouse is sliced in two. From snow white to eucalypt blue, a double-sided arc of books holds one convict-built wall from another. A 16m long bookshelf – diagonal severing of spectral flow. Oriented Strata Board spills from beneath the covers. Crosses the floor in fits and starts. A cabin for reading built from a compacted forest of giant woodchips. This is where I take myself, take the book I was handed on arrival. Styx and Stones sits side by side on a spine-deep ledge with Peopling The Dirt Patch. Imperial Purple bruising Honey Yellow in the fray. There’s a hexagonal stage. I overhear another visitor say that’s where they used to roll the logs before grading and chipping them into pulp. A hard stand they call it. On the south side of the library there’s a table for reading and 11 boardroom chairs. To the right, complimentary tea and coffee served in hand-built ceramic vessels imprinted trees. Cut from tongues. Beanbags cluster like leaf litter beneath the gallery’s sunlit windows. I take a seat, it’s less comfortable than it looks. Woodchips, it turns out, aren’t the softest filling. I slump into the forest and read and read and read.

The collective holdings of The People’s Library compel us to find new ways of holding these books and their writers in our care. Our hold is both intimate and encompassing. The library as a living organism is always bigger than the sum of its holdings. And we are all enlarged by it, knowing that assemblages of books, objects, events, ideas, materials and conversations held in close proximity behave differently than those kept alone. We make libraries because we crave proximity. In the words of artist Brandon LaBelle, “I speak in order to locate myself near you.”

Once unleashed there is no choice but to move with it, this library as living thing. To be moved by it. To hold it and to be held by it. This is after all, how we met the bear, out there in the Arctic Ocean, out there in the looping green tank at Morelia’s Benito Juárez Zoo. Battered by the cold and rain, we waited for days and days. Eyes on the prize. In all that dark water. We know he won’t come unless we are watching. Unless someone can witness his swim. A groundswell of public telling awaits.

Authors

A Published Event is the collaborative art practice of Justy Phillips and Margaret Woodward. Their practice of speculative eventing is driven by chance encounter, constructed situations and the shared authorship of lived experience. Their most recent work focuses on the fictiōnella as multi-dimensional publishing event. They are long term participants in the cultural ecology of Tasmania. They currently hold positions on the boards of Contemporary Art Tasmania (Phillips) and Creative Island (Woodward). A graduate of the Royal College of Art (1999), London, Justy Phillips has a PhD from RMIT University (2015) and is currently an Adjunct Lecturer at the School of Creative Arts, University of Tasmania. Margaret Woodward is Associate Professor of Design at Charles Sturt University and holds a PhD from Curtin University (2009). Their collaborative, experimental practice has been published widely in Australia, Europe and Canada. www.apublishedevent.net

Comments

Fran Spears says:

June 5, 2018 at 6:33 pm

This is so interesting. I feel privileged to be able to read it

Reply

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