{"id":28397,"date":"2018-10-07T14:03:15","date_gmt":"2018-10-07T18:03:15","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/sites.lsa.umich.edu\/mqr\/?p=28397"},"modified":"2018-10-08T10:01:00","modified_gmt":"2018-10-08T14:01:00","slug":"uncovering-the-unnameable-an-interview-with-elizabeth-schmuhl","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/sites.lsa.umich.edu\/mqr\/2018\/10\/uncovering-the-unnameable-an-interview-with-elizabeth-schmuhl\/","title":{"rendered":"Uncovering the Unnameable: An Interview with Elizabeth Schmuhl"},"content":{"rendered":"

The dancer and artist\u00a0Eiko Otake<\/a>\u00a0is known for her series \u201cA Body in Places,\u201d in which each performance highlights Otake\u2019s body in a space — a bus station, museum, Wall Street, Fukushima’s no-entry zone \u2014 in which it doesn’t quite belong. Otake’s subtle movements draw attention to the space itself and to her outsider\u2019s body.\u00a0Premonitions<\/a>\u00a0<\/i>(Wayne State University Press, 2018)<\/i>,\u00a0Elizabeth Schmuhl<\/a>\u2019s new book of poems, could just as well be subtitled \u201cA Body in an Orchard,\u201d as it is a collection that delves into the speaker\u2019s body and her physical and emotional journey through environmental spaces \u2014 particularly a Midwestern fruit farm. In these poems, there\u2019s no single way to be alive \u2014 every movement, every dream, every color, every stillness, every rebirth, every act of destruction, every living thing surrounding the speaker is a reminder of that vitality. To Schmuhl, everything is worth exploring, questioning, noticing; even if we don’t quite understand how or why.<\/p>\n

A graduate of University of Michigan\u2019s Residential College, Schmuhl’s work has been published in The Rumpus, Paper Darts, PANK, Hobart,<\/em> and Pinwheel,<\/em> among other publications. Poems from the collection, titled \u201c#90\u201d and \u201c103,\u201d first appeared in the Winter 2018 issue<\/a> of Michigan Quarterly Review<\/em>.\u00a0Schmuhl and I chatted over email about her family’s fruit farm, the connotation of \u201cpremonitions,” synesthesia,\u00a0and more.<\/p>\n

\n

Images of barns, summer fruit, and harvest moons blossom on every page in your new collection of poems, Premonitions<\/i>. You are the daughter of a third-generation fruit farmer and I know you\u2019ve spent much of your life on your family\u2019s orchard near Michigan\u2019s Paw Paw River. This book then serves as a kind of homage to the fruit farm of your past. After years working in urban centers like New York, DC, and Chicago, what keeps you coming back to this particular piece of Earth? Why must you write about the farm?\u00a0<\/span><\/b><\/p>\n

No matter where I\u2019ve been, the farm has always been there. It\u2019s my anchor. My father sacrificed a lot to keep it, and I grew up watching how that sacrifice manifested. There\u2019s so much to learn there, both about the world and myself. It\u2019s a type of gateway for me; a portal I can enter, even when I\u2019m not physically there, to reflect, analyze, dream.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I also think it provides a nice counter to all of the time I\u2019ve spent in cities. I love the energy of New York, but I also crave the solitude I find at the farm. When I live in a city, I often try to find places to visit on the weekend. In D.C. I would go to Shenandoah or smaller parks in Maryland.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The farm has always been in my life; to not write about it or be influenced by it would deny an integral part of my being and who I am.<\/p>\n

\"\"
The Barn on Schmuhl Road (via Instagram<\/a>)<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

How has your relationship with the farm changed over the course of your life? Did it change while writing this book?\u00a0<\/span><\/b><\/p>\n

It\u2019s both changed and stayed constant. It\u2019s the one place that has always felt like home. I think having it fill that role has allowed me to wander. No matter where I am, I know the farm is waiting for me and because of this, I\u2019m not afraid to leave or live other places. I know this has the opposite effect on some people but I\u2019m drawn to movement.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I think as I grow older, I have a different sense of how important the farm is to me. Most recently, this has been making me want to share it with others. I\u2019ve already started having small artist residencies on the farm, and I plan to do more things like this in the future.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

My parents definitely instilled the idea that it\u2019s better to give than keep. We\u2019re always giving away produce, having people spend the night, etc. My mother often says \u201cWe\u2019re the farm\u2019s caretakers, for now,\u201d and I definitely agree with that sentiment.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

When did you first begin working on Premonitions<\/i>? Did the arc or themes of the collection shift from your initial vision of it? If so, how?\u00a0<\/span><\/b><\/p>\n

I started working on it when I was teaching writing in the Residential College at the University of Michigan. Since I was in Ann Arbor, it was easy to get to the farm (it\u2019s roughly two hours away) and I would.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I wrote the poems because I had to, but I did push myself to not hold back. \u201cWrite the poems that scare you,\u201d someone once said to me, and I feel like I did that in this collection. There\u2019s beauty, but there\u2019s also ugliness in the collection, and I like that it encompasses both. So if anything, I did embrace the darker side of the natural world throughout this collection\u2019s evolution. I\u2019m happy with the result.<\/p>\n

\"\"There are no\u00a0titles in this collection. Instead,\u00a0each poem is labeled numerically and each number is bathed in a colorful paint splotch. Could you speak a bit on the ways in which numbers and colors correspond throughout Premonitions<\/i>? How does your synesthesia bleed into the pages?\u00a0<\/span><\/b><\/p>\n

For me, numbers have moods\/emotions connected to them as well as colors. For example, #134, the number 3 is always yellow, and 4 is red. The poem encompasses imagery that supports that, I think, especially the idea of a tomato decomposing \/ being eaten. Also, the feeling of transformation is linked to the colors and numbers in this case for me.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Do you know the colors of your poems before or after you\u2019ve written them?\u00a0<\/span><\/b><\/p>\n

That\u2019s a great question! I think it worked in both ways while I was writing the collection. I have some numbers that have special meaning for me, and I wanted those to be included. #27 comes to mind and #22.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Are there any poems that didn\u2019t make it into the final version of the manuscript? For example, we jump from a poem entitled #59 to a poem entitled #61 to a poem, #64. Is there a #60, #62, and #63 elsewhere?\u00a0<\/span><\/b><\/p>\n

Yes! There are many poems that did not make the collection. I am always writing, and so some of it gets scrapped. But the idea that some of the numbers are missing, that was intentional. I didn\u2019t want all of the numbers to be present. I like the idea of things being incomplete; that you are only seeing a portion of what was written. I think this is true of almost all published works \u2014 people go through many versions, and that\u2019s not always acknowledged in the final text. The missing poems are a nod to this.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Additionally, I like the idea that the speaker of the poems is not giving the reader access to all of the writing. I think it says something about the speaker. I hope people pick up on that, too.<\/p>\n

Speaking of poem #59, it sings: \u201cI light candles and slow dance, sway my hips. \/ The thunder a pulse thicker than mine, stronger. \/ I let it carry me, ride its echo.\u201d And then later, \u201cI am the storm in my front porch and I am moving, \/ a threat to this home and everything in it.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/b><\/p>\n

As a multidisciplinary artist, you are both a writer and a dancer. How does one inform the other in your work, and particularly, in the making of this collection \u2014 a book which frequently shows the speaker dancing and moving through spaces?\u00a0<\/span><\/b><\/p>\n

This poem is dedicated to Bobbi Jene Smith, who I\u2019ve had the luck to study with and also interview<\/a>. She is always doing something incredible and most recently, starred in Bobbi Jene,<\/em> which everyone should definitely see.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Bobbi teaches Gaga, the movement language of Ohad Naharin (she was in Batsheva for a decade), which I was first introduced to by Bobbi. In Gaga, the teacher talks to the students the entire class, giving instructions via imagist language. A lot of the images used in Gaga are present in this poem.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I think it\u2019s very hard for me to separate the dancer from the writer, as I am both. People have often commented how much the body appears in my poetry, and I\u2019m always surprised by it! I guess I can\u2019t help it. Movement is just another mode for me to learn, discover, and navigate life.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"While the cover of the book is a vibrant, cheery rendering of healthy grass \u2014 cast in a summery glow of pink and green \u2014 the title \u201cPremonitions\u201d evokes a somber tone, a word which shadows each poem with a stormy tinge, a hint that fortune could turn at any moment. What fascinates you about the foreboding nature of premonitions, and how do you see your poems in conversation with that type of sensation or gut-knowledge?\u00a0<\/span><\/b><\/p>\n

I wanted to expand the idea of premonitions because you\u2019re right, most often, they are associated with the negative. But I think in these poems there is also light and beauty. So, such as in life, both are present in these poems.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I also wanted to give nod to the women on my mother\u2019s side, who often have premonitions that come true. I\u2019ve experienced the same thing throughout my life, and continue to do so.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

An ex-partner once gave me a fortune cookie that reads, \u201cBeware of the danger while things are going smoothly.\u201d I\u2019ve kept that slip of paper for over a decade, and I know it\u2019s influenced these poems, too.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

One theme which the poems in Premonitions<\/em> explore is the birth and death of many selves within a single body. Your poems imagine what happens to those selves when they escape our corporeal casing. For example, in #103, the speaker says, \u201cIn October I do not know which is which: \/ the iridescent hanging plum is my heart.\u201d You ask the question, can our many selves survive in nature, separate from and outside of the body? Can we be reborn out of fruit and moonlight instead of blood and bone?\u00a0<\/span><\/b><\/p>\n

Given this quest for self-discovery, it\u2019s not surprising that every poem in this collection is spoken in a first person voice. When you begin a poem, do you envision each first-person speaker as yourself today, as a stand-in figure representing you, or as a projection of one of the many versions of yourself? In other words, who do you see when you write your poems, and who are you writing for?\u00a0<\/span><\/b><\/p>\n

I\u2019m a sucker for the first-person. I like the access it allows me as a writer and a reader, so it\u2019s my preferred point of view from which to write. It just feels natural for me.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I often remark to people that I can\u2019t see myself or that they don\u2019t really see me. This is because when people talk about my physical appearance, it feels as if they are talking to me about a stranger. So in terms of what the speaker looks like, I\u2019m not entirely sure. I almost want to say, the speaker looks like everything\/everyone. I want people to place themselves within the speaker\u2019s mind, and not be too distracted by specific features, especially facial.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

When I read your work, a word that keeps coming up for me is \u201cabjection.\u201d In her conversation with Trinie Dalton<\/a>, the artist Stanya Kahn describes abjection as \u201ca radical space, a slippery space … where [the abject] becomes a wily creature that is both rebellious and persistent, uncanny and unnameable.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/b><\/p>\n

Other definitions of abjection, according to Julia Kristeva\u2019s writings, include the confluence of consciousness and dreamstates, liminal spaces, and that which rejects the norm or refuses to fit in to a particular space. Your poems certainly do not shy away from spotlighting the grotesque, from releasing bodily fluids, from mutilating the body in almost fantastical ways \u2014 all which can be viewed as forms of abjection.\u00a0 <\/span>In your poem #61, you write:\u00a0<\/span><\/b><\/p>\n

I cut my heart open. It\u2019s certain:\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/b>
\nThe meat of a halved dove still beating and bloody.<\/i><\/b>
\nI\u2019ve dreamed about her before.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/b><\/p>\n

In the dream she didn\u2019t look this delicious.<\/i><\/b><\/p>\n

What do you think we gain as humans by imagining these transgressive moments in the safe space of poetry? What does abjection allow you to work through, or process, on an emotional level?\u00a0<\/span><\/b><\/p>\n

Poetry is so fun! I mean, I get really<\/em> excited about it! It\u2019s a genre that allows for great experimentation, of which I am definitely a fan. Poetry holds that space for us.<\/p>\n

\"\"
Elizabeth Schmuhl<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

As a dancer, I have the mindset of not being afraid to fail. In fact, in dance, you are almost always failing. We are often told in class, when a correction is given, that everyone should assume they are also making the error; you\u2019re expected to apply every correction to yourself.\u00a0<\/span>I think this experience gave me the courage to be unafraid to fail and I bring that to my writing.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

In terms of being cast off, or working in liminal spaces, I\u2019ve often felt that way in many assets of my life. Trinie, who you mention in your quote, was an incredible champion of allowing me to experiment. I worked with her for two semesters at VCFA, and I owe a lot of my bravery in writing to her.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

It can be lonely to work from a liminal space, but I think it allows me to go deeper, to uncover the unnameable, the wild. Even though it can be uncomfortable, I\u2019m most comfortable working there. \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Your poem #7 starts: \u201cI stopped using the internet years ago. All of the places I wanted to go weren\u2019t there.\u201d Where did you want to go then and where are you going next?\u00a0<\/span><\/b><\/p>\n

I think I wanted to show that the speaker is in a different time\/place than the readers of the poem might be. I was trying to transport them right away, to offer an alternative to our current reality, which is very much saturated with the internet.<\/p>\n

These lines came about because I do sometimes have the feeling that where I want to be isn\u2019t accessible, or even an option. The internet to me has always felt like a place, and there are times I get exhausted by it<\/a>.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Where am I going next? I\u2019m not entirely sure, but I\u2019m open to all of the possibilities. I do know I will return to the farm. Hopefully others will too.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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