Biographical Sketch
I was born in Jimmy Stewart's hometown of Indiana, Pennsylvania and
received my B.A. in film studies from the University of Florida and my
M.A. in film studies from Emory University. My master's thesis on
exploitation film became a book, Forbidden Fruit: The Golden Age of
the Exploitation Film co-authored with fellow lowbrow connoisseur
and husband Bret Wood. I am the staff art and film critic for
Atlanta’s alternative newsweekly Creative Loafing. My writing has
appeared in Elle, Atlanta magazine, Sculpture, Art in America, Artnews,
Playboy online and Art Papers. I have curated exhibitions for the
Atlanta Contemporary Art Center and the VSA Arts for All Gallery. I
have received multiple Green Eyeshade Awards for criticism and feature
reporting from the Society of Professional Journalists.
That's the one I send out when someone needs a string of professional
citations.
I am also, though I would never tell anyone I work for, a confirmed
misanthrope who nevertheless sees untold marvels, possibility and
transcendence in the human creations of film and art. So people, at
least when they are creating and thinking are displaying the best parts
of themselves. When they are driving and grocery shopping...hmmm...not
so good.
I live in a 1930 bungalow in an offshoot of Atlanta I have
characterized as a "racially-diverse Mayberry" called College Park.
College Park somehow manages to combine smalltown charm, a funky,
friendly diverse Black-meets-White-meets-Hispanic, nouveau riche and
downright impoverished vibe that seems to have quite unintentionally
created a New Urbanist semi-utopia that urban planners and architects
keep trying to create from the ground up for yuppies seeking an
“authentic” smalltown experience along with a good market carrying fig
preserves and prosciutto within walking distance. It is the first
place I have lived in my restless life where I have felt grounded and
content.
I work a breath away from my husband,a writer and filmmaker who has
made a documentary, Hell’s Highway about driver’s education films and a
narrative film based on pioneering “sexologist” Krafft-Ebing’s writings
called Psychopathia Sexualis. Bret shares a home office with me and
the obliterating kudzu of our DVDs, books, files, paint-by-numbers,
laserdiscs, and framed posters for exploitation film classics like
Dwain Esper's The Seventh Commandment (adultery, baby) and Marihuana
(reefer, baby) and the leather Man-Chair I bought for him to soothe him
as his 40th birthday approached. He looks very happy in the times he
is able to get-all-up-in-his-man-thang. I have my nose buried so deep
in my third appendage laptop, and he in his, we barely know the other
person's there.
Though I often write about contemporary, conceptual art and love the
work of Laylah Ali, Gillian Wearing, Mike Kelley, Loretta Lux, Shelby
Lee Adams, William Eggleston, Nam June Paik, Adrian Piper, Rodney
Graham, Rachel Whiteread, O. Winston Link and so many others (and a
host of Atlanta-based artists too), I am also deeply invested in
kitsch, lowbrow and craft and can probably get equally excited at
scouring -- and perhaps scoring -- remnants of our dearly departed 20th
century at the local thrift store. I am deeply distrustful of people
who are not in touch with both their high and low sides. I consider it
an essential component of human consciousness.
I have lived all over the world and in hideous and wondrous nooks and
crannies of this country, but oddly enough, find succor and
satisfaction in the American South, a region with humility,
authenticity and character despite its undeserved reputation for
runaway brides, warped kiddie beauty pageants, abject Wal-Mart culture
and me-first Republicanism. Regional-discrimination, my friends, and
not necessarily so. At least not the South I know.
received my B.A. in film studies from the University of Florida and my
M.A. in film studies from Emory University. My master's thesis on
exploitation film became a book, Forbidden Fruit: The Golden Age of
the Exploitation Film co-authored with fellow lowbrow connoisseur
and husband Bret Wood. I am the staff art and film critic for
Atlanta’s alternative newsweekly Creative Loafing. My writing has
appeared in Elle, Atlanta magazine, Sculpture, Art in America, Artnews,
Playboy online and Art Papers. I have curated exhibitions for the
Atlanta Contemporary Art Center and the VSA Arts for All Gallery. I
have received multiple Green Eyeshade Awards for criticism and feature
reporting from the Society of Professional Journalists.
That's the one I send out when someone needs a string of professional
citations.
I am also, though I would never tell anyone I work for, a confirmed
misanthrope who nevertheless sees untold marvels, possibility and
transcendence in the human creations of film and art. So people, at
least when they are creating and thinking are displaying the best parts
of themselves. When they are driving and grocery shopping...hmmm...not
so good.
I live in a 1930 bungalow in an offshoot of Atlanta I have
characterized as a "racially-diverse Mayberry" called College Park.
College Park somehow manages to combine smalltown charm, a funky,
friendly diverse Black-meets-White-meets-Hispanic, nouveau riche and
downright impoverished vibe that seems to have quite unintentionally
created a New Urbanist semi-utopia that urban planners and architects
keep trying to create from the ground up for yuppies seeking an
“authentic” smalltown experience along with a good market carrying fig
preserves and prosciutto within walking distance. It is the first
place I have lived in my restless life where I have felt grounded and
content.
I work a breath away from my husband,a writer and filmmaker who has
made a documentary, Hell’s Highway about driver’s education films and a
narrative film based on pioneering “sexologist” Krafft-Ebing’s writings
called Psychopathia Sexualis. Bret shares a home office with me and
the obliterating kudzu of our DVDs, books, files, paint-by-numbers,
laserdiscs, and framed posters for exploitation film classics like
Dwain Esper's The Seventh Commandment (adultery, baby) and Marihuana
(reefer, baby) and the leather Man-Chair I bought for him to soothe him
as his 40th birthday approached. He looks very happy in the times he
is able to get-all-up-in-his-man-thang. I have my nose buried so deep
in my third appendage laptop, and he in his, we barely know the other
person's there.
Though I often write about contemporary, conceptual art and love the
work of Laylah Ali, Gillian Wearing, Mike Kelley, Loretta Lux, Shelby
Lee Adams, William Eggleston, Nam June Paik, Adrian Piper, Rodney
Graham, Rachel Whiteread, O. Winston Link and so many others (and a
host of Atlanta-based artists too), I am also deeply invested in
kitsch, lowbrow and craft and can probably get equally excited at
scouring -- and perhaps scoring -- remnants of our dearly departed 20th
century at the local thrift store. I am deeply distrustful of people
who are not in touch with both their high and low sides. I consider it
an essential component of human consciousness.
I have lived all over the world and in hideous and wondrous nooks and
crannies of this country, but oddly enough, find succor and
satisfaction in the American South, a region with humility,
authenticity and character despite its undeserved reputation for
runaway brides, warped kiddie beauty pageants, abject Wal-Mart culture
and me-first Republicanism. Regional-discrimination, my friends, and
not necessarily so. At least not the South I know.
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