Howe started writing by transcribing walls. A poet friend of hers advised her to collapse the walls around her into print. And she did.
And it became a hinge. A picture balanced on a precipice of sound, invoking something like an alphabet in space.
Woodman slept inside her schoolgirl closet, using, for a time, her dorm room not to live, but to ossify, by photographic means, herself.
And later in New York, after failing after fashion, she succeeds.
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