Poetry and the written word is an important part of my creative process. Whether its a prayer piece or a work born out of theological and/or contemplative musings the writing completes the work for me. As one might fashion a living being a body so the painting is born, its soul the presence of the work, then writing is the voice of the piece- speaking - enquiring - inviting.

The Marriage of Word and Form

An Anthology of Selected Poems

  • Its brilliant how beautiful tragedy is -

    How human

    The unspoken thoughts of hopeless futures are beautiful
    like the the whispered wingbeats of a moth on a night breeze
    drawn to the false promise of manufactured suns on a porch front

    they remain the unwanted cousin of the Day

    The listless song of the heart

    Their flight is a rickety stumble through the dark night
    Yet such fuzzy fancy creatures - preening women in evening furs

    In their dark gilded merriment
    in the unreality of it all
    it looks the least authentic
    and it feels the most romantic
    this fluttering hopeless unrequited love

  • Feed it incessantly through escape

    through the mundane and the dramatic

    so poled beyond conception
    that - the state of nature reflects in it an unreality
    - made real

    culture and civilization
    morality and the id
    Intersections and nexuses of such ardent opposite they fuel and bundle the intangibility of it all

  • I feel I have reached

    the end of the line

    I do not know this

    body anymore, my

    skin is not my own

    Why oh why do I do

    what I do not want

    and do not do what

    I want. - Because

    My body is riddled

    with the illness of

    consumption - the

    decay of hedonistic

    addiction. This is the

    End of the Line

  • Never the second or even the third
    The length of my longing’s life

    And so there is no glances to the window
    No expectation of homecoming
    - in fact -
    A distinct absence of koinonia

    The only union of souls
    found in the mirage of a daydream

    I gaze upon other’s fields awed by the hills of jasmine,
    spotted by Dahlias,
    and woven a rich red with rosie ruby colored tulips.

    Pollinated - precious and profound in their beauty

    Mine own field of rocky earth
    seemingly only home to the harsh mountain wind
    cloaked in patches of lichen and moss

    The only sprouting flowers nestled
    in alcoves away from the unending gale
    and any wandering walker -
    they wear the faces of the Dicentra,
    the Butterfly weed and a dotting of Purple hyacinths -
    all as infrequent to the eye as faerie sightings

    Pathetic, Paltry, and profane imitations of passion

    They speak with the petal tongues of the listless
    and are so rarely beheld by the eyes of others
    they neglect knowing their own virtue

    Woe the weary weight of the Bleeding Heart

  • The  Silence of resentment is a loud

    Clamoring kind

    A void that contradicts emptiness

    And fills a room with electricity

    It is the kind of quiet that will stifle some voices

    And raises others to nervous babel

    Setting hairs to bristle

    And glances to be exchanged

    It  heightens and sharpens everything

    Such silence is the sound of unforgiveness

  • Without you
    I would have died years ago

    Right now I wouldn’t be able to breathe
    My tear shorn face the product of mine own folly

    How much greater my pain
    I imagine If I did not have your
    Grace to return to

  • I laugh as much as I cry

    as much as i am numb…

    That years would continue to spill out of my cup

    and still the starvation persists

    It hollows holes in the heart leaving

    echoed apparitions of dreams to haunt the high halls of its

    abandoned form

    The elegant colorless fur coat named nihilism

    - paints the mindpalace in grey

    A shawl of mine own making

    specters of my self promenade the corridors

    faces from all times whispering doubts from the soul

    faces from times past, passing and yet to progress

    promises of potential plans and possible plots

    predestined potentiality masquerading as delusion

    My cursed heart and worm rotten mind

    pleading within a dusted cocoon, an ashen crypt

    begging not for the sun

    but at least for the viability to flourish under an endless moon

  • The unspeakable is never something I thought of as true

    we turn and talk
    and gossip and bistander balk

    we sing hymns of chaos not making and

    secrets are the currency of being. Wounds locked in
    chambers never fired

    but now I understand

    how the face of a friend changed
    when i said i dont think i will mourn my father

    woe the inequities of experience and apathy of time
    on the churning journey of a young mind

    woe the unspeakable truths

    curated by me and curated by you
    the grave of grave gabbles grabbed’n dragged to the grave

  • Never the second or even the third
    The length of my longing’s life

    And so there is no glances to the window
    No expectation of homecoming
    - in fact -
    A distinct absence of koinonia

    The only union of souls
    found in the mirage of a daydream

    I gaze upon other’s fields awed by the hills of jasmine,
    spotted by Dahlias,
    and woven a rich red with rosie ruby colored tulips.

    Pollinated - precious and profound in their beauty

    Mine own field of rocky earth
    seemingly only home to the harsh mountain wind
    cloaked in patches of lichen and moss

    The only sprouting flowers nestled
    in alcoves away from the unending gale
    and any wandering walker -
    they wear the faces of the Dicentra,
    the Butterfly weed and a dotting of Purple hyacinths -
    all as infrequent to the eye as faerie sightings

    Pathetic, Paltry, and profane imitations of passion

    They speak with the petal tongues of the listless
    and are so rarely beheld by the eyes of others
    they neglect knowing their own virtue

    Woe the weary weight of the Bleeding Heart

  • Of course it hurts
    It hurts the way sandpaper rubs against skin
    Raw and unyielding
    a burn like the sun cooled by nothing but delusion
    It is an obsessive obstinate love
    regarded in its quality by few
    but it is mine and I will covet it till a day a greater love declares itself

    until then

    It is the thing that reminds me I am alive
    It robs my peace just as assuredly as it gives it
    And so it rubs me raw
    until the moment I decide my psychosis is ended
    and put down the sandpaper

Living With The Art

  • "...Through the combination of biography, title, visual elements, and poetry, Criscuolo creates a guided journey through her own spiritual and artistic awakening. But rather than starting with the viewer’s interpretation, this journey begins with the artist’s internal dialogue, her own struggle for transcendence beyond the raw facts of existence. The result is both more and less than traditional abstract art. More, because it provides multiple entry points for understanding; less, because it somewhat constrains the viewer’s interpretative freedom. Yet perhaps this tension itself – between guidance and discovery, between the inevitable and the hoped-for – is precisely the point."

    Robert A. Veen
    Philosopher and Theologian

    Quote from About Modern Art: Levinas and Criscuolo – A Second Attempt

  • “Having several of Biancas prayer pieces in my home is like hosting a silent worship service in my home at all times. The painting's forms and light shift daily, inviting contemplation and prayer, always reminding me to be dwelling in the spirit throughout my day. The accompanying poem deepens its meaning of the work to me but also has become something for me to read to soften my heart and remember what it means to be loved and prayed for. It's not just having art on the wall, but each one is a space carved out in my home for reflection and remembrance of the preciousness of God.”

    Anonymous
    For collector confidentially

“Criscuolo's artistic process, as revealed in her writings, deeply resonates with the Levinasian concept of "il y a" explored in her work. She describes her paintings and poems as a "marriage," not twins, emphasizing their individual evolution yet profound interdependence. Just as her art, as interpreted through Levinas, reveals raw materiality and invites a journey beyond the everyday, her creative practice reflects a similar dynamic. Paintings and poems, often born separately, find their purpose in each other's presence, echoing the tension between raw being and the search for meaning in the reflection of an ‘other’. This "marriage" allows each form to retain its individuality while contributing to a unified dialogue with the viewer, where the visual "face" of the painting and the "voice" of the poem guide an exploration, or invite conversation much like Levinas's emphasis on the artwork as a trace pointing beyond itself. Criscuolo's approach, therefore, embodies the delicate balance between the artwork's autonomy and the artist's intentional guidance, inviting viewers to engage in a deeply personal and dialogical experience.”

A short Curatorial Synthesis of Robert A. Veens two articles “About Modern Art: Immanuel Levinas and Bianca Valencia Criscuolo” / “Levinas and Criscuolo – A Second Attempt” and her recent personal essay “One Flesh”.