Rosie Lee Tompkins, God, anonymity & alchemy

"The pieces I am, she gather them and gave them back to me in all the right order." —Toni Morrison, Beloved

Since January 2021, I have written forty-three essays for LOST ART. That’s four years, two zines, one audio episode, 110,069 words.

That’s longer than Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.

I’ve written about 23 visual artists, 15 writers, and 9 musicians. (And if you’re wondering about that math, some essays feature more than one artist.)

I frequently describe this project as the best homework assignment I’ve ever given myself.

This month, I want to celebrate the end of my fourth year by saying Thank you.

Thank you thank you thank you. For reading, for sending gift subscriptions to your friends, for forwarding emails and writing back to me; for sharing the zines; for recommending LOST ART on your newsletter; for sending in suggestions to the LOST ART hotline (always open). Thank you to all 2,913 subscribers for giving your attention and time. Additional thanks are due to the small portion of you who pay for your subscriptions. You keep the lights on. Truly.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

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Rosie Lee Tompkins. String, 1985. Bequest of Eli Leon, University of California, Berkeley Art Museum and Pacific Film Archive

Her biography is full of blank expanses.

Born Effie Mae Martin in 1936 in Gould, Arkansas, one of fifteen half-siblings, to a family of sharecroppers and quilt-piecers. She left school before high school and then departed Arkansas for good: first for Milwaukee, then Chicago, and ultimately, at age 22, arrived in Richmond, California, a port city about seven miles north of Berkeley.