Somerville Puppeteer Faye Dupras: An art form that is hardly wooden.

 

Interview with Doug Holder

Recently I caught up with Faye Dupras--a puppeteer -- based here --in the Paris of New England. I asked her about her life and work.


How has it been for you as an artist moving to and living in Somerville? 

 I moved to the US in 2001 to pursue an MFA in puppetry arts at UConn. I planned to return to Montreal after my studies. However, during this period I met my now husband who is American.

 It wasn’t until I moved to Somerville in 2011 that I felt truly at home this side of the border. I recognized immediately that I could find like-minded people in terms of social action and in artistic practice. I also liked the cultural and economic diversity in the city.

 Having said that, the demographics of the city have changed a lot since I came and many of my friends and peers have been priced out of the city.

 I love how the city and the Somerville Arts Council works hard to try and support the arts and local artists.

A huge asset of living in Somerville is having access to Vernon Street studios. When I first moved to Somerville two Vernon Street studio artists allowed me to display my puppets in their studio during open studios. This was a great way to introduce myself to the community and kick started meeting other local artists and future collaborators (like longtime collaborator Jason Slavick of Liars and Believers.) I now rent my own studio at Vernon which has accelerated my practice.


The puppets you use are beautifully rendered. Their faces almost seem like texts from a story.

Do you create your own puppets? If so, what is the process?

I was drawn to puppetry because it’s a multidisciplinary art form. I could be a visual artist, performer, script writer, and producer under one umbrella discipline. I started as a designer builder / builder but now I work more as a writer/producer.


Who builds the puppets?

 The puppets on my fayedupras.com website are designed and built (or co-designed & built) by me.

 The puppets on my cozyarts.org website are designed by Puppet Kitchen (a NY based company run by a friend of mine) My mentor, Noreen Young’s, way of training an apprentice was to employ them. She hired me to costume puppets. They expanded to puppet props and puppet bodies.

 She worked in television. I was grateful for the opportunities she gave me but decided to move to Montreal to go to Concordia and pursue a BFA in “Drama in Human Development” This program combined my love of puppetry with my interest in the social applications of arts (drama in education, drama therapy, community-engaged theater)

I was very influenced by my time living and working in Montreal. In the late nineties the arts scene was very interdisciplinary and experimental. I worked with dancers, instillation artists, and electro acoustic sound designers.

It was an exciting time to be an artist! I was very attracted to the idea of imaged based theater as a vehicle for metaphor and the power of puppetry (see uncanny valley below)

 Perhaps this is why you see the poetry in the puppets because they are designed in direct relationship to the story, the research, and/or the emotion we are trying to solicit in the audience.



Is there a point in your art when you feel like a puppet—and the actual puppet is telling you what to do? I know in writing poetry, when you are in a groove—the pen or pencil seems to take control-- and you become a tool.

 Once you’ve learned your puppet (ie how it moves, breaths, thinks, etc.) and your lines and/or blocking, it is easy to get into a groove where it can become unclear where you end and the puppet begins (or vice versa). This is especially true for me when performing more poetic puppetry forms with no spoken language. With language-based television puppets this can happen, but it’s often very silly and playful rather than poetic and surprising.

W hen devising image-based puppetry theater this often happens. The artist becomes a vessel for the story to emerge from. I should mention that by the time I am in the rehearsal room working on my feet to create the story I’ve spent up to a year researching the project, writing about the project (grants) and working with a team of artists to think deeply after the project. The experience of letting go of self and being swept up in the creative process is fueled by equal parts inspiration and preparation.-

I can relate to getting in a groove in your work. I very much relate to this sentiment when building puppets. When I was doing more design work, it was a common experience to look up after a couple of hours of work and discover I’d actually been sculpting for 6+ hours.

My brother Donald Holder was the original lighting designer for the " Lion King" on Broadway. Was this play an inspiration for you?

First of all – very cool!!

When I first discovered I wanted to be a puppeteer I read “Playing with Fire” by Julie Taymor and decided I wanted to be the next JT. I was also very influenced by Philippe Genty, Robert Lepage, and Ronnie Burkett

 It was hard to figure out how to be a puppeteer in the 90s – no internet to find tutorials and only a handful of institutions around the world where you could study it. (I was lucky to find a mentor)

 The Lion King did a lot for us puppeteers in the late 90’s early 2000’s. It opened up the general public’s understanding of the art form. Before then, when I told people I was a puppeteer people would say “I love Jim Henson!” or “Can you perform at my kid’s birthday party.” It was hard on a young serious artist’s ego to have to explain that this isn’t what I do. Ironically, after years of creating metaphor image-based stage work I am now branching into TV style puppetry (Cozy Arts project).



Do you think puppets could pull off a meaningful performance of say... A Chekov play, or would they—pardon the pun—be too wooden?

 Puppets can enhance an audience’s ability to see past the text and tap into the heart of the meaning behind the words because of their uncanniness. The "uncanny valley" in puppetry refers to the unsettling feeling evoked when puppets or dolls appear almost human, but not quite, causing a sense of unease or even revulsion. This phenomenon, rooted in the psychological experience of something familiar yet unsettling, is closely related to Sigmund Freud's concept of the uncanny. Puppets, with their blend of the animate and inanimate, can trigger this unsettling feeling, highlighting the human tendency to project our own desires and anxieties onto objects. 
Because puppets can do things people can’t, like come apart into pieces, or appear in multiple places at once in a variety of sizes, they can be more effective than live actors.




Tell us about your work with children. What do you explore?

 Our collective humanity, our resilience in the face of trials, and how we recognize and nurture our inherent capacity for love and justice. In my work with children, I mostly focus on the 3rd question.

I explore this through the lens of “feelings, friendship, and fairness” and children’s capacity to contribute positively to community building.

In school settings this means supporting the Social Emotional Learning curriculum.  

  

 

Red Letter Poem #251

  The Red Letters

 

 

In ancient Rome, feast days were indicated on the calendar by red letters.

To my mind, all poetry and art serves as a reminder that every day we wake together beneath the sun is a red-letter day.

 

––Steven Ratiner

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Red Letter Poem #251

 

 

 

 

Four Seasons in the Dining Room

In the winter

they planned their flight

In the spring

he fell

backwards down

a flight of stairs

In the summer

he didn’t know where he was

How are the glaciers

he asked me over the phone

In the fall—

it was always the fall—

he was still falling

but he was home

He could even play the piano

In the winter

a cough shook him so hard

ribs broke

When he came home

from the hospital

he was in the dining room

music was falling

from the China cabinet

from a little CD player

above the hospital bed

Music was falling

slantwise

like the gold ray

of the Annunciation

in medieval paintings

Music was falling

Four Seasons

Vivaldi

He listened to the music

It lifted him up

carried him

made it easier to breathe

And then it was easier to rest

from the work

of breathing altogether


––Jennifer Clarvoe

 

 

 

In a conversation decades ago, Mary Oliver told me that a poem, when it was finished, is the culmination of a thousand carefully considered choices. Or ten thousand. The poet must live inside each subsequent draft of the text until every decision, great or small––which originally appeared through inspiration, chance, or sheer mystery––has now been, if not settled in the poet’s mind, then at least rendered for what it is. We hone our work as best we can, but every experienced writer well knows that another day––another change in circumstance or the cerebral weather––might easily throw the poem into a new light, unsettling even those decisions of which one felt most confident. So when Jennifer Clarvoe first showed me this poem from a manuscript-in-progress, I was immediately struck by her choice of omitting all punctuation (something she does not routinely do.) But I had to abide with the poem for a time in order to fully appreciate how that one choice was affecting everything within this pared-down deeply-affecting narrative.



Beginning with the title, we are prepared for a round of seasons to pass within this verse (or perhaps the cycles of many years.) “In the winter/ they planned their flight”––and these unnamed protagonists are about to engage in one of the activities many couples prize above all others: travel, perhaps to some longed-for destination. (Of course, flight could also imply ‘escape from’––and, for some reason, Carpaccio’s “The Flight into Egypt” popped into my mind, a painting depicting the Holy Family trying to escape a cruel fate for their newly-blessed household.) But before we readers can conjure the excitement of airline tickets and packed luggage, the poem darts ahead: “In the spring/ he fell/ backwards down/ a flight of stairs”. Even before it was confirmed by the other poems surrounding it in the manuscript, the image of aging parents was becoming clear. And that provoked thoughts of the situation we all must ultimately contend with––despite its unpredictability and infinite variety––as an inescapable fate. Did it begin to feel to you that the seasons were suddenly speeding up? Summer/confusion (the pathos of those imagined glaciers, just when the world was turning a lush green); autumn/piano (and oh, the ineffable comfort of music!); winter again, and those brittle ribs, the agony provoked by every labored breath. What torment is worse than the empathetic pain we cannot help but take on––witnessing the suffering of someone we love, and which we are powerless to alleviate? Perhaps you shared my experience that our mounting sense of helplessness within this poem is magnified by the lack of punctuation. Stepping away from her usual measured pentameters, Jennifer told me these “falling” lines felt “vertiginous.” These are days of a spiraling descent––and, despite the small glories, the inexorable shadow chills the mind. The lack of any typographical escapement mechanism, which would regulate the clock’s gears and keep time from spinning out of control, helps build a sense of desperation. To be sure, there are moments of intense beauty presented here––the imagined strains of Vivaldi sweeping past, or the gorgeous phrasing the poet presents: “Music was falling/ slantwise/ like the gold ray/ of the Annunciation/ in medieval paintings;” they give the heart an almost-tangible lift. But these are interwoven with a slow-accumulating grief, as we anticipate a time when (and, to my mind, it’s the most tragic realization a child can have) it must eventually come as a relief that our parents are about to be freed from time’s cruel mechanism.



Jennifer’s poem, “Four Seasons…,” will appear in her collection PIANO PIANO which, I am happy to report, is set to be published by Unbound Edition Press in April of 2026. Professor of English, Emerita, from Kenyon College, she is the author of two previous poetry books––and her work has been featured in scores of journals such as Poetry Northwest; and the Triquarterly, Threepenny, and Yale Reviews. Honors and awards abound. What I find most attractive in her work is an unbridled intellectual curiosity, and a deep commitment to the communal power language has in our lives. Studying the varied choices which enrich her writing offers a masterclass in how each adjustment, every nuance adds to the overall effect. “A poem is never finished, only abandoned”––or so Paul Valéry reminds us. Perhaps we poets make what choices we are capable of making, with whatever skill and discernment we have acquired over many seasons––and then we must surrender the poem to the world, and our hearts to this human circumstance.

 

 

 

 

The Red Letters

 

* If you would like to receive these poems every Friday in your own in-box – or would like to write in with comments or submissions – send correspondence to:

steven.arlingtonlaureate@gmail.com

 

 

* To learn more about the origins of the Red Letter Project, check out an essay I wrote for Arrowsmith Magazine:

https://www.arrowsmithpress.com/community-of-voices

 

and the Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene

http://dougholder.blogspot.com

 

* For updates and announcements about Red Letter projects and poetry readings, please follow me on BlueSky

@stevenratiner.bsky.social

and on Twitter          

@StevenRatiner

 

And coming soon:

a new website to house all the Red Letter archives at StevenRatiner.com

The Thirty-Two Directions BY CD COLLINS

 

The Thirty-Two Directions

BY CD COLLINS

I wake before the innocent fire of dawn, the pulsing tangerine sun above the chicken coop. I take a photograph to send to California, letting her know about the grandeur of this small farm in rural Kentucky where you might assume you know what motivates the movement of the stars and the people as you sit on the front porch and count the ratio of cars to trucks. Always more trucks, some loud without mufflers and no one stopping them. Some trucks built so high up you need the running board even if you’re a grown man.

I waited to send the photograph until people were waking in California. She wrote back in response to the sunrise pleated by the tin roof: Dear God.

Mornings, I position myself with my prayer beads and the hot chocolate she’d sent the recipe for: Darkest chocolate, salt, MCT oil, full on milk and cream, cayenne, cinnamon. You can get something similar in the drive-up booth in the Dollar Tree parking lot.

This was the time when we hardly left our houses, when we checked hourly for an opening at the pharmacy for a vaccination. A time we'd been told was coming and we may have believed, but we didn’t know how to trust it. A time when I didn’t see anyone except my cousin Gordon, who showed up with a practically see-through bandana over his nose.

Gordon suspected they'd insert a tracker in his arm if he let them go through with the needle. His wife got the shot, though. People started falling all around us. We could hear the artificial breathing, the pale faces surfacing in our sleep.

We did not know how long it would last, or what transformation would arise. The Governor spoke to us each night. We adorned our porches with green lights to express honor. The wind blew from west to east.

*

Now we do not know where the wind will come from next as we watch the disassembling of all we’ve built.

Can you help us in Los Angeles? What do the Giant Flemish rabbits in cages behind the barn know as they huddle with their quivering nostrils?

We feared what would happen, but could not conceive the speed, our feet on the ground, then steadying ourselves on the running board. Our feet rising, floating, the ground beneath misty and distant.

We couldn't conceive the speed nor the multitudinous directions.

We knew only cardinal directions, or intercardinal directions, northeast, southwest.

Now they come from every direction, coming for the goats and fowl, coming for the rings on your fingers, coming for the sunrise, coming for the day in its brightening and release.

Can you hear us Arkansas, can you hear us Belize?

Now we must say what we want, not turn away in desperate alarm.

Can you hear us Senegal, can you hear us, St. Petersburg? Can you hear us, Kyiv? Can you hear us?

We are calling.

We are listening.

****** previously published in Writer's Hour Magazine