All Stars Stand Close in Summer Air

stephanie o’connor

for Molly
COLOFON
© 2023 Stephanie O’Connor
Photography by Stephanie O’Connor
www.stephanieoconnor.co.nz
Book design by Tina De Souter
www.tinadesouter.be
Image sequence by Thomasz Laczny
& Stephanie O’Connor
Poetry by Frances Libeau
Handbound by Tina De Souter
Printed on Fedrigoni Symbol Tatami White 135gr
and Sirio Colour Rough Flamingo 210gr
Printed by Zwaan Lenoir, NL
Printed in a limited edition of 80 copies
. . . / 80
All rights reserved. No part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or
transmitted in any form or by any means, including
photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the
prior permission of the artist.

ALL
STARS
STAND
CLOSE
IN
SUMMER
AIR
stephanie o’connor

“All stars stand close in summer air,
And tremble, and look mild as amber;
When wicks are lighted in the chamber,
They are like stars which settled there.”
— Léonie Adams ‘Country Summer’

Last summer, I returned home to Aotearoa
New Zealand for the first time in five years. In
the months that followed, I obsessively looked
over and re-coloured the photos I took during
my stay. With each revision they became more
dizzying than before, memories haloed and
awash with ochres and greens.
The colours blur a mélange of family, nature,
and old haunts where things no longer look or
feel the same. There is an uncanny newness
to the familiar, a place to lose myself in the
hopes that these prismatic memories moor
themselves somewhere in my mind.
The poems were written by Frances Libeau,
a dear friend based in Aotearoa, creating a
vital tether to the birthplace of the images.
Fragmented and visceral, Frances’ response to
the photographs echo the slippery mutability
of the image, seeing, and remembrance in the
most moving way I could imagine.

small hopes
oystering
the water’s crust
dive there, down
to the small black
curl of a dog's coat
under wet stars

horses evolved from
sea creatures, you say,
& sometimes when swimming
they refuse to return
to land
remember that wide
ocean of horsefish,
looking up

see time’s noise
igneous; sore.
do you hear that clear
pitch underwater?
a wet echo
sloughing at the
crickets’ keening
rub

limping out
from old earth
each mooring rope
slaps with cheek

gauzed occlusion
where light hits
the fern’s eye

emergent pink &
gleaming as sunset
clusters of liquid cloud
drift toward another
scene. the book
butterflied– each stitch
of spine a disc, slipping
from the next

i know your layers
flense with each frame
your earthworm scars
shivering. to see well,
you say, close your eyes