Claudia Smigrod

A mid-century middle child, I have consistently been fascinated by the dark and brooding. Perhaps a result of harrowing tales told by immigrant grandparents seeking escape from religious persecution, perhaps the consequence of experiencing death at an early age, or perhaps just the mapping of my brain, I am absorbed with a darkened reality just beneath the surface.

World War II stories from my Coast Guard Ensign father, all things German equaling Hitler, my proximity to the Pentagon causing my entire house to shake on September 11, 2001, or, once again, my embrace of conceptual obscurity, all combine to embrace my creative nonfiction sphere of reality.

During a recent trip to London, I met a fellow who told me that the final bomb dropped on London occurred near The United Reformed Church where he sings in the choir. Hitler revisited once again.

The disquiet sky of July 21, 2016 led me to WC1H 9RT, 86 Tavistock Place. Standing underneath the colliding clouds, I was obsessed with the obscure perception of heavenly annihilation. The juxtaposed experience of the dramatic sky, the house-like form of the church and the riveted charred wreckage of the text personally translate as transformed beauty amid destruction.