Room with Empty White Picture Frames on Wall

Hello and welcome!

My name is Christine Palma and I’m a radio producer, writer and visual artist living in Los Angeles. This website will serve as a repository for my writing about art. The First Person section of this site is a vehicle to push me to write more creative nonfiction in the form of memoir and personal essay. My passion for this type of writing is informed by my love of contemporary art.

I made the decision to name this blog after a poem by Wallace Stevens. It’s a good metaphor for what I am trying to do. I have included it at the end of this introduction.

About me:

I am probably best known as the producer and host of Echo in the Sense, a radio program which has been broadcasting weekly, anywhere from 1 to 3 hours, on KXLU Los Angeles 88.9 FM since 1994. It currently can be picked up on Sunday nights from 7 to 8 PM both on the radio and through a live web stream on KXLU’s homepage. I am also the Public Affairs Director for the radio station. The focus has always been on public affairs, arts and culture, and giving airtime to people, issues and topics you would not normally hear about on prime-time stations and which deserve a broader audience. For about a year in the 1990s, I produced and hosted a political radio program called The Fray. KXLU’s radio signal encompasses Los Angeles County and the San Fernando Valley, but its internet signal is picked up around the world.

My writing priorities are on the craft of writing. If a piece is pleasing to the ear and the narrative resolves itself formally and thematically and I haven’t bored you, then my writing is improving. I would characterize my ideal audience as those who have strayed off the beaten path at some point in their lives.

Copyright and Usage:

Regarding copyright of materials here, both images and written text: If I am pulling content from a secondhand source, then whenever possible, I will include a footnote attribution of source material that includes author or photographer, and the publication. If I fail to do so or if you are the photographer and you don’t want your image used here, please email me and I will remove it. The images I am using on the front page of the site for each entry’s thumbnail I have pulled from Google image search and I don’t include attribution for those.

Most of the images, video, and audio on this website, I have taken myself.  If you are the artist or gallery and have a better photograph of the artwork that you can provide, I would love to get a copy.

All copyright belong to their rightful owners.

With regards to usage of my content, for the writing, I ask you to provide a link back to this website. I request that you not use the photography of the artwork without first getting permission from the rightful owner of the image – the artist or gallery.

Use of my content is provided under a Creative Commons 3.0 license, the terms of which can be read here: link.

Contact Info:




Christine Palma

(September 25, 2014 marks the official launch of 13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird)


Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird


by Wallace Stevens


Among twenty snowy mountains, The only moving thing Was the eye of the blackbird.

I was of three minds, Like a tree In which there are three blackbirds.


The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds. It was a small part of the pantomime.


A man and a woman Are one. A man and a woman and a blackbird Are one.


I do not know which to prefer, The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after.


Icicles filled the long window With barbaric glass. The shadow of the blackbird Crossed it, to and fro. The mood Traced in the shadow An indecipherable cause.


O thin men of Haddam, Why do you imagine golden birds? Do you not see how the blackbird Walks around the feet Of the women about you?


I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms; But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know.


When the blackbird flew out of sight, It marked the edge Of one of many circles.


At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.


He rode over Connecticut In a glass coach. Once, a fear pierced him, In that he mistook The shadow of his equipage For blackbirds.


The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.


It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.