Gaye Gambell-Peterson

“Once upon a time a girl-child in western New York colored outside the lines and paid no attention to the numbers in her paint-by-numbers kits. She parlayed that proclivity into a degree in design (major: painting) from the University of Michigan. From there she wandered back and forth between the west coast and the Midwest, labeling herself every which way (wife, art teacher, mother, reporter, painter, sculptor, weaver, sales, special education assistant, divorcee, caregiver, grandmother, wife again, poet, retiree, artist/poet, great-grandmother).

In her ninth decade, gaye gambell-peterson has settled down to one artistic medium, that being collage—the layering of bits of paper and ephemera on canvas. In the 1970s, she was content to lug her art from outside fair to outside fair—now she's delighted to carry a piece or three to a juried exhibit right here in the St Louis area. 2023 was a banner year with her collages juried into 16 shows, and an Award of Excellence garnered. 

Poetry is a passion also—the layering of words. She is published often enough to keep her writing.  Her latest poetry award was in 2023. Her art and poetry are companioned in her two chapbooks, pale leaf  floating (Cherry Pie Press: Midwest Womens Poet Series) and mYnd mAp (Agog Press).”

A poem (with art) by gaye gambell-peterson, published online:  https://qarrtsiluni.com/2012/10/10/life-stuff/

                        Life Stuff

I gather dabs of life-stuff around me. They come in a drift,
or singly like snowflakes. Moments fall in my ears; their music, sometimes discordant,

although mostly remembered as harmony.
I trim each chance to one-inch squares, line them up on my canvas, seal them—
a portrait of self. My family admires my effort, or mocks it—
this impulse to control past and present. Yet, I persist. Translate half—
or twice as much—of every emotion into these small paper pieces.
Bright hues—purple, hot pink, mango, bitter green, azure—tangle in my hair,

in my art, blind my other eye. I edit images into these fragments,

rearrange, attempt to appreciate this life, this urge.

Ampersands, seashells, bird nest, rocking chair, moose,

spiral, moon. And words: The heart is the hub. Go there. Roam in it. I am.
So. Look at me now. A scrap-monger in a world of dots and words,
confetti of my life a swirl ’round my head, while the unremembered fall away—
fall upon my bare feet which tap and twirl without notice.