Christi Harris Discusses Lachrymose with Tracy Rice Weber and Lee Matney Revisited

INTRODUCTION

This revisited conversation brings together two exceptional voices whose work continues to shape the cultural landscape of our region and beyond. Christi Harris, a nationally trained painter and professor whose practice pushes the boundaries of narrative, material, and memory, has long been recognized for the way she transforms found histories into deeply resonant visual language. And Tracy Rice Weber, an award-winning poet, educator, and literary guide, is a respected figure in contemporary letters—someone whose insight into language, loss, and interior life has influenced generations of writers and students.

Both women are leaders in their disciplines: Harris in visual art and pedagogy, Weber in poetry and literary instruction. Lachrymose, the installation at the center of their dialogue, becomes a shared space where their strengths converge—Christi through the rigor and emotional intelligence of her making, and Tracy through her expert ability to articulate the emotional architecture, historical language, and expressive terrain that shape the work.

What follows is a renewed look at their conversation as they explore grief, language, memory, and the quiet power of hand-stitched storytelling.

ABOUT LACHRYMOSE

This work explores the intersection of grieving and “emotional labor,” made tangible in embroidered phrases from condolence letters written to a late-19th-century Virginia family.

Harris discovered the letters at a flea market, and during the pandemic she spent time painstakingly embroidering words and phrases from them onto handkerchiefs in the style of the original handwriting. Hundreds of these embroidered receptacles for tears and grief are suspended around the viewer in the Microgallery, becoming both archive and atmosphere.

Christi Harris Discusses Lachrymose with Tracy Rice Weber and Lee Matney

Lee:
Welcome, Christy and Tracy. Tell me how this installation came into being and the background behind it.

Christi:
Well, a long time ago—probably 10 years ago—I bought this packet of letters at a flea market in Newport News, just hoping to use them for backgrounds for collages. I paid $35 for them. Then I got them home and started looking at them, and I realized they were all condolence letters. They were all to the same family and in regard to four different deaths in the family within 10 years.

I sat with that for a long time. I kept trying to think what to do. Finally, it came to me to embroider them on handkerchiefs, because the handkerchiefs could represent the collection of the tears and the grief and the way people used to use them all the time. So I duplicated the handwriting, took phrases from the letters, embroidered them by hand on these handkerchiefs, and then tried to figure out how to hang them. That took a long time to figure out. That’s where it came from.

Lee:
So the letters—what period were they from? A long period of time?

Christi:
I think it was 1896 to 1910.

Christi:
Some of them appeared to be German, because they used—well, I keep forgetting what it’s called—but if you say “possible,” they would spell it P-O-S-F-I-B-L-E. Posfible.

Lee:
Yes. Kind of like the old spelling.

Lee:
Very interesting. In my travels, I found a diary of a girl from 1920 who had just graduated high school. It reminded me a bit of this. We had the diary and photos from 1920, and at the end it included an invitation to the class reunion in Tucson, Arizona, in 1973. It was fascinating.
So anyway—tell me more. What fascinated you with these letters? Tell me your thoughts on the process of grief. Was there something that resonated with you in these pieces that spoke about grief?

Christi:
Well, I haven't had that many people in my family die recently, but certainly I know lots of people who are dying now or have just passed away—and other people's family members. But what struck me about the letters is how flowery the speech was, how gripped by grief they seemed, and how they expressed it. It was so gut-wrenching. It's just so different now. Today people would just send a card—“you're in our prayers” or “thinking of you and your family at this time,” or whatever. But these letters said things like my eyes were blinded by burning tears—that’s pretty dramatic.

The way they talked about death was really, really—well, I don’t know if “antiquated” is the word—but people don't talk like that anymore. People don't write letters anymore, and people don't write in cursive anymore. So it had this whole handful of things altogether that I found interesting.

Lee:
So Tracy—can you comment on the works and how poetry intersects with grief a bit?

Tracy:
Well, just to say a few things about Christi's work in general: I am struck by how multifaceted it is. I always say it's so deeply storied. Standing before any of Christi's work—if there's such a thing—it’s like a literary visual art, if you will, because there are characters, conflict, and voices that are developed not just in this installation but in all of her work.

This installation in particular moved me because of the choices she made—the specific words she pulled from these cards that were supposed to bring comfort. And I also thought about how we let Hallmark do a lot of our expressions about anything deeply felt, whether it's love or sadness or apology. We count on other people's words to help us express what we're feeling.

I'm moved by these because, while—as Christi said—the language is antiquated, the emotions are universal. Anyone can relate. Each handkerchief informs me about the person who died, the person who wrote the letter, and the risks they were taking in sharing those feelings. These little phrases are things we might say—or maybe things we just think.

I told Christi recently that this is the third time I’ve seen the exhibit. I would drive to it no matter where it was. It's as though I feel connected to this installation because I feel like I'm being seen—my grief is being seen, my feelings are being regarded. It's validating. And grief is universal. We all feel it in different scenarios—not necessarily through death, but through all the layers of life.

The historical component adds even more. And really, that’s true of all of Christi’s work. I was telling my husband recently—Christi, I talk about your work a lot—that standing in front of your work is like reading a novel. Every time you return to it, you learn something else about the people in it, or the shadows of people who aren’t pictured but are somehow present. And in learning about them, we learn about ourselves.

There’s also the handwriting, the phrasing—what each letter-writer chose to say. And then from a textile point of view, the intricate work that our grandparents and great-grandparents put into these handkerchiefs. Each one was a unique expression of the person who held it or offered it to someone who might need it. I’ll continue to go to this installation wherever it's shown.

Lee:
When I come into the installation, I feel like I’m in this meditative state. When Christi was installing it, I have a picture of her with her eyes closed, almost talking to the grief in front of her. That’s exactly how I feel when I sit in the installation—there’s this energy.

A friend of mine passed away six years ago, and her family placed all her mementos on a bed—her books, her objects—and you felt that energy in the room. They said I could take any book. I chose Rodin on Art. But the energy was real. And I feel that here—this energy about real people.

Tracy:
And Lee, the way you have this in such a small space—it adds to that power. In a large room it would feel different, but the compression, the intimacy—it amplifies everything.

Lee:
Yes, definitely.
Christi, any comments on what was said?

Christi:
Tracy’s my biggest fan, and it's always so nice to hear what she has to say. She said a lot of things I should have said. What I said felt superficial compared to what I’d been thinking about for years.

While I was embroidering these—during COVID—both of Bob’s dogs died, then two of my cats died, and then my father died. I wasn’t close to my father, but still. So I was stitching and stitching and stitching someone else's words, all night sometimes, thinking about the loss of these beings.

And the handkerchiefs themselves—there’s such a variety. Some were souvenir handkerchiefs, some were everyday men’s handkerchiefs, some were printed, some were gifts. Women collected these; that’s what they got for presents, just like men used to get ties. So there’s this wide range, and I was struck by that too. I felt there needed to be variety in the phrases, the colors, the sizes. Eventually I think it got there.

And there are more handkerchiefs that didn’t fit in the room. Probably three-quarters of them. I don’t know—I’m not done with them yet, but at some point I probably need to stop.

Lee:
So Tracy—can you comment on poetry about grief that you work with and how it might intersect with this?

Tracy:
I think that with grief there is an incubation time one must spend with it. You deal with it in your own unique and sometimes messy way before it can find its way into artistic expression, because it’s raw for so long. It was probably 10 years before I even tried to write about my father's suicide. I had years of therapy and conversation first.

Whether it's poetry or visual art that functions like poetry—which I believe Christi's work does—there’s a lot of time that you don’t create. The time you spend with the grief before making anything is as important as the moment you start arranging words on a page or stitching fabric. You learn about yourself when you try to convey a feeling or create a voice. And it also teaches you about others.

Lee:
I really liked what you said about the presence of someone who isn’t pictured—someone who’s “off camera.” That really resonates with me.

The day after the opening, I went on the train to my birthday gathering at a resort in Maryland. I saw relatives I hadn't seen in years. Some of them are in their eighties, using walkers, not the same in some ways as they used to be. So there’s the grief of things changing—family aging, the unknown. But it was also reassuring, seeing these people who've known me since I was a baby. It felt authentic.

Tracy:
They know your story. It's powerful to be around people who know your story. And as we get older, the number of those people diminishes. It’s a strange feeling.

And as for people who have gotten older—I mean, in my family as well—I always tell my students: you might see an older person, but inside they’re still 23. They still have all the same passions and interests. In this country we often “other” large groups of people, and the elderly are one of those groups.

Lee:
I really like this series. And the one with the collages—these people aren’t their actual story, but you're using them for your narrative. I think it's very strong; it’s an authentic narrative that delves into pop culture and the psyche. Can you comment a bit on that, Christi—how you identify with these people and the trajectory of the stories that impress on these?

Tracy:
It’s creative nonfiction—that’s what you’ve done there.

Christi:
There’s definitely something I'm trying to express. In the collages in particular, I don’t know exactly what it is until I find the right images together. Each collage goes through stages. I use my phone now as a tool—I take pictures and see which small image combined with another makes more of a story or gives it more meaning.

The juxtaposition and spontaneity—that’s what makes them fun. It also taps the unconscious in the way the Surrealists did, or the writers using the cut-up method, and all those ways of trying to access parts of yourself you don’t know are there. Of course, I did have some sort of narrative in mind…

Christi:
And the collages that Lee is referring to—the backgrounds were wedding announcements from the 1890s through the 1960s that I found at an antique mall. Part of the pleasure of these works is the collecting itself—the hunting and gathering of materials. But for that particular series, I was thinking deeply about marriage. I had just gone through a very painful divorce, and I wanted to explore not only my own point of view but also how the other person might have felt. The work is weighted toward my experience, of course, but I was trying to acknowledge that there is always more than one side to a story.

Those ideas surface most clearly in the collage with the icebergs and the two twin beds—one bed grounded on the shore, the other drifting and angled in the water. That image, to me, captured something essential about how I was feeling.

Lee:
Yes, I went through a divorce as well. Mine happened during the pandemic—we separated and then divorced two years ago. So that really resonates with me.
Before we wrap up, is there anything else you would like to share about the exhibition, your process, or what you hope viewers take away? We have about five minutes left.

Christi:
What comes to mind is that with this installation, there’s really no way to know how it will look until it’s actually up. A lot of it relies on chance. I’ll pick up a strand and say, “Here’s one with five handkerchiefs—we need another with five—let’s place it here.” That randomness determines which pieces end up next to each other, and the juxtapositions are always surprising. They change every time I install it.

And honestly, if I hadn’t been tired and sick that day, I probably would have added more. I’m not sure where they would have gone, but I would have tried. I would love to see the installation in a space so saturated that you can barely walk in—a room overwhelmed by these small fragments of grief surrounding you. But reaching that density is difficult. The logistics alone—especially how to suspend everything overhead—are challenging.

Lee:
I think it looks wonderful here. It’s beautiful.

Christi:
Thank you.

Lee:
Tracy, do you have any final thoughts about this project?

Tracy:
What struck me as I was looking at it again is that the way Christi has displayed the work is almost like laundry—like airing something out. We’re airing our laundry, and in a sense, airing our feelings. That adds a compelling emotional layer.

I hadn’t fully considered until now that the installation also changes each time it’s presented. It morphs and reshapes itself depending on how it’s arranged. Like all art, it has the power to move us, but as I’ve said before about Christi’s work, it’s akin to reading a novel. And in this case, the presence of literal words heightens that feeling. You come away with the sense that you have genuinely experienced something.

Lee:
Yes. The show runs until around January 10, so we may have a small closing gathering. We’ll be in touch about that. It has been wonderful having this exhibition during the holidays. I’ll take a few excerpts from this conversation for Instagram, and I’ll likely post the full interview on the blog as well.
This was really wonderful. Happy holidays to both of you, and we’ll talk again soon.

Christi:
It’s such an honor to be included and to know both of you. Truly, it’s an honor. You always manage to highlight some small part of the work that conveys how meaningful it is. Thank you, Lee, and thank you, Tracy.

Tracy:
Thank you, Christi. And thank you, Lee.
(That’s the challenge of working from home—
Zelda!)
All right—I’m going to make chocolate chip cookies now.

Throughout the dialogue, Tracy offers expert literary insight—not as the author of the embroidered phrases, but as a scholar and practitioner of poetry who brings deep knowledge of language, metaphor, grief narratives, and the expressive possibilities of text. Her role here is interpretive: she helps situate Lachrymose within a broader tradition of emotional expression, historical correspondence, and the evolution of written grief.

BIOGRAPHIES

CHRISTI HARRIS

Christi Harris earned her Bachelor of Fine Arts degree at Missouri State University in Springfield, Missouri. The year following graduation, she pursued her Master of Fine Arts in Painting and Printmaking at the Rhode Island School of Design in Providence, completing the program in 1995. Her graduate studies at RISD solidified the foundations of a practice that has remained technically rigorous, materially sensitive, and deeply responsive to the emotional and cultural histories embedded in everyday objects.

Since the 1990s, Harris has developed a body of work rooted in personal and societal narratives, balancing conceptual inquiry with a long-standing commitment to technical skill. Her paintings and mixed-media works often combine formal precision—carefully structured arrangements of color, pattern, texture, and shape—with a sensitivity to the psychological and symbolic dimensions of the objects and stories she engages.

Across her major series, Harris has consistently explored the ways memory, domestic life, and emotional inheritance leave traces that can be reinterpreted through visual form. Her most recent body of work, “Meta-Palettes,” transforms the residue of her own creative process into the subject of the work itself. Using trompe l’oeil oil painting, she renders her paint palettes at monumental scale, treating the accumulated marks, gestures, and color mixtures not as incidental tools but as expressive artifacts worthy of close attention. These hyper-detailed surfaces become records of labor, intuition, and artistic lineage.

Parallel to her studio practice, Harris has built a significant academic career spanning three states and seven teaching institutions. She is currently Associate Professor in the Department of Fine Art and Art History at Christopher Newport University in Newport News, Virginia, where she teaches both foundation and advanced studio courses in painting and drawing. Her teaching practice is known for its rigor, generosity, and emphasis on developing each student’s visual intelligence and technical fluency.

In all of her work—as an artist, educator, and researcher—Harris is drawn to the intimate intersections of material, memory, and meaning. Whether working with 19th-century condolence letters, antique handkerchiefs, or the remnants of her own palette, she brings a thoughtful, historically attuned perspective to the narratives that surface through objects. Lachrymose, her embroidered installation of suspended handkerchiefs, continues this lineage: a meditation on grief, emotional labor, and the power of small, personal artifacts to hold more than one lifetime’s worth of story.

TRACY RICE WEBER

Tracy Rice Weber is a longtime educator who teaches in the English Department at Christopher Newport University and at The Muse Writing Center in Norfolk. A graduate of the Old Dominion University MFA Program, she brings decades of experience teaching poetry, literature, and creative writing. Her own work appears in River River, The Bangalore Review, Poets.org, CALYX, and other literary journals. She received the Academy of American Poets College Poetry Prize and is the author of the chapbook All That Keeps Me and the full-length collection Tools & Ornaments (St. Julian Press, 2024).

She participates in this conversation as an expert on poetry and grief narratives—offering critical insight into Christi’s visual language, historical text, and the emotional resonance of Lachrymose.