19'x 24"

Cynthia's washboard is fashioned from many layers of pleated foil. Her wiry hair is the real thing as are the spoons and the jewelry.

CYNTHIA SUNSHINE MAGEE

Romans 8:38-39         For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

        Cynthia held a nine to five job, which she hated, but it paid her bills, barely.  That was not where her heart was.  She wanted to be a dancer and this dream was fading fast.

Cynthia lived in a low rent apartment in Covington, keeping to herself.  She rarely ventured out except to go to the grocery store or one of the local nightclubs when she could find a man to accompany her.  Her life was miserable.  Eventually she quit her job and stopped going out all together.  She began dancing alone with the music she heard in her head.

Neighbors said she would dance “alone” every night after the local news – well into the morning hours.  Lights low, party dress on, make-up smeared across her face.    Sometimes there would be music but mostly it was in her head.  The dances were slow, mesmerizing ones that transported her to a better time.  She always held her grandmother’s favorite spoons.  Spoons that fed her oatmeal early in the mornings before anyone else woke.

  The neighbors worried about this bizarre woman at first but didn’t know what to do for she really wasn’t disturbing the peace.  However, one night when the moon was full, the dances took on a rhythm all their own.  The music became loud.  Neighbors knocked on her door to complain.  No one answered.  They looked in the window and found her dancing madly.  There was stomping, and chanting.  Occasionally a loud mournful cry to the moon goddess penetrated the darkness.   It was as if a covey of unsavory demons were gathered in the living room, all beating on the pots and pans to their own individual tunes.   The neighbors complained to the local law enforcement for the noise was unbearable.

 She was evicted.

Cynthia found herself in New Orleans-homeless.  She lived in the shadows of abandoned buildings and wallowed in the gutters.  Her meals came mostly from garbage dumpsters.  Over a bottle of wine one night she revealed to a friend that she had always wanted to be a dancer, or entertainer.  The moon was full and she began once again stomping and chanting to the moon goddess.  Others gathered around.  Some began to clap in rhythm.  The friend pulled out his harmonica.  She grabbed her spoons and played them against the lids of trashcans.  They danced and played this way the rest of the night in the shadows where no one ventured after dark.  As dawn broke, her friend suggested she join him as a street performer.

“I will play the harmonica and you will dance and play the washboard,” he said.  “We can split the cash down the middle.”  They did.  Now they are a favored group in the French Quarter leaving their mark on the dance of life.

At last Cynthia feels like a celebrity.  Most think she is crazy, but that doesn’t matter.

Being thought crazy gives new meaning and freedom to the art of self-expression.