nancy bo flood

We stump across the stage or parade down your street.
Hear us ROAR our terrible words.
Listen. Laugh. Perhaps shiver.

Some stories are too big to put on paper or canvas. This week, we take a look at street art, art that involves the community.

I am deaf. I cannot hear anything, not even my own voice. But every day I share my stories—what I am thinking, what I have learned, what worries me. I listen to others with my eyes; I speak with my…

We tell our stories – we tell on ourselves – by the symbols we wear on our skin.

Who are you?  Tattoo is how I tell you.  Look at my face.  Tattoo…

Mime, speak without words! You will never hear my voice. You will never forget the stories I tell. Watch! The mime moves soundlessly across the stage, his back to us. He turns around. His face is white. His eyebrows are…

Dance speaks to everyone. Dance is spoken in many ways, in many places. Its language is universal. We tell our stories on ballerina tiptoes … with the stomping of leather boots or the leaping and collapsing of modern movements and…

People everywhere love to eat. And there is something else we love and seek, another kind of nourishment. We love a good story. Everywhere and throughout the ages, people have created ways to tell their stories. This is the first…

I was nervous about meeting the Piestewa family. I had sent the family a copy of my Soldier Sister, Fly Home. Lori’s Mom and Dad had been enthusiastic and supportive in every way. Now I wanted to ask them if…