aesthetic
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pages – roy decarava, photographs 1981
shirley looking down stairwell, new york, 1952 
couple dancing, new york, 1956 
woman resting, subway entrance, new york, 1952 
two women, manikin’s hand, new york, 1950 
woman walking, above, new york, 1950 
graduation, new york, 1949 
woman in sandals, washington d.c., 1963 -
venusian
goddess, how we worship you; erudite, mother,
innocent in the lust that cradles your crown.we sit, spiritually opposed; sepia-rich, tamed, worked, upheld for archetypes both soft and succumbed. i wonder how mars would have held me in his calloused hand, a fragile belizean gyal, firey, singeing lifelines; body tempered by the weight of ancestry’s sword, turning pelvic curves into child-rearing hips before learning myself, my heart.
sable venus; built, fortified, slaying serpents in her sleep. gods and cherubs hover, crowd, marvel at her strength to carry. sketched, etched, devoid of the yolked hues delicately painting her counterpart; two halves of the same whole, reared and ready for the taking. how long have you been studied? when will you reach shore?
bargaining beauty, we reimagine form; collaging memory, stitching meaning from the trails of sweet songs passed down, lexicons laden in the stars. we weave identity from proximity, external in approach, crafting context where history cannot. seen and not heard, how can you learn to be when your mouth is constantly covered? screaming for sight, safety (seeing the mirror to freedom).
we guide one another home through our becoming; the rebirth of our venus – life force, divine feminine, birthright; coveting her essence, unflinching in our resolve to remain human (beautiful, brilliant polaris).
we soften into reality’s cup – sacrament. venusian, spirit and source code, shapeshifters aligned to god’s plan.
(left-right) Thomas Stothard, The Voyage of the Sable Venus from Angola to the West Indies c. 1793; Sandro Botticelli, Birth of Venus c. 1485; Alice Diop, Fragments for Venus, Miu Miu Women’s Tales #30; Mickalene Thomas, je t’adore (November 1981), Yancey Richardson Gallery 2023; Tschabalala Self, Damsel 2019; Southern University fabulous Dancing Dolls 1970; Alcorn State University Golden Girls, inaugural season 1968; carla williams, tender 2023; carrie mae weems, not manet’s type 1997; simone leigh, Sentinel IV 2020; Hansel Mieth, Harlem Renaissance Artist Augusta Savage With Sculpture 1938; Chantal Regnault, Tina Montana at the Avis Pendavis Ball (Femme Queen Realness) 1990; Eartha Kitt, london 1951; Nona Faustine, They Tagged the Land with Trophies and Institutions from their Rapes and Conquests, Tweed Courthouse, NYC 2013; sade, love deluxe 1992
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tender (in-between)
the sacred space where magic unfolds; deepening into self, leaning into acceptance and release; intuition as a guide, self trust as an anchor, feeling as the pulse; liminal.It feels splitting
Bloody Bruisedinside out
Suffocation creeps
The weight of Tissue
Bone
Collapsing
Tender flesh Torn
Spirit brilliant
Armored for the heavens
Passing through time Languid
Half-way floating
we writhe
Bemoan The becoming
pain absolute
ripped from the womb, naked levity
Tethered to past and present
(My darling
how brightly you shine
Show me your scars
Let me caress them with
the sweetest balm)
Arrival
Rebuilt
Anew
Broken
Bare
Tender (in-between)
(top-bottom) robert mapplethorpe black book; irving penn dancer; carla williams tender; gordon parks arias in silence (rain clouds)
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Grief as a portal
Carrie Mae Weems A Single’s Waltz in Time (The Louisiana Project) God’s sense of humor is a funny one. We’re born never asking for the toil or heartache, only to find ourselves lost, found and then lost again. two halves of a human you once knew as home, now fractured and feeble; the grief, bifurcating in its presence.
Childlike; I float through life, coddling myself like a babe after my literal guts have been splayed, torn and bled to the bare studs of my foundation. It feels fragile when you have no net, no ship to ensure you’re safely out to sea (onto the next adventure of healing something that may never truly mend).
I say that grief is my greatest teacher as a Scorpio stellium+. I’ve waded through transformations so deep my soul is tissue thin. fortified, yet transparent in its nature; unyielding in its quest for cover, allowing the light to pass through.
Holding grief and joy in one body is a most tender act, alchemizing our hearts, expanding our capacity — but big words mean nothing when you’re balling on the floor, wailing out to God for a cure, a moment of reprieve. you wonder when your artistry will begin to be a balm; how does one heal what’s so deeply hurting?
It’s a portal into the unknown (a fitting descriptor, i suppose). a request to soften, breathe and be in it however long it takes. I have no answers as to the destination because I’m still in the thick of it, alone. The days mostly feel light, fresh, with pits of frustration, anger and bone-deep exhaustion; a dichotomy confusing and familiar to hold. As many times as I’ve expressed the tangibles, no one save self can carry the depth of my sorrow; most only seeking to assuage the sting of my life being absorbed through their ears.
Grief has been a guide back to myself and an acceptance that other side doesn’t really exist. it’s one journey, a continual spiral deeper within, all dimensions present at once — integrated.
Sending love to all those grieving and especially those holding themselves through it. May we all feel the levity of lighter days <3
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a space of constructed importance – new lacma
i strolled around covered by the cool pour of concrete, consumed by shadow; it felt stark, sharp-metallic.
once familiar space presented with a new face of maquillage, softly sliced by the building’s curvature, the contrast of blinding los angeles sun creating the environment of many a director’s dream. the angles were my hall monitors, pointing me to greatness; i mere mortal, human, am covered in her magnanimous chill.
aretha’s phrase gorgeous gowns comes to mind; not to undercut the effort but to emphasize both under and overwhelm. it’s a space trying to be grandiose in modesty – an ironic pursuit. do i still enjoy irony in design? not sure.
the art is otherwordly – both literal and figurative – and yet i remain unmoved. centuries of creation, conquests, treasures and artifacts of history. i should be on my knees, but all i want is to be spirit led.
how do artifacts hold their soul when passed from earth to master? spirit to sunken place on display for coveting, barred entry to ancestry (past and/or present). i wandered aimless, soft-shoed, curious, eyes clear. where am i? does it matter?
i’m in a space of constructed importance, another reminder of the quest to control and contain (history, views, land). as many halls as i’ve wandered domestically and abroad, i’ve never felt such underwhelm in the grandiose. my stature demands i cower; my energy carrying me with broad shoulders and stilts to enlargen my view.
it’s a feeling more than a viewing. a request to make meaning in the stark and ornate simultaneously.
visit, tend, ask if the vast space below will be democratic should we need it for human expansion – food, shelter, activism.
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casa luis barragán
a holy, pious visit. casa barragán is unrelenting in it’s purpose; light-led living, a space for soul’s rest and veneration.
