a day in the life (and death)

I had a conversation once with a friend in Costa Rica about seasons.  He asked me what it was like to live in the northeast in the U.S. and have such distinct changes.  I told him that, having grown up in Connecticut, we reveled in Winter: snowball fights, snow angels, and patient older brothers trying to teach us to skate.  The blooming of Spring was so life-affirming:  the lilac tree outside my bedroom window still perfumes the memories of my youth.  Summertime was all about the neighborhood beach and backyard suntanning.  And in Autumn we actually had hay rides among the orange-colored leaves, and freshly baked apple pies.  At the end of that tropical conversation, we decided that the jungle had a more realistic climate:  everything living and dying all at the same time.  Just like life.

Yesterday we buried a good friend from church, Ms. Harriet.  She passed away a day after our friend Lois and just a couple weeks after Inez.  It's been an incredibly trying time.  So, yesterday we had an early viewing (not exactly how I plan to remember her), and a lovely service at noon -- with lots of family stories of her warmth and feistiness and an absolutely stirring rendition of the song "His Eye Is On the Sparrow."  We laid her to rest in Manhattan (my first!) at the stunning Trinity Mausoleum and Cemetery.  There was just enough time to sit with a few of her family members before grabbing a quiet bit to eat and then setting up the Friday community movie: Whatever Happened To Baby Jane.  I might have mentioned before that at St. Mary's in Harlem we set up an impromptu theater and show a film, complete with movie snacks and dinner, and we invite everyone, but particularly make our homeless neighbors feel welcome.  About 40 people come each week -- just to be together, to feel safe, and to engage.  It is quite a lovely thing to be involved in, the bringing of people together.  Last night I had to leave the movie early because I had forgotten I had two tickets to see Alice Smith, one of my favorite RnB/rock singers at the Apollo theater for the Women of the World festival.  At the last minute I dragged my friend Lysander, who had never seen her (or been to the Apollo), and together we had our minds blown.  The incredible artistry, musicality, overall diva-ness, brought us to tears.  She sang a version of "I Put a Spell on You" that was literally unlike anything you've ever heard in your lifetime.  It gave us a flood of ideas for our own art projects (both visual and musical).

In all, it was a whirlwind of a day.  But it was almost midnight and we were very hungry, so we hilariously typed "fried food" into Google maps and found each one closed.  "Restaurants open near me" brought us to the bustling Afrika Kine in Harlem where we ended up with a crazy delicious spicy whole fish and some outstanding toppings.  Over the meal, we talked about how many disparate things we fit into the day:

-- Death and sorrow

-- service and community

-- art and beauty

-- and a mouthwatering "treat yo' self" meal.  

Maybe we were feeling (understandably) overly philosophical, but it seemed like these are the elements we should expect from each and every day going forward -- à la the jungle theory.  There is only extra pain in store if we expect life without death -- If we think "winter is coming" instead of always with us.

Don't get me wrong, it's my nature to curl up in a ball at each loss.  But since I can't actually live in that ball (trust me, I've tried), and, realistically, death is always with us, I've got to learn how to breathe through it, art through it, create through it, love through it, sing through it.  

"I sing because I'm happy.  I sing because I'm free.  His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches me."

answers

while dancing with my comrades a couple weekends ago at a music festival celebrating black culture and punk/alternative music (the aptly named afropunk fest), we took a moment to stop by the booth the met museum had set up.  i confess i wasn't sure their participation was a good fit.  turns out it was pretty spectacular: prints of works in their collection for making collages and turning into buttons; metal supplies for making jewelry (the majority of which ended up as crowns and tiaras); and printed papers and sewing supplies for paper jewelry.  they also had prints of interesting jewelry from their collection on display for inspiration.  the best thing they contributed to the spirit of the event, though, was an unassuming chalkboard on which were written two simple questions; "how can art make a difference?" and "why does art matter?"  that, plus a bucket of chalk, was all the people needed.

kim at afropunk brooklyn

these are some of the responses that festival participants wrote, in no particular order:

ART HEALS!
Art puts words to the unspoken
Art is honest
Art makes us feel more ALIVE
It allows me to be free!
Art creates love
Art allows us to ask questions that can change the world!!
It is how I am heard
It opens the mind to different consciousness
Art is the key to expressing the soul. --PD
"It is an artist's job to reflect the times" -- Nina Simone
Art provides purpose
Because it lets me be the best & worst part of myself while healing
It makes us whole!
Because when we make art there's no war!
Speaking truth!
Art is a universal language
THROUGH ACTIVISM (think music -> sam cooke OR gordon parks)
Connects us to 1 another*
We all we got. But we're all we need
Art brings light to darkness
It can make the world more GAY!
Art is all we are
ART IS FREEDOM

if you read my post after charlottesville, you know these questions have been on my mind.  the most comforting thing about the collective answer, for me right now, is that it doesn't speak only to "protest" art.  all art heals.  and maybe art where black folks express our joy, even more so.  ❤

         ___________________________________


*my own modest entry.

questions

[i hesitated to post this after the charlottesville protest violence. not sure why.  maybe I thought answers might come to me...]

A poet on the subway handed me a slip of paper once.  It read "if you breathe, I am your comrade."  It stuck with me (even literally, since I taped it next to my front door).  What could it be like to claim solidarity with every breathing human (and non human, for that matter)?  It felt instinctively and beautifully true.  I want to live in that world. To help bring it about, even.

Of course, this is not an easy comradeship.  Sometimes your comrades wave nazi flags and beat up people who look like you.  And sometimes they rally behind symbols of oppression and mow down a lovely woman who believes in equality enough to fight for it on a regular basis.  What then?

I was sitting at a farmers market in harlem selling handmade crafts while these very things were taking place in charlottesville, just yesterday.  Chatting with shoppers, getting to know the other vendors, tweaking my display, eating excellent food (amusebouche.com), taking photos. 

I felt sick when I came home and saw the news. Not entirely because of what had happened -- some of these things happen rather regularly, it's sad to say -- but because I felt guilty for having wasted my day with arts and crafts instead of finding a way to fight.  Fighting intolerance and evil is absolutely necessary.  But what exactly do we fight with?

If I really am their comrade, do I fight them with love?  protests?  fists?  What about beautiful handmade items?  Can you fight nazis with beauty?  Can a printed t-shirt of a lady with an afro help to fight white supremacy?

Of course, fighting must go beyond symbolism.  We must all learn about each other.  How did we get here?  And we must be open to the truths we learn about our comrades.  And, maybe more importantly, the truths we each learn about ourselves. ❤

a 4th of july for us all

despite the fact that we're still mired in war, there is a sense that more americans feel more "american" today than they did in 1969 when jasper johns created "moratorium" (offset lithograph on wove paper).















if that's true, does it change how we view our past as well as our present? (wayne eagleboy, "we the people," 1971, acrylic paint and barbed wire on buffalo hide, framed in fur.)





























the obamas are changing the face of art inside the white house, but is art (beyond t-shirt design) in the rest of the u.s. changing because of the obamas? (above top, david hammons, "african-american flag," 1990, dyed cotton; above bottom, faith ringgold, "flag story quilt," 1985, cotton canvas, dyed, pieced.)

and, if more of us feel american today, what are we doing about it? are we willing to help those less fortunate feel more american, too?

here's to america and all she is and can be, when her people work together... happy fourth, everybody!