Fearless depicts the resilience of the brave ones to overcome threats, suffering, and adversity to defend and preserve the race’s survival and evolution. Her frightening expression between alive or death energizes the self-rebellious spirit collectively and within to resist evil powers, the unknown and uncertain future. Liberty, in image or word, is the driving force for which people come together to claim their right to exist, create a better and more compassionate humanity, and just society.
take air into the lungs and then expel it, especially as a regular physiological process.
Breath. Breathe. Health.
Equity. Safety. Freedom of speech.
Wear your mask, stay inside. Don’t ask why. Yes sir. No sir. Hands up. Don’t shoot. Say their name. The culmination of stress and words, instructions, and rules as a virus, viruses, take them out. Them, who don’t look like me. Does it look like you? Who beg for their breath while a mystery virus steals the air from the lungs. Who beg for their breath under the knee of an officer with his hand in his pocket. Masks required. To keep out the virus and hide away the reality of racism, this country is concealing – not well. The past and the present, coming to ahead. There’s a pandemic in the hospitals. An epidemic in the streets as cities burn down. Righting the wrongs of the past, wishing away the reality to start anew. Breathe. Just breathe.
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I… can’t…. breathe.
The world is colliding under two separate pandemics – COVID-19 and the continuous brutality toward black and brown bodies. Both epidemics impact the ability to breathe. The COVID virus affects the respiratory system; police brutality has taken away the breath of George Floyd, Breanna Taylor, and numerous others before them. Communities of color have been unable to catch their breath since the tragedy of
Masks – required to protect oneself from the virus. Yet our country has metaphorically
been hiding behind a mask. Ignoring the realities of the vulnerable and marginalized
among us. And now, the mask is off, no longer protecting us. Our country is choking and gasping for change as protesters march in the street. Trying to breathe life.
Trying to create space for every . single . one . of . us….
These photos were captured in the local aftermath of the death of George Floyd. Rioting and destruction reached far beyond Minneapolis, in the name of doing what’s right.
This piece is originally about the Black Lives Matter protests which have spread internationally, highlighting the need for a global movement that addresses human rights issues, many with a deep root in racial inequality. The COVID-19 coronavirus has highlighted the impact of continued disparities in access to healthcare, and economic, educational, and housing security due to racial prejudice and discrimination.
The paintings shown here are about new, curious connections and confrontations between cultures, at a time when globalized living has scrambled assumptions about closeness and separation. Many represent conversations of intimate or philosophical nature between characters. They are encounters of people symbolically crossing worlds.
The drawn ink marks represent the energies and forces of theuman and natural worlds. They reflect states of mind and being, in one case, being able to survive the chaos, and in another, facing dark uncertainty.
“Art is not what you see, but what you make others see.”
We are living in a visual world, dominated by social media and ever-changing technology. Visual learning and videoconferencing are the new norm. Researchers have found that vision surpasses all other senses, and we are 65% more likely to remember information through a visual means, rather than audio method (Parrish par. 10). Flying by the seat of my pants (2017) presents us with the overwhelm of diabetes management through the contextualization of the necessary supplies shoved into jean pockets, presenting the arduous reality of living with an insidious disease. The metaphorical title of the artwork leaves the viewer with space to bring for their own interpretation and experience.
My brother’s fourth grade science report:
A black hole happens when a large star dies and becomes as small as a pin, but still has the big-star stuff. Its gravity is so great it will suck you in.
Even light can’t escape.
Beneath, a drawing:
dark marker bleeding into lined paper, fibers saturated and separating like cloth.
Two a.m. our mother
the kitchen, darkness
arms raised expecting
to catch the sky.
This is what the end looks like: sepia tones, fish-like, Vaseline film with the sheen of metal, sleeping.
A quiet distance at two in the morning.
Standing in the center of the room. Shut your eyes.
Spread your arm Fingers comb the air.
Feel the cold rising to your skin, heat condensing at your center, the air sucked from your lungs.
These sensations may be slight. A black hole in the kitchen is necessarily small, but no less destructive.
From afar, my brother calls.
He won’t talk,
Best not to bother now.
She speaks of him, fourth grade, the way she had to search his room
night after night so that in his
sleep a black hole would not
inhale him into darkness and nothing.
She has a knowing smile.
When you are too weak to stand, you
can also find a black hole like this:
Sit where you can rest your head,
close your eyes, slow your breathing.
Your heart will beat in your
ears. Your muscles will tense,
feel gravity pulling from the
center of your body.
Then it will draw you in.
|THE BURGEO GUT|
|When I was dying|
|You spoke to me in low whisper,|
|a tremble, the shadow of a city sunk|
|beneath a swallowed coastline, in dammed reservoir.|
|Above: the trample of industry, diesel motors, electricity.|
|Below: the ebb and flow of breath and migration.|
|I should have been thinking of survival, flight,|
|but I was enchanted by the sun|
|slivered into shards so small.|
|The womb-shaped bay, the strangled umbilical chord|
|choked before it reached the sea. I heard you|
|though your words were only song.|
|It did not matter what they said,|
|the meaning was ours.|
|Who would have thought we would travel so far|
|to meet an end in shallow water?|
|The majesty of the deep released|
|in last exhale, a curse|
|upon those who took so much,|
|and blessing for a humble shore.|
HOW TO KNOW GOD AT THE END OF THE WORLD
In silence a pulse rises. Breath solidifies.
Feet wash in numbness.
This is how it feels to walk on water.
You will fall;
You will think you are falling. Sky and earth collapse.
1999, religious cults predict apocalypse— the promise of the new millennium.
But I am in Australia—a forgotten land.
Sydney prepares for the Olympics.
I hope for computer failure to erase student debt. Surfers paddle out to sea. The Blue Mountains burn—
a children’s game gone-wrong. Oil-filled trees erupt. Smoke spreads the smell of peppermint and wet fur.
Amid chaos a Canadian tourist vanishes Rescuers find a trail in the Outback— one sock, the other.
When they discover his bible, they predict: he is dead.
If lost: 1. Stay still
- Preserve energy
I had nowhere to go. At an age— too old for home, too young to find a way.
I wandered the beach collecting glass shards like seashells, poking jellyfish—helpless and deadly.
I should have been looking for jobs.
I was watching the way shadows flowed from the downtown traffic, to the lilt of strand, then out to sea.
Things are heavier in the desert.
The desert opposite the moon—buoyancy an anchor.
A towel over the head shields the sun.
Boots covering ankles protect against snakes.
Keep your eyes away from the sand.
Breathe through your nose.
Carry only what you need.
Recovered, the tourist carried a likeness.
Desperate. Euphoric. Thin.
Ghost-like. Made of clay. Hollow.
I thought of a man I’d seen years before
standing waist-deep in cold water, his
business suit clinging like a second skin.
The whale, beached in his arms.
Their breath escaping together—
steam at the water’s surface.
I left Australia before the New
Year, before the end of the world,
before explosions of fireworks,
stocking of water, hoarding of food,
building of shelters, praying to and
I thought of the man who
could not move the beast.
The beast who could not
comfort the man.
This is how we are cast-out
HOW TO FIX BROKEN TOYS
If the paint scraped away leaving an eye without definition, or a hinge loosened a limb, or “the head popped off,” these things are readily fixed:
Sharpie, paperclip, twist of hand.
If it is something more: translucent plastic cracked, hair torn from pin-sized follicles; eyes gouged in or out—this requires different care.
When my dad remarried he began sending our childhood belongings in cardboard boxes softened with mold and damp.He included messages: “Here you go,” “Thoughtyou might want these,” “Hope things are great.”
He needed to make room, we knew, for his new wife,
her children in their twenties, but still younger than us. They didn’t want our toys.
My brother and I did not want them either—childless, nomadic, city-dwellers short on space. We left the boxes seeping smells of our once-upon-a-time home.
A friend comes to stay.
In tow: a three-year-old left by her mother.
They arrive with the clothes on their backs, a favorite stuffed frog, a book about a dinosaur, a princess crown.
“They let anyone have children,” says my friend. I present boxes of toys.
Our father did not forget, but never knew which toys were mine, which my brother’s.
In the mail my brother receives the china tea set;
I find the Marvel figurines.
The three-year-old cradles
Wolverine and Spiderman,
“This is the mommy, this is the daddy.” By afternoon she has snapped leg from body, an amputation below the knee. After years of battle-
play, Spidey is bettered by a toddler. In jest my brother will smash my teacups, pink flower-patterned china in shards. We have long abandoned these,
run from our house— before our father kicked us out.
Before he remarried.
Before our mother died.
We are Hansel and Gretel, raised in the woods, in the gingerbread house, by things more misguided than wicked.
Such a strange delight to be malnourished on candy, how jealous was everyone we told, but also: the entrapment, slavery, seduction. And worse,
the things we did: telling lies, playing tricks, pretending to be what we were not, escape through that push into that firey oven.
We emerged from the woods scorched and starving.
“Fix it,” the three-year-old says to me,
Spiderman in one hand, leg in the other.
Some broken toys cannot be repaired. New stories must be told.
A hero is born: one-legged, lighter, impeccable balance.
“Look at him,” I say. He stands like a bird.
“Now he can fly.”
In the one-seater at the bar in Deep Ellum, Dallas the vending machine takes the space of sink and toilet combined, offering tampons, condoms, BJ blast, clit ticklin’ bunny, pink-opal mini vibrator, purple feather nip clips, But no change.
It makes sense: everything you need for a night-out at a venue occupied by twenty-somethings serving both beer and wine in plastic cups.
So different than the machines in the entrance to the grocery store. Stacked, hip high, holding gumballs, stickers, temporary tattoos, plastic charms in opaque plastic eggs to occupy any two-to-eight year-old for the duration of a shopping list.
In the hotel lobby beside the ice dispenser the machines are in categories: “caffeinated beverages,”
“stuff you only eat on vacation,” “smaller versions of things you forgot at home.”
The pleasure of dropping coins through the
slot, the privilege of selection, the anonymity of the machine, the magic of the correct arm twisting to release.
As much as it is about offering the right thing at the right time— predicting type, purpose, preference, need or desire—it is about being offered anything at all,
being considered, being known,
encountered by a stranger who says, “I knew you would be here,”
“I thought you might like this,” “You look like you could use a good ________________.
HOW TO WALK ON WATER
If it is frozen. Or shallow. Or thick with reeds.
Also, by dispersal of weight over space less than the pressure of surface tension: Tension (T) = ________Force (F)_______
Length over which the force acts (L)
Devastating to see the world clearly, when the shore becomes a marsh, eroded, beaten by storm and sea; the piers of plank and metal; the house on the hill—overtaken by mold— never enough for what we needed.
Once we needed next to nothing.
“You eat like birds,” they told us. Proof that we were avian waiting to grow wings.
We played this was our island alone, the dock a concept on the verge of completion, the house learning to grow like a tree.
You believed it wholly. I believed it also.
Gerri·dae Pronunciation: \ˈjerəˌdē\ Phylum: arthropoda Class:
Insecta Order: Hemiptera Suborder: Heteroptera
- a family of insects with the ability to run atop the water’s surface.
Sometimes called water bugs, water striders, pond skaters, water
skippers, Jesus bugs.
Always in summer
the water bugs,
to corners of a cross, bodies hovering
above still reflections.
This is why
the stones skip, the glass overfills without spilling.
not one thing, but
Red Rover, Red Rover;
the breath in unison.
You said, “magic.”
You said, “hold your breath.”
Some places exist in time rather than space.
Certain memories are constructed in collaboration. In the city the rain hits the only window. My apartment floods. The carpet sodden. I think of you.
You would have loved the outside flowing in. You would have imagined we were at sea.
You would have claimed
we could live an entire life treading water.
Half-way above. Half-way
to that thin film of surface;
the stone never settles
long enough to sink.
I could never hold when it mattered,
your palm clenched in my
palm. Red Rover, Red Rover. I
the collision; the pain of
the chain broken so much
greater than that of release.
I promise, this is not a coffin, but a
boat; beneath the ground there is a sea
with islands the shape of clouds racing
across the water.
“At one end of the spectrum, photographs are objective data; at the other end, they are items of psychological science fiction.”
—Susan Sontag, On Photography, p 163
Let’s start in Yokohama at the red brick warehouses that withstood the 1923 Great Earthquake. In my constructed image where three unearthly objects hover in the night sky, imagine the center celestial body as Mars and the two moons as the distance between cultures. After World War II, American administrative offices commandeered those buildings. Occupying aliens who defeated Japan, who direct energy that fuels suns to destroy Hiroshima and Nagasaki—drawing the Empire of the Rising Sun into a new cosmos—stayed there. Yokohama’s north dock port facility is still the US Army installation designated as FAC 3067.
Next, let’s visit Shinjuku and explore Japan’s financial engine skyscraper district—where, from a single building complex, the bureaucracy of Tokyo Metro Government administers a population the size of Canada. Faux satellite dishes serve the illusion of communication in 1990’s homage to 1950’s space-age sensibilities that were never a Japanese science fiction trope. Launching center stage, Ludwig Mies van der Rohe’s homage to architectural functionalism is borne aloft trailing illuminated entrails. Its 21st century counterpart— Mode Gakuen Cocoon Tower—casts its eye to the west; yes, always looking to the West.
After the futuristic built world of commerce, let’s get a breath of air in Rikugien—Garden of the Six Principles of Poetry—the suasive, the description, the comparison, the evocative imagery, the elegantia praising trustworthiness, the eulogies recounting and honoring these genuine words that create worlds of truth—built between 1695 and 1702.
Then we can wander through an ordinary neighborhood, like Nakano-sakaue,where the streets and alleyways are so typical they’re used to film “period pieces” for Japanese TV dramas that belie the notion of period. Times coalesce. I’ve seen floodlit1920’s vamps and philanderers, succubus and incubus sashaying special-effects-spattered streets; a week later disco-era bell-bottomed boppers genuflect to each other on one of the short-span bridges that straddle the Kanda River. Scores of tech personnel record their tenderness from the out-of-shot ecosphere of state-of-the-art technology enveloping their intimacy. Nakano-sakaue was my home for a decade; the trite and true reality of my everyday world was their fourth wall.
We end our walk with a Tokyo West multi-billion dollar night view I enjoyed for over a decade. The five-story walk up had free access to the roof—a favored shooting location one staircase up from my apartment. It was also flat and drained poorly. I alerted the owners.
“Water swelling the walls is from a structural breach; it will weaken the building.”
“Yes, fat walls. We’ll fix them for you for free,” they agreed, and re-glued the wallpaper to the damp surface.
Moldy plaster smells—earth after a rainstorm with an under-aroma of old books —mixed with the lemon-furniture-polish bouquet of industrial paste. No problem.
It wouldn’t matter.
Until the earthquake.
We all have a body; this is obvious. Our lives are structured by our body: When we are hungry, we eat. When we are cold, we cover up. When we are tired, we sleep. Yet how do we actually understand our relationship with our body? Is our body more than these physical indicators? Does our body extend past this physical form? What role does our body play in the understanding of our identity? Do we have only one body or do we create multiple bodies for ourselves? Where does our body end and our environment begin?
In postmodern thought the phrase “nomadic borderlands” refers to the undefined space between what we know as our reality and the “outside” (that which we do not know yet brushes with and influences our experiences). They are nomadic because the boundaries of this space is always moving and changing as the fuzzy edges of our own existence brushes with the fuzzy edges of this undefined space.
Nomadic Borderlands explores the relationships between our bodies and our exterior world, focusing of the shifting edges of where our body (interior) ends and the outside (exterior) world begins.