The Leanover.

For Newcity:

Review: “The Telephone Show” at Barbara & Barbara Gallery

Review: “Kay Rosen” at Gallery 400

I have two more reviews I'm working on for Newcity. The first of which is the Barbara Wakefield tiny exhibit, which was interesting, though a bit of a disappointment when taking into consideration the other really spectacular exhibits also taking place at Dubhe Carreno (HIGHLY RECOMMENDED: Barbara Hashimoto's "The Junk Mail Experiment". More on this later.)

St. Vincent's music is always guttural but never slipping past aesthetics of beauty. All of it seems right and a strong, like a metaphor of our modern femininity. Everything is precise, a distorted elegance.

There's a little hole in the wall bar reminiscent of an opium den that I still like to frequent despite the fact that I rarely purchase their drinks because they are too expensive and I no longer live less that 100 feet away. The space can, at best, accommodate 15 people, though they usually run over capacity and the scene can feel overwhelming. The DJs play a mix of really good house and electro-pop, the sort of songs you wish they would consider at bars in Boystown or clubs in the city over remixes of remixes of Lady Gaga songs.

In the above photo, I am clashing patterns. A sequined and beaded black jacket with a vintage dress cropped to a top. Colleen said, "You look spirited! Happy...tipsy..." which was a surprise to me. I was sober.

Dessert finished with my fingers; frosting licked till the plate was clean.

As in refining my aesthetic, moving beyond the appearance of a college student to something more sustainable. I haven't quite figured it out yet, but I am sure that it involves more black (cleaner and sharper) and more gold. What it signifies, I am not certain of, but the colors and shapes and lines - hitting the body just so, jutting out at the hips with precision - are what runs through my mind, constantly.

I spent most of the day in large dresses, garbage dresses, that enveloped me in the fabric. Barefoot, I danced in the living room, maneuvering around overstuffed, paisley print couches and father’s record collection slowly making its way out of storage. Dance dance dance, around.

Post-graduation, you never realize how much you miss your friends until you begin to see them again. Reuniting with old friends reminds me of past times, our conversations, and our laughter. Yesterday, I briefly met up with my friend Hafsa for drinks, and by drinks, I mean she fasted for Ramadan and I sipped glasses of white wine, seemingly trying to forget that I would be leaving the city within hours.

Hafsa and I always had conversations, really extended and deep and occasionally even profound conversations. We related on a number of different levels. We are women of color. We attended a university that told of its legacy of diversity yet we faced the reality of self-segregation among our peers. We primarily had white friends who rarely made an effort to “get” us (with Barrett as the notable exception). We struggled with trying to fit in with both worlds: the white world and our cultural world. She inevitably found the right balance. I still don’t know what I’m doing. I probably never will. And of course we were both English majors. We devoured and then discussed magazines and journals and newspapers and blogs and books (lots of them!). I miss that.

I didn’t realize how much I missed all of that – that particular human connection – until yesterday. It made life post-graduation real and not just an extended summer break. It is September and the temperature is dropping and I’m realizing that the loss of proximity concerning friendships is not temporary.

"We are discontinuous beings, individuals who perish in isolation in the midst of an incomprehensible adventure, but we yearn for our lost continuity. We find the state of affairs that binds us to our random and ephemeral individuality hard to bear."

- Georges Bataille

We don’t talk about our dreams.

There is a belief that too much verbal recognition of that which only the individual could know can somehow rupture the strength of the dream. At least, that is how I feel. With friends, I sit and lounge, but I don’t divulge. To speak of dreams and goals makes them real. Eventually, I must face the fact that some will come true and others will be tenuous, an intangible desire that ruminates in my mind. It is the problem of wanting, of realizing there is a lack in your life and wanting to fulfill the emptiness. Until you realize what is not there, you can live without that knowledge. Blissful ignorance. And there is something to the shape of one’s dreams. They don’t come from a lack of belief. One must be conscious of their place within the dream and the possibility that something in their life or in their personality makes it plausible.