I’ve become a political documentary person

For better or worse, I am terrible at watching movies. I might see one a year in a theater, and I struggle with the sensory assault of way too loud sound, people chewing and slurping all around me, and the constant resentment that I may have spent $20+ to bring bed bugs and sticky shoes home with me. I am terrible at sitting still and paying attention to something that isn’t live. My family and friends used to tease me for how quickly I would fall asleep when we tried to watch movies, as I often passed out during the opening credits or first scene. If I stay awake, I get exasperated with bits of dialogue that don’t ring true for me, or I start obsessively analyzing themes and motifs or costuming and cinematography to find something to latch on to. If there is the slightest bit of suspense, I look up spoilers so I can watch how it plays out instead of letting myself be surprised. I struggle if I don’t have something to occupy my hands (knitting or sketching usually) and I have a genuinely hard time not talking through everything, so I imagine I am very annoying to watch movies with. Also these days, I flat-out refuse to watch horror films.

I do, however, love movies, and when I find a good one I love it intensely and elaborately because it has managed to survive my scrutiny and nit-picking AND kept me awake. So for obvious reasons, unless I am rewatching a tried-and-true, I am reluctant to agree to watching a movie with company that I want to like me afterwards (my Netflix-and-chill has customarily taken the form of nature documentaries, with bonus points if they are narrated by David Attenborough). I was delighted to discover that all my issues with watching conventional movies dissipate completely when I watch documentaries. They are soothing in the nerdiest possible ways, often fascinatingly thought-provoking, and above all (my favorite quality in just about anything) they inspire me to research topics further and learn more. I used to watch documentaries mainly for entertainment, typically about food, subculture history, niche interests like sneaker collecting, or the gold standard, biographies. If something is historically accurate, I am enrapt.

In recent times, my typical fare has felt a little less substantive than I need, so my documentary diet has gotten distinctly political. It’s not really as conducive to Netflix-and-chill as majestic lions in the wild and scenic vistas, but they are satisfying in the same way as undergrad philosophy classes, coupling ideas that change your entire sense of reality with the luxury of really delving deep into them.

So, here are some truly excellent politically-charged documentaries I’ve watched over the past few years that have been, with no exaggeration, life-changingly profound and thought-provoking. Since I talk about these all the time in person, it only makes sense to collect them here too.


1) Human Flow

Human Flow (links to watch online)

Ai Weiwei’s project exploring the lives and experiences of refugees around the world is so profoundly important that I wish everyone would watch it right now. This issue is so significant personally that my mother and I saw this film on its opening weekend in Manhattan, and we both just sprayed tears through it. More than capturing the direness of the situations the subjects are in, Ai Weiwei gets at their essential humanity, carefully crafting the point that we are all of us, everywhere, fundamentally the same, but we isolate each other and commit atrocious acts of violence over relatively small differences. The presence of Weiwei and his crew is minimally felt with spare bits of text and voice-overs every once in a while, but his sensitivity permeates the cinematography and tenderness with which the refugees are presented. As bleak and terrifying a reality as it presents, it also has some abstract seeds of hope – the scenes of people helping each other or children putting on donated winter boots and hats allude to unseen, but impactful kindness in the world trying to help them. If someone is capable of feeling empathy at all, this film will evoke it and urge them to act; and if anyone watches this film and fails to recognize the refugee crisis is a whole-world humankind problem, they are not paying attention.


2) 13TH

Watch on Netflix

Ava DuVernay’s staggering 2016 documentary posits that mass incarceration of people of color in the United States functions as an oppressive legacy of slavery. I first read about the prison industry’s role in maintaining inequality in Michelle Alexander’s The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness, and 13TH builds on these ideas in an emotionally resonant, clear and sharp presentation. This film challenges the biases we all hold such as, “If you don’t want to go to prison, don’t commit crimes” by reminding us that we have all, every single one of us, broken the law in some major or minor way, but the laws are disproportionately enforced. It examines the ways lives are broken and changed by prisons and the nefarious profits being made off of, quite literally, keeping black and brown men in cages. It only becomes more urgent and relevant in light of the Black Lives Matter movement and escalating extrajudicial executions committed by police officers in the line of duty. I also came away with a new clarity that “law and order” is not what it seems and that many of our revered social constructs were put in place to protect the property and interests of those in power at the expense of human lives.


3) The Vietnam War

The Vietnam War (links to watch online; also on PBS)

This 10-episode documentary series by Ken Burns and Lynn Novick genuinely blew my mind. As recent history that my parents lived through, I thought I had a pretty solid understanding of the events and motivations, of counter-cultural resistance and the American experience during the war. I was so wrong. By digging deeper into history, presenting perspectives from all sides of the conflict, exploring recently declassified information, and giving the still-living primary sources the time and space to talk openly, emotionally, vulnerably, and potently about their experiences, the story is told more complexly, completely, and profoundly than ever before. The lesson I have typically taken away from Vietnam Era politics was “Never trust the government,” as it was (as far as I knew) the first time elected politicians knowingly, flagrantly lied to the public to achieve their aims. Even going into it deeply cynical about the war and its futility, my worldview was shattered. I came away more sincerely committed to pacifism and peaceful conflict resolution than ever before, and I am more convinced than ever that the men beating the drums of war are always the ones who profit most from it. Crucially, this series also helped me understand the motivations and beliefs of those I previously would have dismissed or failed to appreciate, and it helped me recognize the ways that factions of society are played against one another by those who thrive by taking advantage of chaos and fear. The lessons from the Vietnam War are more important now than ever, and I hope every American will watch this series with an open mind.


4) The Untold History of the United States

Watch on Netflix, Amazon, iTunes, YouTube, Google Play and elsewhere

I will admit, I wasn’t really paying attention to Oliver Stone in 2012. I had recently written a paper on JFK in the context of historical and critical sources for a writing class, and I wasn’t feeling his particular brand of mainstream conspiracy theorizing. I watched this 12-part series as a chaser to The Vietnam War and found it a satisfying reappraisal of the jingoistic version of history I had been taught in school. Oliver Stone and historian Peter J. Kuznick of American University wrote a massive book reexamining the version of history where American is always the “good guys” and we always win because goodness prevails. Though Stone’s dry monotone left a bit to be desired, the deadpan statement of facts, reading of quotes, and placement of history in context was fascinating and haunting. I had literal nightmares over the coldly tactical decision-making process of which cities in Japan would be the most impactful and demoralizing decimation sites for dropping the bomb. The no-holds-barred examination of Truman’s character through his own words was chillingly poignant. And I could even appreciate that as much as I loved Obama (which is like, with all my heart) he didn’t give back the powers extended to the presidency by the Patriot Act and wasn’t right in all his actions, including drone strikes with heavy civilian casualties. Oliver Stone’s approach seems to be muddying the waters by giving even credence to all information rather than taking an immediately obvious declarative stance, but at the end I came out questioning and reconsidering everything I had taken for granted, especially the ideas of American exceptionalism that are bandied about quite comfortably as truth today.


5) Hypernormalisation

Watch on YouTube, Vimeo, and elsewhere

When I first watched Adam Curtis’s 2016 documentary, it was all I could talk about and remains one of my top recommendations. Juxtaposing archival footage with a powerful narrative reexamining history through our current fuller understanding of events (and underlaid with a dope soundtrack), Curtis gets to the heart of the political strategy of obfuscation of reality, exposing the ways leaders have presented the truth as “unknowable” to control and influence people. Anyone familiar with Orwellian doublethink will recognize the dystopian concept played out in our 20th-21st century reality, over and over, where the uncertainty of truth is exploited to rewrite common knowledge with state-sponsored propaganda. Curtis does not pretend to be objective – he is clearly opposed to Brexit, right-wing populism spurred by xenophobia, Putin and the Russian propaganda ministry, and all the machinations of oligarchic oppression – but he examines some of the murkier times in world history where the general public was kept in the dark to give our governments latitude to do whatever they wanted in the interest of their donors. He examines the way idealistic radicals of the 60s were worn down to complacency and are now used as a tool to discredit opposition (i.e. that’s just the way silly college kids think – wait until you own a house and have a 401k to worry about). This documentary was made before Donald Trump was elected president, but it seems to have predicted its inevitability, exploring the forces at work in our society and the ways we communicate about issues. It is important to watch this one without collapsing into nihilistic complacency oneself, to insist on finding multiple corroborating sources without bias to get an understanding of events, and to constantly question why this version of reality is the one being presented.

If you like this one, I also strongly recommend The Reagan Show (available on Hulu among other places), which goes deep into Reagan’s use of television and public relations skills from his career in acting to shape public opinion and promote his agenda during the Cold War. It is entertaining, but chilling, to see how easily we are tricked by charisma into accepting surreality.


6) The White Helmets

Watch on Netflix

Following members of The White Helmets, a politically-neutral volunteer group who rescue civilian victims of bombings in Syria, this powerfully emotional documentary puts a human face on the airstrikes. Somehow these rescue workers are still hopeful and believe with all their hearts in the sanctity of life, even as they climb through rubble every day in what feels like a futile attempt to save people from a literal hell on Earth. Despite the brutality of the bombings and the sheer terror I felt watching it, there was a strange beauty to this film, a reminder that heroes are just regular people who choose to be brave and help other people. It is inspiring to see that in the midst of the very worst of humanity playing out through various nations bombing Aleppo off the map in their power struggles, the very best are rising up, resilient and undeterred in their faith that they were put here in this space and time to help other people and that every life (regardless of religion, politics, or other differences) is fundamentally worth saving and protecting. You will probably not be able to get through this one without crying your eyes out, but it’s an important cry to have.


7) Saving Capitalism

Watch on Netflix

Made as a companion film to the book by former Secretary of Labor Robert Reich, this film is reassuringly calm and even-handed in its approach. It begins by explaining there is no such thing as the free market, so much as the market as it plays out within the rules the government creates. Reich examines the way those rules have shifted to be in favor of the consolidation of wealth among the richest through deregulation and tax policy that favors corporations over people. He explores the impact of these policies on average Americans, with a particularly poignant passage on the 2008 financial crisis. He finds surprisingly common ground between the Tea Party and the Occupy Wall Street movements, and he presents a sympathetic view of people so disenchanted with “corporate democracy” that they saw Bernie Sanders and Trump as basically the same thing in the 2016 election (and for a tiny little moment, viewed strictly through the lens of populism and economics, I understood that thinking). Reich does not divide his audience by political party, but rather finds our mutual interests and calls attention to the ways we are being pitted against one another. He is reassuring and presents actionable solutions to unifying the people and developing an economic policy that actually makes capitalism work for all of us. I was genuinely shocked that I came away from this film hopeful and focused on the future.


8) Before the Flood

Before the Flood (links to watch online)

For your environmentalism concerns, this examination of climate change by Fisher Stevens and Leonardo DiCaprio in partnership with National Geographic is a starkly unflinching (and yet cinematically beautiful) presentation of the urgency of action to halt climate change and reverse our disastrous environmental policies. Taking an expansive view on the many facets of climate change, the film states incontrovertibly that our current environmental crisis is man-made (I agree) and urges us to make necessary changes. Of particular interest to me were the sections set in India, where environmental activists are fighting an even steeper uphill battle, yet doing it with a seriousness of purpose that makes even the most tree-hugging American environmentalist seem half-assed and lazy. This film calls on us to tap into the ingenuity and creativity that characterizes 20th century industry to find lasting environmental solutions. It is inspiring, and it will help you re-commit to your principles if you become complacent or feel hopeless.


9) Joe’s Violin

Joe’s Violin / watch on YouTube

Lastly, as an incredibly uplifting and beautiful palette cleanser, I whole-heartedly recommend Joe’s Violin, the story of a 91-year-old Holocaust survivor’s violin donation during a public radio instrument drive. This short film follows his violin as it is given to a young woman in the Bronx in an incredible program to empower students through music. While not overtly political, the story of what Joe’s violin meant to him and what it means to the student today is simply extraordinary. It serves as a reminder that all of these political events, government actions, bombastic public figures, and distortions of truth have real-life consequences for real people. We tend to study history and politics from the aerial view, but seeing individual stories on the ground is crucial for understanding what we are really doing as a human species, as well as what we are capable of doing when we use our strength for good, hope, and positivity.

So I hope you find something interesting or new among these (if you haven’t already watched all of them) and I would love any solid documentary recommendations you may have, both political and general interest. The more thought-provoking, the better.

(And in a future post, I’ll do a roundup of some of the best non-political documentaries I’ve watched lately too.)


The Sword of Time

IMAGE: Propagation, 2018, 4″x4″, acrylic on canvas (14/365)

I was recently talking with my father about a sign my freshman-year geometry teacher had hanging beneath the clock in her classroom. It read: Time Will Pass. Will You? I think there was an issue with the punctuation, or maybe two question marks, or the block letters and fonts rankled my design sensibility somehow, but whatever it was, it drove me crazy every time I saw it. My father said his third grade teacher had a similar sign, with slightly different wording, and it bothered him in the same way. We both agreed that one of the most frustrating parts (besides teachers having nothing more clever to post under their clocks several decades later) was that we usually only noticed the sign when we weren’t watching the clock. It was more often the case that when the bell rang, I was so engrossed in the class that I looked over to check if it could possibly be over already. Or someone on that side of the room sneezed or dropped a book and I involuntarily looked over. The smug little sign greeted me with its menacing words, as if the only options in life were pass or fail, and I always felt like sneering back at it, “Yes, of course I will pass, and I will probably get an A or at the very least an A-minus!” (I used to be good at math).

High school battles with signage aside, time has always been a nemesis for me. I have spent much of my life willing it to go slower, stretch out, and give of itself more generously and expansively so that I can soak in as much of what I am experiencing as possible. When my friends were in a rush to turn seventeen and get their driver’s licenses, I didn’t mind being younger because it meant more time visiting with my family while they still gave me rides places. I rarely wanted classes to end, especially in college, since that was really the reason I had left home and lived in a dorm full of strangers, pretending I was adjusting well to people who looked down on me (or were utterly indifferent) while I wondered three times a week why the bathroom in the science building perpetually smelled of vomit. (Freshman year was a mixed bag.)

Even when I am anticipating something exciting or looking forward to relief at the end of a challenge, I am careful not to wish for time to accelerate. One of the purposes of meditation is to fix time in the present by focusing on breathing and being completely in a moment. But sometimes I catch myself more looking forward to how focused and centered I will feel when meditation is over than actually doing the work to get there. I eat slowly so I can savor food, I look all around as I walk, and I try to take my time with whatever I am doing so I know I did it mindfully. The same is true with love and any pleasure – I don’t want to rush to a high point and find I was wishing my life away.

Intensifying, 2018, 9”x12”, wax and charcoal on paper (4/365)

A huge expanse of time can feel like a weight too heavy to carry. The first time my high school boyfriend broke up with me, I was so devastated that I didn’t know how I would survive time going forward. Cataclysmic events tend to cleave time into the Before and After, and to my teenage sensibility, this was the cruelest blow the sword of time had ever dealt. I imagined him going out with the new girl, the seasons changing as he transitioned from cross-country running to wrestling to spring track, the years adding up as he got his license, went off to college, and made a whole life without me. And I would be stuck, being with myself, as the person he didn’t want. I couldn’t imagine any future where I was happy, where I would ever stop hurting and get past the heartbreak, let alone one where I would be fine, meet one of my best friends while sniveling about it, or that the boyfriend and I would eventually get back together and I’d return the favor of breaking up with him for someone else a few years later.

I remember staring at the taunting clock sign in geometry class in those days with eyes puffy and sore from crying in the girls room, wishing I could escape time. I wanted to sink under water or slip into a coma for a while and only wake up when the world had changed enough around me that everything that hurt had become irrelevant, or I finally stopped hurting, as everyone promised I would with time. I snapped out of that ridiculous fantasy when I realized that to escape the pain of that breakup, I’d also miss being with my family, visiting our extended relatives on the holidays, major chunks of the short lives of our pets, and short-term things like post-prom parties or listening to a new Counting Crows album when it first came out at the same time as everyone else. I didn’t really want to escape time, just avoid hurting, and I learned for the first of many times in my life that the only way out, always, is through.

Loose Threads, 2018, 9″x12″, permanent marker on paper (11/365)

Lately I’ve found myself both trapped by and clinging to time again. Being a woman in my 30s is to be bound by reproductive time limits, whether my heart or dating life are in the place they need to be or not. My student loan debt and any attempt to save for a house or family or retirement are fundamentally at odds in an inverse relationship with time and each other. At my last office job, I simultaneously felt like I never had enough time to breathe or do anything at home, and like I was staring at the clock every day wondering how I would get through the week. I was wishing my life away while lamenting it was slipping out of my grasp.

Over the past year since the 2016 election, I cannot count how many times I’ve thought and said, “I don’t know how I’m going to make it through this.” Consciously I know there will be more life on the other side of this administration, but my mind cannot envision an America that survives it. I’ve begged the universe to fix time, or let me escape it, so I could go through quickly without feeling. The timeline I have been neglecting is once again my own, as the world spins off its axis and I look around feeling helpless and paralyzed with concern and fear. My father has reminded me repeatedly, “It happened. This is life right now. You can either spend the next few years miserable, or you can live your life the best you can.” My mother always adds, “And fight to make things better.”

Eons, 2018, 11″x14″, acrylic and ink on paper (15/365)

After the disasters that struck my family and friends this fall, paired with some heavy personal stuff, I sunk into a pretty intense period of mourning and depression that is only just abating. I didn’t mean to disappear, but time got away from me like it does. I am currently working to shift from a mindset that utterly dreads the future to one that embraces each day. It shouldn’t be as hard as it’s been, but I have never had an easy relationship with time. Some holes take longer than others to dig yourself out of.

At the turn of the new year, for the second time in a row I landed more uncomfortably on the side of “Good riddance to last year!” than “Welcome the new year!” I am exhausted of feeling bleak and hopeless, cringing through good times because I fear they are fleeting, and putting everyone on hold in case something awful comes up that I need to be prepared to face. I want to have hope again, even if that hope is simply in time. It will pass, and I have control over what I do in it.

I started a project that is both a challenge and a promise to myself, to make art every day this year (posting on my Instagram if you’d like to follow along). It has already made the passage of time bearable, stamping each day with an image I made and a promise that I will make more. It’s working remarkably well as self-prescribed art therapy because it is forcing me to be aware in time instead of going numb. Each day brings me further from the world inhabited by the people I lost last year, but it also brings me closer to a future I need to make bright, even if they are not here with me in it. I owe them that.

For the rest of my life, I am still charged with the double-edged sword of how I spend my time and how it spends me. I need to use it well.

Gentle Sky

The Uncle Dave Instinct

I would say it feels like a tornado has been whipping through my family, except it was a literal hurricane first, and I am afraid every day that it may not have abated yet. In the past few weeks we lost my Great Uncle Dan, my Great Aunt Pat, and this past Friday my Great Aunt Shirley, among other terrible losses and sadnesses. I am not even remotely ready to process all the emotions that are tearing through my mind, but I want to remember something specific about my family because I think somewhere in it may be the secret of life.

My Uncle Dave was married to Aunt Shirley for 61 years and loved her with a depth and sincerity one rarely sees in this world. When he gave her a glass of wine at Wine Time, he always accompanied it with a kiss on the cheek, saying, “Here you go, doll.” He built fires in the wood stove on cold winter days because he thought she’d like a cozy place to sit and sometimes tossed extra fragrant wood in so she could enjoy the smell. When she was reading and the light grew dim, he’d turn a lamp on behind her to spare her eyes, and when she dozed off, he’d cover her with a blanket, kissing her head as she slept. I am so glad that two such truly kind people found one another and shared that love and generosity of spirit with their family.

Earlier this year when I was visiting my parents, I told them how I’d come to think of these small gestures of love as the “Uncle Dave Instinct,” as if he spent his days walking around trying to think of nice things to do for everyone. He didn’t do it for show or make a spectacle of the little moments when he’d hum a waltz and spin my Aunt Shirley around the kitchen island (thinking they were alone while I was playing under the table). When my Grandma Wanda and I were chatting in their kitchen the day after Thanksgiving, he didn’t interrupt or ask if we wanted lunch, but simply placed grilled cheese and homemade tomato soup on the table, to which Gram squealed, “Oh that is just what I wanted! How did you know??” He squeezed her arm and said, “That’s what little brothers do.” It was clear that to him, it really was just the natural thing to do for the people he loved.

My father also has a strong Uncle Dave Instinct, probably nurtured from spending so much time with such a gentle, kind man, or maybe something genetic that my Grandma Wanda also shared. He brings my mother tea in bed every morning and has done so for 40 years, sometimes accompanied with a particularly fragrant rose or sprig of lilacs in a bud vase. Most of my father’s family is kind in those sensitive, beautiful ways, and it’s hard to explain to people who haven’t experienced it because it seems too good to be true, that anyone in the world can be so sweetly thoughtful and caring, let alone a whole family like that.

As the grateful recipient of countless nap blankets, wordlessly refilled drinks, my favorite flowers brought in from the garden to welcome me when I visit, warm pats and hugs whenever we pass each other, and small kindnesses throughout my life, I want to be this type of person and to cultivate that kindness and love in myself. I want to love someone with that purity of affection, and I want to let everyone in my life feel the way a warm hug and a genuine smile from my Uncle Dave or my dad always makes me feel.

I also saw that despite the effects of time, grief, and life’s challenges, the Uncle Dave Instinct lasts a lifetime. When we visited my Aunt Shirley in hospice, we noticed the sheets and blankets were pulled up to her chin. My Uncle Dave was worried she would be cold from the air conditioning, so he made sure to open the blinds to let some sunlight in and tucked her in tightly, repeatedly asking the nurses if they thought we should get her another blanket.

It is easy to get distracted in this world by all the things we have to do, by global politics and unrest over current events, by over-philosophizing and abstracting all our experiences in search of meaning and understanding… and it may really be as simple as loving people with that singleness of focus and clarity. To know it’s chilly and they may want a blanket. Maybe that is ultimately the most important thing we can do as humans on this planet: to love and cherish each other and to show gentle kindness every time we can.


IMAGE: John Giorno, It’s Not What Happens It’s How You Handle It, 2016, rainbow silkscreen print; seen recently at the Rubin Museum of Art

I may be problematically superstitious. I don’t trust when things go too well for too long. I start to look around suspiciously, holding my breath and waiting for something to go wrong. I used to think it was a kind of distorted karmic balance, that I could not have something exciting and positive happen (completing my master’s degrees) without something catastrophic and painful too (losing my grandmother). As the years have gone by, I have embraced a different reality, that life comes at you as it does, good, bad, and sometimes both at once. But I still find myself on edge at times.

For the past few months (I can date it pretty precisely back to a time in 2016) I have felt trapped in an onslaught of fear, bad news, cataclysm, worse news, and this cycle of uneasiness that has made me afraid to exhale completely. The good times have felt like stepping out into the sun after torrential rains, not knowing if the day is getting brighter, or if I’ve moved into the eye of a hurricane. The bad times have felt like just another step in the march toward disaster that seems increasingly irreversible and inevitable. Depending on how closely you read the news and where your family lives, I reckon you have probably felt similarly at times.

Falling Water – Seljalandsfoss Waterfall, southern Iceland. (Prints available)

I set a challenge for myself this year to dig deep and mine my strategic reserves of positivity and optimism, to be strong enough to maintain hope and believe in the fundamental benevolence of nature and humanity. I have made a conscious shift in my art to move away from simply reflecting the present moment of uncertainty or trepidation to instead present a long-view vision of hope, healing, and beauty wrought from the complexity of experience and time. I still believe it is the only way to move forward: we cannot create a better future if we can’t imagine it. But lately, whew, the universe has been piling it on, hasn’t it?

I used to think it was a curse that my body would betray me at the times I needed to be my strongest. Odds are way too high that if I am on a work trip or have some massive opportunity, I will suddenly come down with bronchitis or pneumonia. To my great astonishment, I got all the way through my exhibit and almost through the end of the second show I was in this summer before I was sidelined with intense, piercing chest pain that was so severe I couldn’t draw a complete breath or lie down on my side. At first I thought it was from a pulled muscle from being clumsy with luggage or moving paintings around, but as it intensified, it seemed most likely to be pericarditis, an old scourge I’ve battled a few times since high school. The main treatments are rest and an anti-inflammatory like ibuprofen, and I was reminded how crucial it is to actually mind the rest part.

At one point a few weeks ago while not resting, I found myself in another uncomfortably familiar situation: over an hour and several transfers away from my apartment with my hands full of too much stuff, rushing around trying to do too many things, stricken by pain and wondering how I was going to make it home. I took a (shallow) breather on a park bench and texted my mother to whine. After declining her offer to pay for a car back to my apartment (I didn’t want to add motion sickness to the cocktail of blech), I promised that I would not overdo it, reading and rereading her sweet closing line on the way home, “Please take care of yourself baby. We only have one Vicki.”


Lavender Clouds – Soft pink and light purple cumulous clouds at sunset over New York Harbor.
(Prints available)

I started to realize that it didn’t particularly matter if I was sitting on a hot subway platform trying not to smell people or lying uncomfortably in my bed trying not to roll over the bulwark of pillows onto my left side. My chest was going to hurt for as long as it would, until I gave my heart the time and stillness it needed to heal. That sounds so much more poetic and metaphorical than the literal reality at the time, but it felt instructive in a larger sense that is applicable now that I am better. Whenever my body forces me to take a pause, it lets my mind catch up, and when I let myself heal I come back stronger and more collected than I was before.

I struggle because I keep taking on the emotional weight of all the things I can’t control. No one can stop the forces of nature that are ravaging the world right now with hurricanes, wildfires, and floods. Yes, we all know that they were exacerbated by global warming, but it’s already done. I personally don’t have the power to stop the full-on genocide being perpetrated against the Rohingya in Myanmar any more than I can compel Saudi Arabia to stop their campaign of annihilation against Yemen or depose Bashar al Assad myself and set up infrastructure repairs and irrigation to start healing Syria. The frustration and pain of this helplessness, coupled with the rage brought on by violations against the sanctity of life, can be white hot and blinding. But I can’t help anyone from a place of anger or without a clarity of thinking. I am not adding anything to the world when I am holding my breath or overwhelmed with sadness. I need to let the feelings run through me, then dig deeper and be creative if I will find ways to inspire change.

I need to remember my mother’s urging: we only have one Vicki. I can’t fix racism and white supremacy and all the ugly things that hate drives people to do. I can raise awareness and try to change people’s minds when I see it though. I can’t fix the mess we have made of our environment by myself, but I can lift my own standards and encourage concern for nature in others. I can’t heal my friends’ and family’s illnesses or take away their pain, but I can be there with them and make sure they know how much I love them. I don’t have the kind of money that can buy a senator or influence policy change, but I can give whatever I can to the causes I believe in and encourage others to donate. I don’t have a loud voice, but I can take care that I use it as effectively and mindfully as I can, in writing, in actions, and in my thoughts. I am just one person, but so is everyone else.

I don’t want to walk around holding my breath anymore, waiting for the other shoe to drop, answering cheerful greetings from friends with heavy sighs and “all things considered” caveats. There was suffering and inequality in the world before, and unfortunately, there will continue to be; it seems hard-wired into humanity still. I can’t fix it all, and I’m not sure I can really make a difference at anything. But I can be fully present with the people in my life and give my whole heart (occasionally impaired though it may be). I can write and make art and do everything I can to inspire compassion and kindness in the world. Many hands make light work, so I can join my hands with others for what matters.

And I can remember to breathe. I can’t take the next breath until I exhale.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream Come True

Back in the Pleistocene Era, when I first started blogging, there was a cute convention used to explain extended absences. The structure was a vague apology acknowledging the unusual reticence, then reassuring readers the author was back and had a good reason for being otherwise occupied, followed by an image of an ultrasound, a brand new baby, a new pet, a surprise wedding photo, or in less optimistic cases, a broken appendage / natural disaster.

So let’s see if I remember how it’s done.

Hello, lovely blog readers. I’m sorry I’ve been away so long, but I am back! You see, I had a pretty good reason for my absence…

I was just having one of my all-time greatest dreams come true.

Last month my first solo exhibition of paintings opened in Manhattan, The Nature of Being, presented by chashama in a pop-up gallery on Madison Avenue. Despite being in the gallery every day for the run of the show, I still can’t believe this is an actual reality and not just some elaborate, exquisitely beautiful dream.

Chashama is an amazing non-profit organization that partners with the building owners of unused or under-used spaces to give artists places to create and present new work. I am the second artist to show in the storefront gallery on Madison Avenue, which I believe used to be a men’s suit store that moved across town. I love the initiative of inserting art into publicly-accessible places, bringing art to the community, and giving artists the freedom to present their work however they’d like. It has been incredible to work with such a nurturing, supportive organization, and I am simply thrilled to have had this opportunity.

I will be writing more here or on my studio blog about the overall process, conceiving and proposing the exhibit, what I learned about myself as an artist and a person through this experience, and what an encouraging and wonderful time it has been meeting people, getting feedback on my work, and letting my paintings finally communicate with the public the way I want them to. Spoiler alert: pretty much dream come true across the board.

One of the biggest things I want to keep in my heart is what it has meant to have such astronomically supportive friends and family throughout this process. I literally never could have made the paintings, trusted myself enough as an artist to even apply, gotten through the exhibit planning, organized the opening reception, or honestly, even tried to share my art with the world without such extraordinary people believing in me and doing everything they could to help me, push me along, and come by to see the exhibit and say hello. I have a tendency to retreat from the world and into my own mind, where it’s easy to feel alone and isolated from other people, and the past few months have shown me with abundant clarity how important it is to reach out, trust people, and share experiences with an open heart.

This whole experience has made me so optimistic about the future and so confident in the path I am setting on it’s a little overwhelming. I keep tearing up with gratitude.

We’ll talk much more about all these things soon, but in the meantime there are still three more days of the exhibit if you’d like to come by to see what I’m talking about in person. And I have the drafts of about a hundred other posts going in my mind, so we’ll get to sorting out the rest of the world too.

(View more opening and exhibition photos here on Flickr).