A Practice of Seeing
The beauty in what already exists.
Passengers on the Subway
“Where do you need to go?”, said the young woman in the flowing white cotton skirt. Her long brown hair draped over her shoulder as she gently pulled out her phone, and adjusted her bag strap. Disoriented, the frantic man began to speak incoherently about being late to his nephew’s wake. He needed to go downtown, and fast. The man in the suit he asked a few moments prior had just stared at him, rolled his eyes, and quickly exited the 4 train. Other people looked at the loud, disheveled passenger with disgust as he screamed for help.
As I watched the woman in white look him in his eye and listen to his story, I thought to myself that she had done this before. There was nothing performative in her behavior; she was unconcerned with the other train riders — focusing her attention solely on the man in yellow before her. After about 30 seconds, his voice quieted down and his words started to form sentences. They looked together at Google maps and decided he needed to transfer at 14th St. She used simple gestures, absent of fear, to steer the conversation. When the trained pulled up to 14th St she said that she would exit with him and walk him to the N. His eyes were confused. I could tell he wasn’t used to this kind of humanity. He lowered his eyes and thanked her.
It was beautiful and heartbreaking all at once —how simple it was for her to reach out, and how easy it was for someone else to turn away. As I watched this interaction unfold, I realized the best way for me to be part of the scene was to preserve it. To remind we all have the power to reach out or turn away.
"I believe I could never exhaust the supply of material lying within me. The deeper I plunge, the more I discover." - Anaïs Nin
Leaf on Umbrella Stand
The petal is the protagonist. Its story spans many seasons, and we are witnessing only one moment: a resting place in the midst of transit. Lost at sea, it nuzzles against an unexpected safe haven—like a kind and generous stranger. Dried, solitary, tired yellow. The natural manifestation of texture and color beneath the sun gives away the outdoor location.
Small, fragile goosebumps on hard plastic set the stage for added layers and texture. The surface is warmed by afternoon heat—my favorite kind of heat. The light reveals the delicate form of the goosebumps, as though they could be wiped away in one angry swoop. Striped shadows harness the plastic structure. Perfect shade creating a symphony of linear form. Thin versus thick. The shadows have shadows. Don’t we all? The shape of the white umbrella stand is predominately disclosed through the shadow’s movement—the turn in its path.
Within a snippet, we have a choreographed scene.
Mom and I—Daily Morning FaceTime
My mom and I speak daily on FaceTime at around 9:30A.
“Hey biotch.”
Daily plans and gossip.
“Let me say hello to Jazzy. ” (my cat Jasper)
“Wait! Say it again. I have to write it on the back of the tissue box.”
“Love you more.”
Behind her face are remnants from my childhood. The mirror I picked out with the rest of my bedroom set when I was 12. My first interior design project. Outside of the frame is my twin canopy bed. I remember how excited I was to go to Bob’s discount furniture. There were free cookies. It felt like a play land. I see glimpses, everyday, of the life I used to live. A regular opportunity to reflect on a part of my life—sometimes difficult. It helps me better appreciate the life I’ve built. And where I plan to take it. The calendar from ShopRite is her doing. It’s my favorite thing in the old childhood bedroom. A new relic. No aesthetic care in the world; sometimes I’m not sure how we’re related. She writes down her appointments on there and the tissue box she keeps next to her arm chair.
Announcement
