Nuyorican

Last night i read at Nuyorican poets cafe for the second time. there is so much hype surrounding this venue that i felt i needed to be a part of it. now that i have ventured inside..stood on stage..and presented myself to the crowd..i have little desire to return. dont get me wrong..i love open mics and the spoken word but i just have not taken a liking to the vibe of nuyorican. the crowd is very young and so are their references. i am all for new wave and up and coming figurative speach but there is something lost when the only thing that engages me in the piece is "what" they are presenting rather than how they present it. the how is not in their performance. most can carry a piece very well as actors and actresses can do but what they are saying leaves much to be desired. there is no substance...but there are the few that surprise me and engage me...yet still here, unlike other places i find myself easily walking out and easily looking around. plus i dont like the grading...seems a bit high school...at least this time aroung they did not enagage in the pretensious beatnik finger snapping.
so for now...i will endulge in cornelia street cafe and vox pop and all the other small venues around the city that really speak to me...as a poet

Poem for the Holidays c) 2009

rejoice in the sound of the season
giving praise
oh little town of bethlehem
with bells jingling above from santa's sleigh
the joy of all the children
their calls beckoning in the silence of the night


footsteps tiptoeing in to lay out gifts beneath the tree
as all the children lay quietly asleep
cookie crumbs and milk set out next to stockings
mistletoe above thy deep and dreamless moments
where love meets the morning and we celebrate the birth of christ our lord

Below are two poems I recently wrote. I have not been to an open mic in a couple months... plan to head back starting december....'til then, enjoy

Rejuvenation





My body folds as I dive into an ocean unknown


Luminous light reflected off multitudes of rocks and grains of sand


Bodies submerged with my own
Held afloat by the tickle of salt that consumes the oceans body


Below me, new horizons


My stare releases as I glide my body up for air
A fortitude of wonder and amaze


Swish swish swish


How sweet the sound of healing


Flying in deep Bimini blue
Ripples like clouds above


Inhale ahhh
Exhale mmmm

sanctuary

Sanctuary





I was born in my mothers womb.
A place of warmth,
where I surrendered my innocence unknowingly when I left her body.


Now, shedding tears, into a calm open Bimini crest
of white sea foam and undulating waves crashing at my feet,
I once again return my innocence to the hemisphere.


Bimini Blue,
come wash my fears away with you.
Whisper that sweet song
in whistles that you have sung to me as we perused over the beating pulses,
saying,


‘I’ll take care of you.’


The song I now sing to myself, in deep exhales
that reach all seven chakras.


‘I’ll never let you down.’


‘I am here for you.’


Rich violet set atop the rich smooth painted sunset
Put my fears to rest with the troubles of the past.
Clouds of white luminous above my head
swirling in between puffs of gray.
My aura so high it has moon kissed heaven.


My Bimini good-bye,
A rainbow, captured in the memories of my sisters
A tranquil pod, unforgotten in the oceans womb;
Sealed by life’s ah-ha moments
Shared in the itch for survival and the stains embedded
like the change of our sundrenched skin as we say,


Yes!


One of thirst quenching shouts


Yes!


I love my mama’s womb of praise.
Thank you Mother Earth for your direction
and our Blessed Father for this instance of release,
even if it is just for a short lived cry

this is a rag doll i made for my daughter years ago. it is now laying somewhere on teh bottom of her toybox. it used to have a dress. simple. when i was little i had a ragdoll that my mother made for me and i took it with me everywhere. this is my way of recreating that memory. a doll your mother sewed by hand.

This is a papermache dollhouse i made for my daughter years ago. it has since been purged in the transition from apartment to apartment as one does when they move. it was supposed to be our dream house. i am such a fan of papermache because it is one of those tools where i feel anything is possible. it is very liberating. plus, you get to be messy. that old school method of creating still amazes me.

okay, so earlier this year, my dad brought me into the studio to record one of my poems over one of his tracks. my poem 'speakers' was transformed into something new as i was instructed to really think about what the words i wrote meant to me so i could read with conviction. i was surprised by how detached i had felt from my own words as i read my piece though the mic with headphones plugging my ears so i could follow the beat of the music. my dad told me that most people have trouble following the rhythm however my problem was not that - it was putting emotion behinds my lines. after recording for a couple hours we packed our stuff and went home. that night Eko was born. we listened to the track and he realized that we needed about a minute and a half of new material to fill in the gap of space that now blessed the end of the track. i was again instructed this time half jokingly he suggested i take drama lessons.
i went to work thinking about the sensation of being in the recording studio and the power of reading over music. i took heed of the words my father gave me. i needed to speak with knowledge of my words. i also needed to extend my poem. i began to write and sent my rambling to my dad. it was done.
we returned to the studio weeks later. and that night, i walked away with more confidence, still needing more work. i am a work in progress but always making strives at improving. i will find the confident spoken word artist that is hiding in me and when she is released, you better watch out because i will be fierce.

this is an old sketch from when i was in college. never finished it. thats what happens a lot in college. you get a model for a few hours and wind up with half complete work.... lol.



This is another sketch that is only partially complete. . .

i have kept a journal/diary since i was in 3rd grade. up until a few months ago, i had mountains of them, filled from beginning to end with loose pages stuffed in between and excepts pasted and tagged to the sheets. i documented every moment of my life from the good and encompassed all of the bad. i did not discriminate nor eliminate which topics i discussed. i wrote for the moment. whatever was on my mind was instantaneously scribbled in ink and packed away for storage. when i moved in june of this year, i was overwhelmed by the mounds of books that i had accumilated throughout the years. i flipped through page after page and laughed at the memories and cried through the tough times.
when i die, all these words that i felt were too sacred to share with others will be left for the discretion of someone who is not me to either share or purge. i decided that was not okay with me. those were all my private moments. feelings i did not feel safe to share with others and therefore, one evening i spent hour after hours shredding page after page, laughter and tears, young and old experiences and rid my apartment of all my journals.
"you shouldn't have done that, your going to regret it" people kept telling me. i will never regret it. i can not control when my life will end but i can control my legacy and therefore the words that people remember me by i want to be left in the words of my poetry. my poems outline my life as well but in a different way. this is what i feel safe sharing with the world and therefore remorse would only have existed had i not taken the reins of my death and let my memory be mine. my art and my writing are the tools for which God provided me to guide me through life and i hope that i leave inspiring footprints on those who come in contact with me because i know i am influenced tremendously by all that cross my path. even those that cause me pain. they make me appreciate the good. trust, i feel blessed for those beautiful souls that bring good to my life.

dance of the elephants
20x24 acrylic on canvas

this painting was also exhibited on September 2, 2008 as part of a group art show located at the 6th street community center, called the end of the end of summer wine and cheese exhibition'

Eyes
20x24 acrylic on canvas

this was displayed in a group artshow september 2, 2008 @ 6th street community center in L.E.S. New York

This week peacock feathers have been appears in so many places around me and i felt it would be fitting to share this painting that was done." Peacocks are known as ‘the bird of 100 eyes'.The ‘eyes’ became a favourite mythic metaphor as all-seeing witnesses to hidden transgressions.The concept found its way into religious belief as the symbol of beatific vision. In the ancient myths of Egypt, Greece, and Rome, the Peacock feather was a symbol of the ‘evil eye’". ironically i also wore a necklace this week with the evil eye symbol on it.
when i got a tattoo of a peacock on my body, it was added due to the mention of a peacock being a symbol of a change in life circumstances. this tattoo was the only one i did not design myself. i just explained to the tattoo artist what i wanted and let him work his magic with the image i had in my head. it was a first experience trusting someone with placing art on my body that i did not create myself. trust is the operative word because my tattoos are so closely connected to who i am and what i have been through in life.



i can not fit all of the peacock on one photo so i have broken it down into two pics

This is another tattoo i designed for the inside of my left arm. Elephants are a symbol of power, strength and royalty. They embody strength and power, especially power of the libido. Why clouds you ask? because of their size, color, shape, elephants and clouds have been linked together.

c)2001
Boa
sold

nude
acrylic on cardboard

The Entity
20x24 Acrylic on Canvas


The Embrace
20x24 Acrylic on Canvas


These two pieces were part of the series but were not part of the gallery exhibition.

The Union
20x24 Acrylic on Canvas


the Creation
20x24 Acrylic on Canvas


Plenty of Room on the Couch
Eastern District Group Art Show
Curated by Jesse Denning
June 26 - July 19 2009

i have been attending open mics around the city for about a year and a half now. it was a sincere surprise to me, to experience how much i love being on stage. i feel like a whole different person. "I feel like i am at home", i once told a fellow poet, Phyllis Talley, who had featured one night at Cornelia Street Cafe. she is one of my most favorite spoken word poets i have been privy to watch. i had walked over to praise her for her writing one evening, but in turn received high admiration for my body of work. she had seen me read on numerous occasions and that night she spoke to me to tell me how much she loved my work. i felt so blessed. like i won the lottery.we had spoken before but this time was different. maybe it was because this time i was approaching her as well.
this time was different for me because i was considering the fact and the acknowledgment that people recognized me as a person and my writing - not only from what i read that evening but my work over the various months as a collective whole.
i have read at a few Open Mics : Cornelia Street Cafe, Nightingale, Vox Pop, Nuyorican. Even held a one woman open mic at my sisters apartment one evening. i will tell you all more about my experiences at these venues as time progresses.

Vox Pop Open Mic
Brooklyn NY
10/4/09

this evening, i read three new poems i wrote. i even brought my daughter for the first time to witness me on stage. she is the one who took the photographs above.

here is one of the poems i read tonight. i used that technique that you learn in grade school where they make you spell out a word vertically and then start each sentence of the poem with the letters of that word. this is my poem c) 2009


Rape Survivor



Road to recovery is a hard one

Accepting the fact that life handed me stacks

Piles of questions doomed to be unanswered

Endless words circulating through my head



Sounds of the evening replayed and scratched out

Utter destruction pillaged through fingertips

Ravaged in the strokes of his hands

Vindictive motives pressed into me with each moan

I don’t want this cycle of events left in transit

Violence mapped on the rocky path to happiness

Order restored through healing prayers and strife

Relentless efforts to reclaim the me buried within

the jack and jill series

this installation is from my senior show at pratt institute december 2002. it was set up to look like a kindegarten classroom, complete with clock and the split dual color wall. it was a commentary of men and womens interactions
the chalkboards displayed my poetry which were based mainly on relationships.
the woodenblocks each had a different slang word of male and female genitalia.
the flashcards objectified different situations that could arise as a result from men and women interacting and picking different objects that i associated with each subject - the topics included rape, motherhood, catcalls, aids
the construction paper drawing represented dual roles that men and women play such as the woman ironing as she is giving her husband/lover a handjob

Are tattoos art? People look at me and ask me if i am a tattoo artist because i say i design my tattoos. Even more ludacris to me is the infamous "did you tattoo yourself?". No, i can not see behind me or twist my arms in anyway to legibly put a proper tattoo in any of the places i am inked. i am an artist. that is the only tangible explanation i can provide that seems to encompass why i put my art on my body. i choose to tattoo myself for the same reasons i create art on canvas. i want to visually express something. my art is usually a commentary on a situation. you will see this more as you delve into the different stories behind my artwork. the same goes for my tattoos. each piece represents a distinct moment in my life which had a strong impact on the person i am today. i am very big on symbols. i try not to incorporate an image unless the meaning behind the symbol has some significant relevance to the topic at hand.
the tattoo you see below was done at two different points in my life...a year apart from one another. the dragon, the original image is a symbol of strength.
The butterflies which are seen blank here, have since been colored in shades of pink, so they blend more and don't stand out. Butterflies, a symbol of the soul being carried from earth to heaven....and then the cherry blossoms, a symbol of change....
the other symbols - the sunflower, the lotus, the sun, the flames - all important but not the main focus.
so are tattoos art? of course. how could they not be.

c)2001

probably should have take better care of this over the years but after you move a few times and take it off the stretchers, it gets pummeled as you can see.

c)2003
Sold
artwork commissioned by Leonard Mesquitta

c) 2009
Sold
painting commissioned by Nishani Pierre Louis of her daughter Hayden

I've been mulling over this idea of the "professional artist". What makes you a professional? Is it merely the fact that one has made a sale from their endeavors? Or are you a professional if you solely make a career off your talent. I have a hard time with this concept.
When I was in H.S. I took I Saturday classes at Cooper Union so i could hone my skills and build my portfolio which would be submitted to colleges for the following fall semester. During one assignment we were all given a pair of pliers. Yes, that tool you use to tighten nuts and bolts with. Anyway, we were to draw large scale sketches of the pliers on newsprint paper with charcoal. Now if anyone has used either one of these before, you would know two things – charcoal smudges easily and newsprint paper is flimsy.
I completed my drawing and proceeded outside to the streets of the East Village to display my masterpiece on the façade of the college. There were about fifteen of us scotch-taping our pieces to the metal bars from the construction work encasing the school within. Men and women glanced over as they swiftly walked by. My piece was next to Federico’s drawing. Federico’s piece looked as though it was as good as a picture. I felt very small with my work next to his as though there was no way our work could compare. He was by far the superior artist in my mind. A man was inquiring shortly after my praise of Federico’s work “How much?” but to my surprise he was not asking to purchase the magnificent piers I was admiring but rather my own sketch. Flabbergasted, all I could say was “What?” my friend stepped in and said “$50” and he said “How about $20”I was so excited that someone would actually want to pay for something I spent a few flimsy minutes sketching. I said “OK”
We proceeded to take the work off the scaffolding when one of the teachers scolded us for disrupting the display and then next for selling the piece for so little. I was simply proud to make twenty bucks off of something I was planning to throw away when it was returned to me. I exchanged phone numbers with the man, who wore a business suit and had clean cut blond hair over his finely aged features. He handed me a $20 bill and I was asked to call him when the display was over and to ensure that the charcoal didn’t smudge. He was planning to give the drawing to a friend who owned a hardware store.
Nic Munson was a jazz musician in his early 40’s and lived in London. He was in NYC visiting. After I sealed the charcoal with hairspray, I called Nic to set up and time and place to meet. I chose the Lincoln Center fountain. We chatted for roughly two hours, the end of which he and my very first sale were gone.
Now, my question to you, did this sale automatically thrust me into the position of being a professional artist simply by the exchange of money?

I recieved an art award in 5th grade - an award named after a woman who was deceased at the time my name was called but whose presence was still felt as I made slow moving strides to the stage. Mrs. Dean, she was my second grade teacher and always singled me out from the rest of the class. Small brown skin that only seemed to concern her. I recall pursed lips, standing in the hallway despite the rest of the class heading on to eat their lunches while I was held back for cheating. Cheating on a test only I confidently knew the answers to which Irene fumbled to pass as her own. Yet she was still allowed to alleviate the disturbance rumbling above her belt buckle while my stomach panged me with knowledge. Frozen images of back of the classroom segregation hit me hard.
Standing on stage, I reached out to shake the trembling hands of Mr. Dean who now presented me with the praised Dean Art Award; a small pin sitting on blue foam in a plastic case. I still have it to this day buried beneath memories in a cardboard box. Mrs. Dean must have been watching down from Heaven that day, appauled at the circumstances... color recieving an award for art.