When bloods sees blood of its own. It sings to see itself again. It sings to hear the voice its known. It sings to recognize the face. (Suzanne Vega)
This applies to art 'kin' as well. It's rare and magical when we find one another, and the recognition and connection is immediate. Had such an experience yesterday, and am so grateful for the invisible threads that draw us together.
Your Life, Week by Week (thank you, Tim Urban by way of Joshua Lavra)
I have a copy of my own life grid posted inside the apartment. While others have commented on its morbid nature, I find it comforting. Every one of those squares I haven't checked off is a gift of time I have yet to receive (assuming I don't die before week's end). Both of my grandmothers lived into their early 90's, so there's a decent chance I will too.
2,288 left. Better make them count, whatever that means.
The rumors are true! Gowanus Night Heron is back! Come celebrate with me at the most superfunD event of the year!
Saturday, June 5, 6-9 pm // 426 President Street at Bond Street (rain date: June 6)
We had to postpone once due to the pandemic, but we've emerged from the long COVID winter more excited than ever to showcase the creativity of the Brooklyn arts community!
Staged in wooden storage pods in the parking lot of Rabbit Movers, this intimate and ephemeral gathering of 20 local artists is a testament to the creativity and community that sets Brooklyn apart. Work includes photography, painting, drawing, collage, ceramics, textiles, spoken word, and light and video installation. The event is free, open to the public, and will adhere to the latest NYC COVID-19 protocols.
If you miss it, you missed it.
Sonjie Feliciano Solomon
You can also find us on...
I don't see you in your work. These words were used recently by a curator in response to my work. After the sting subsided I understood what she meant.
Careers in design and environmental education, and undying curiosity about physical, earth, and life sciences contribute to the detached observer stance. I am more comfortable talking about process/approach than personal meaning.
How does one talk about the personal aspects of their work without going down the self-indulgent rabbit-hole? Does that revelation make the work more meaningful? Or, does it reduce one's personal experience to cheap currency/commodity in a voyeuristic and predatory relationship?
So, this is what you get: my work is where, for a moment, I make peace with and accept myself.
The pandemic gives and takes in equal measure.
Looking forward to Gowanus Night Heron's eventual flight, when the coast is clear (pun intended).
I was ambivalent about NYC when I moved here in 1998. Figured five years would be my maximum--proving that I could do it before moving on to some place quieter.
This little arm was the start of my countdown clock. I decided that when the streets of New York had gifted me with enough doll parts to create a mini-Frankenstein, I would know it's time to leave.
I've since found an action figure's right leg, a Barbie or equivalent tennis sneaker, a wrestler's head. Still have a way to go. The little horse is just along for the ride.
This goat was the start of it all. Picked him up at an indoor flea market in the Connecticut in the mid/late 90's. Looks to be a combination of paper/plaster formed over a wooden frame. Ears and horns long since gone. It was marked one dollar, but the vendor gave it to me for free.
It felt like I had won the lottery.
This photo was one of the first entries into the collection.
Most likely rescued from the street in Astoria, Queens. The first apartment I rented there was in the basement of a one family home. I'm sure it was illegal--it had only one point of entry/egress. My landlady used to watch over the street activity from her front window. Back in the day, she and her husband were major players in Astoria politics.
Assuming this image memorialized a life event, a birthday, or major family vacation?
This was my mom's type drawer--not sure if she had picked it up at a tag sale or had scrounged it from a printer. It sat in the basement of my childhood home for years. Refinishing it was one of the last projects my father and I worked on before they divorced.
Technically speaking, this is a California Job Case, and has hung on a wall in every apartment I've called home. In turn it has become home to the menagerie of second-hand bits I've accumulated over the past 25 years.
For a very long time, it smelled of old pickles. Thankfully not anymore.