Sunday Muses: 11/17/24
Here's a toast to this week's inspirations <3
Hi my loves <3
I, in many ways, feel as though lately my life has been simply my finding textures and patterns and sounds that can satiate some sort of creative appetite. What feels good? What makes me want to take an extra second to savor the sights of it? What is speaking to me? What would I love to feel under my skin? Rub on my shoulders? Kiss my toes? What patterns speak to me? What sounds are scratching my brain just right?
As I have begun to explore these questions and what exactly they mean to me, I have found that the textures, patterns and sounds that I adore most are the ones that leave a little something behind. Maybe not something physical, but they remain so imprinted internally I seek to protect my fondest memories of my first time experiencing them.
Oftentimes this manifests when I come across a new artist (to me) to explore, or I visit a favorite writer and see what new pieces I can sit with.
This week I have decided to incorporate writers into my Sunday Muses. Truth be told, I had been trying to save them for later, but I realized as of late that there is no need to. If it’s anything that I’ve learned while exploring this space it’s that one of the best parts about finding a piece of writing that speaks to you is sharing it.
Have you ever read something that is so…UMPH that you had to go back to savor more? Something that warmed you from the tips of your toes to the tip of your spine? Or maybe something that left you wishing you had could’ve walked away unscathed? Maybe you’ve read something lately that left you standing in the middle of a memory you’d left behind as you’ve grown older.
Each piece of writing included are ones that I found myself feeling SOMETHING. And when I did, I found myself engaging with them using all of my senses. A smell might’ve come to mind. I imagined what I would love to eat while reading it. I scratch my thumbs on the pages and curl them under to savor them for later, praying that it would hit my spirit just the same. And more than anything: I felt something. Deep in my belly, rumbling until I became completely engulfed in the sensations evoked by what my eyes were devouring on the page. I even reread the pieces repeatedly while playing different songs to see what new ways I can explore it; see if it can hit me in a different way.
I have also featured a few textile artists that should most definitely be on your radar. I don’t believe I have extended a toast to any as of yet, so I am excited to share my new loves. Remember to click on their names for links to their website and follow them on Instagram for updates.
As always: I hope you have a week full of love, grace, and wonder <3
cutting greens
by Lucille Clifton
curling them around
i hold their bodies in obscene embrace
thinking of everything but kinship.
collards and kale
strain against each strange other
away from my kissmaking hand and
the iron bedpot.
the pot is black,
the cutting board is black,
my hand,
and just for a minute
the greens roll black under the knife,
and the kitchen twists dark on its spine
and I taste in my natural appetite
the bond of live things everywhere.
when you have forgotten Sunday: the love story
by Gwendolyn Brooks
—And when you have forgotten the bright bedclothes on a Wednesday and a Saturday,
And most especially when you have forgotten Sunday—
When you have forgotten Sunday halves in bed,
Or me sitting on the front-room radiator in the limping afternoon
Looking off down the long street
To nowhere,
Hugged by my plain old wrapper of no-expectation
And nothing-I-have-to-do and I’m-happy-why?
And if-Monday-never-had-to-come—
When you have forgotten that, I say,
And how you swore, if somebody beeped the bell,
And how my heart played hopscotch if the telephone rang;
And how we finally went in to Sunday dinner,
That is to say, went across the front room floor to the ink-spotted table in the southwest corner
To Sunday dinner, which was always chicken and noodles
Or chicken and rice
And salad and rye bread and tea
And chocolate chip cookies—
I say, when you have forgotten that,
When you have forgotten my little presentiment
That the war would be over before they got to you;
And how we finally undressed and whipped out the light and flowed into bed,
And lay loose-limbed for a moment in the week-end
Bright bedclothes,
Then gently folded into each other—
When you have, I say, forgotten all that,
Then you may tell,
Then I may believe
You have forgotten me well.
That Was Her Way of Showing God
by Jasmine Mans
We didn’t go to church on Sundays,
but my mother cleaned
the whole house.
Wiped from behind the toilet–
to inside of the oven.
That was her way
of honoring God.
Separating cloth
by color,
making sure
nothing bled,
onto anything else,
stretching pork
across seven days,
because even poverty
knows ritual.
Baptizing Black babies
in bathtubs
of hand-me-down water,
one, after
another.
A poor woman’s tradition,
but of its own abundance.
That was her way of showing God
that she had a servant’s heart,
that she was a good woman,
with all of the little
she had.
April Bey
@/aprilbey | Bahamian American | Contemporary visual artist
Bisa Butler
@/bisabutler | African American (NJ) | Fiber artist
Precious Lovell
African American (NC) | Mixed media artist
Portrait of Precious Lovell by Samantha Everette | Source: Walter Magazine
Aliyah Bonnette
@/sweetpeachkee | African American (NC) | Improvisational Quilter
Love this post!! Really appreciate the concept of inserting readings and interests that you gravitated towards! Amazing work ✨🧡
This is amazing! One of my teachers is in this post... thank you!