Arielle Jessop

Arielle Jessop is a visual artist working and living in New England. Her work examines and explores beauty, memory and the layers that create our human experience. www.ariellejessop.com

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Searching

A flash of red catches and punctures the corner of my eye

As I pretend not to look

It lets me know you’re there,

Looking too.

It tugs at me to turn and speak

Say something

The practiced witty commentary about anything current

Gets stuck in the middle of my throat, inflicting silence

For one more day.

You didn’t have a name yet and the mystery of it glistened

Then

Stolen cigarettes sucked down in almost secret

Tucked in between brick walls, tinged with envy.

Were we doing something bad I wondered.

Little moments of eyes locked, begging to be filled with first kisses

Over and over

I looked for red

Searched for it in a sea of grey and green, filling up any space I had left

With the quest for scarlet.

A glimmer of hope that we might

Yet I couldn’t find a way to break in

Currently the way you pulled at the cuffs of a white button down and spun

A silver ring around

Around was it your thumb

Was it your middle finger

Was it your thumb

Haunts me

Currently you haunt me

Romeo meets Juliet except this is New York City and no one gives a shit if you off yourself or not

And every time I see the J train it’s like you jump back in my heart and try to push its walls until they crack

I beg for the silence I mastered in the days of searching for red

I beg for her to come and put this to rest.

I beg for her to let me fall in love again. 

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Continuation of a project - objects associated with comfort. 

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Legendary Women Art Dealers 

Last week, we introduced you to three incredible women who revolutionized the New York art world of their respective times. This week, take a look at three more legendary women art dealers you need to know. 

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Studio graffiti #whalesgotosleephere #bushwick #brooklyn #art (at Splinters and Logs)

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John Patrick Shanley. Today I read this and I think it will change me.

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I don’t do drugs. I am drugs.

Salvador Dalí (via artnet)

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Well this is how I spent my afternoon #playsfordays #theatre #inspiration (at The Bread Box)

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A piece of an old home in a new home #poutine #brooklyn #brunch #foodie #montreal #delicious (at Mile End Delicatessen)

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Square #selfie

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My view this morning. Eerily quiet.

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A Love Poem To My Mother

It’s her hands. Hot soapy water runs over the years of lines and veins, stopping for a minute at the garnet ring that’s missing two stones It’s in her hands Perfectly shaped fingernails softly stroked by gentle pads, I know that means she’s thinking. They don’t sew They don’t bake, they don’t spend hours, doting It’s in her hands though They caress and lightly push the little golden hairs away from my temple Soft earnest whispers cradle my fears and hold a weakness no one else will ever see Clipping the green off strawberries Plopped in a bowl lined With liquid sugar and maple syrup The shape of her knuckles cutting through summer berry flesh Pairing knife perfectly angled Swiftly missing her index finger reminds me of the way she peels potatoes Home is in the smell of her morning coat, sweet murmurs of awakening and hope But mostly it’s in her hands. A web of acceptance and curiosity woven on a loom dedicated only to the making of spirit and truth. Tears spent over little things that mattered, a lap waiting for my wet cheek to rest as long as it needed to grow up, no questions asked Unfaltering belief and inability to see anything but what she’d dreamed of Long drives of golden and blue expanse Comfort filling the space in between our practiced silence Me, taking for granted her sacrifice Her, grateful just for my essence. Smudge sticks and runes stuck on a shelf next to a book of human anatomy and something about child development that she didn’t need to read Effortless instinct and a twinkle that rivals the fairies my younger versions, a gaze that lets me know life is hard and terrible and wonderful and filled with joy and I’m one of hers and do I know I’m one of hers and does she know she’s one of mine It’s in her hands A touch that begs nothing and requires no reciprocations A pat on a knee in a warm afternoon, simple insight, unknowingly fixing me Talk of Shakers and Adam and Eve confronted with Pagan traditions and the mortifying ceremony when I got my first period Now I have my own hands. I look down at mine and I see hers and the unbearable thought of when she will just be a memory haunts me again I could forget her hands. Little snapshots will flash by and what if I can’t catch them and what if I never told her how much… And what will happen when her hands are gone a thought that can only be answered with never-ending tears What will happen when my hands are the only hands left that look like ours.

Written for my mother in February 2014.

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This guy always surfaces after 5J Barrow shows almost without fail. We are acquiring quite a large collection of his work. I believe @callard91 @enamaky and maybe even @magglesmcgee has one? @elcastillonyc is a new proud owner #nyc #streetart #dickdude

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#regram from @callard91 from last night at #bowerypoetryclub. I'd love to be humble here, but I won poetry night and now that shits gonna get published and I think that's cool #winning #poetry #nyc

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Roof #Brooklyn #nyc #timeless #citylove

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Makin' art with teenagers and talking about why to stay in school and stuff. They all want pictures of Justin Bieber...freaking great kids though #art #arteducation #drawing #nyc #justinbieber

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Room with a view #nyc #westvillage #instart #photography #love #citylove #home #instalove

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Sister #sisters #portrait #photography #blackandwhite #brooklyn #love (at The Bread Box)