photos by Tominaga Tamako for Ryuko Tsushin January 1983

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photos by Tominaga Tamako for Ryuko Tsushin January 1983
da cieli sereni, collage on handmade paper, 2017
Derrick Adams, Style Variation 10, 2019 on view at Vigo Gallery at Frieze NY: May 1-5, 2019. Randall’s Island, NYC. #derrickadams derrickadamsny stylevariation friezeNY
Prince photographed by Allen Beaulieu, 1982.
Michael Bradley revisits the wet plate photography technique that had removed Indigenous tattoo traditions from photographic records.
There’s beauty in every process.
Tree of life | by Bess Hamiti
Self care.
Self-portrait 07/14/2017
My church, New Day United Methodist Church, began its 5th Annual Queer Liberation Month last Sunday, June 11. This year's theme is This Is My Body. Each week will present explorations of the ways society has labeled Queer bodies as in need of correcting, and the ways that Christian communities can learn (and benefit) from Queer expression in spite of such violent criticism.
This subject is near and dear to meー like so many Queer people, my body and its many movements have been critiqued my entire life. "Don't fold your arms like that." "Boys don't cross their legs like that." "Stop talking with your hands." "Put some bass in your voice." "You're too skinny." There was a constant policing of the ways in which my body spoke to the world, which slowly caused me to deem many aspects of myself as wrong and unloveable. I engaged in toxic relationships because I felt that they were what I deserved; I didn't stand up for myself when I needed to, because I automatically assumed that other people were right in their critique of me. I accepted the notion that I should remain hidden and secret, or that the extent of my value was as an accessory to someone more beautiful and more pleasing to the male gaze. It took years to pull myself out of the shadows, to see myself as powerful, and capable of being seen and loved fully. And it's still a work in progress.
Queer people endure so muchー many strongholds want our essences on their shelves. Still, I'm grateful for spaces like New Day, which insist that what we endure is the result of a wrong society, and not wrong bodies. If you're in or near the Bronx, check out the next sermon this Sunday, June 18. It starts at 11 a.m.
👀 📸 . A self portrait from March 2016.
Black tourmaline, rose quartz, lavender mist, sage, and Nag Champa incense, all from Namaste Bookshop in NYC. These are my latest tools of mass resistance, to a world that wants me worried, spent, insecure, and in bondage.
Nope. No. Not at all.
I'm living, glowing, and thriving in freedom. Purpose-filled energy in; purposeless energy out. I deserve it, and will insist on it. Will you do the same?
Sifting through photos feels better than scrolling through photos. After my dad's recent passing, I realized this while going through his old ones. There's something so beautiful about holding a memory in your hands. It feels sacred. As my ma, Aunt Kim, and I went through my Dad's photos on Ma's living room floor, we laughed, remembered, cried a little, and deepened our connections with one another. It also made me think of all the memories that I have stored in computer files, Facebook albums, and old flash drives. They're all so strewn about in this digital ether, which I'm somehow supposed to trust. They don't feel permanent where they are and, no, I don't fully trust the tech titans who promise to safeguard them. To remedy this, at least a little bit, I bought a Fujifilm Instax camera. It's an updated version of a Polaroid, and cost about $60. Last week, with so many of my family members present to celebrate my dad's life, it was fun to snap these little photos, then have them blossom in physical form right before our eyes. We laughed at how goofy we looked in some, and smiled at how good we looked in others. It was all great, and further underscored the power of tangible connections, which can never be replaced.
A throwback to September, amid bar stools, flowers and wooden floors for a client photo shoot. Natural sunlight filled the space, and my belly was full of coffee and corn muffins. The owner of the quiet loft spoke of the New York City of yesteryear, where art flourished and everybody knew everybody. It's not like that anymore. Across the street there was barren land, gated and filled with rocks. "They're turning that into a parking lot," he said wistfully.
65 and ½ inches completed. 9 and ½ inches left to go.