Los Angeles, April 11, 2025
A detail of a tumultuous painting in George Rouy’s exhibition “The Bleed, Part II” at Hauser & Wirth today.
But this entry is not about that. This is about David Hammons’ “Concerto in Black and Blue.” I can’t speak to what it “is” or means, only to how I experienced it.
Push through heavy black velvet curtains, corporeal in their heft. Encounter silent dark rooms. You’ve swathed your phone in a wetsuit-like sheaf, per the rules, no photos allowed. You’ve picked up a blue clickable LED light that must be squeezed to illuminate. The device is the size of a nickel. To orient yourself, you press this device tightly between forefinger and thumb, and a blue light shines, casting a jubilant circle.
The walls are painted a kind of cobalt blue. The cool concrete floors are textured, scarred. The circle of light flicks on and off (is the battery dying from use?) as you move it around, searching, like an explorer in an “undiscovered” land. Depending on where you cast this impersonal light, the circle is bisected by the seam where wall and floor meet. Or wall meets wall. The light finds shadows—the people ahead of you who are speeding through other rooms, looking for something—then goes dark beneath your thumb.
What to make of all of this. What if you take it slow. Look into the light for a moment, shine it toward your eyes, and let the light go. “Look” around, eyes stymied. See nothing. And everything. Sit against a wall, and listen. Look. It’s darkness but it’s not nothing.
Is all of this—this experience—a thing because the artist said it is? Who sets the terms for our experiences? Or, more pointedly, whom do we allow to set the terms? These are exciting questions…
A detail of a tumultuous painting in George Rouy’s exhibition “The Bleed, Part II” at Hauser & Wirth today.
But this entry is not about that. This is about David Hammons’ “Concerto in Black and Blue.” I can’t speak to what it “is” or means, only to how I experienced it.
Push through heavy black velvet curtains, corporeal in their heft. Encounter silent dark rooms. You’ve swathed your phone in a wetsuit-like sheaf, per the rules, no photos allowed. You’ve picked up a blue clickable LED light that must be squeezed to illuminate. The device is the size of a nickel. To orient yourself, you press this device tightly between forefinger and thumb, and a blue light shines, casting a jubilant circle.
The walls are painted a kind of cobalt blue. The cool concrete floors are textured, scarred. The circle of light flicks on and off (is the battery dying from use?) as you move it around, searching, like an explorer in an “undiscovered” land. Depending on where you cast this impersonal light, the circle is bisected by the seam where wall and floor meet. Or wall meets wall. The light finds shadows—the people ahead of you who are speeding through other rooms, looking for something—then goes dark beneath your thumb.
What to make of all of this. What if you take it slow. Look into the light for a moment, shine it toward your eyes, and let the light go. “Look” around, eyes stymied. See nothing. And everything. Sit against a wall, and listen. Look. It’s darkness but it’s not nothing.
Is all of this—this experience—a thing because the artist said it is? Who sets the terms for our experiences? Or, more pointedly, whom do we allow to set the terms? These are exciting questions…
Collage © Kristina Feliciano.Orlando, March 21, 2025
I've been thinking a lot about the concept of betrayal. Experiencing it is like encountering an ominous shadow around a sunny corner, finding yourself suddenly alone. It's often unexpected and always undermining. It leaves you speechless, paralyzed. But betrayal is also an assailant that can be left behind.
Today's collage is composed of a sunprint I made at someone's house on one of those sunny days now gone, a cut-out piece of an old magazine, and a wrinkled detail from a stunning portrait by Paola Kudacki of Rhiannon Giddens that I saved from an old issue of The New Yorker, all mounted on a discolored sheet of construction paper.
I've been thinking a lot about the concept of betrayal. Experiencing it is like encountering an ominous shadow around a sunny corner, finding yourself suddenly alone. It's often unexpected and always undermining. It leaves you speechless, paralyzed. But betrayal is also an assailant that can be left behind.
Today's collage is composed of a sunprint I made at someone's house on one of those sunny days now gone, a cut-out piece of an old magazine, and a wrinkled detail from a stunning portrait by Paola Kudacki of Rhiannon Giddens that I saved from an old issue of The New Yorker, all mounted on a discolored sheet of construction paper.
Photo © Kristina Feliciano.Minnewaska State Park Preserve, Kerhonkson, New York, February 1, 2025
The plan was to do a loop at Minnewaska: a hike comprising Lower Awosting, Rainbow Falls, Upper Awosting, and Mossy Glen Trail. 5.8 miles and maybe a couple of hours.
What actually transpired: 7 miles, almost 4 and a half hours, and fearing that I wouldn't finish the hike before dark. A hike whose last couple of miles wound through the woods, over large sections of dangerously smooth ice, gnarled roots, and frighteningly smooth uneven rock formations. My pace was quick, but with a long way to go and the clock rounding 5 pm, yikes. And though I was warmly dressed, it was 19 degrees and dropping…
It wasn't always this way. About an hour into the hike, when the sun was still high in the sky, I met a pit bull in a pink fleece. Her name is Lucy. I reached out to pet her, and as she lunged for my hand her owners exclaimed, "Watch out! She likes to steal gloves." (Not what you were expecting, huh?) And then halfway through the hike, I arrived at Rainbow Falls, epically frozen and legitimately jaw-dropping to witness up close. About that time, Endorphina, Queen of Elation, joined me, and I was feeling pretty triumphant for having navigated through relative peril to get here.
But all that was nearly forgotten now as panic crept in. And then, as I was considering how to traverse a wide swath of ice, I saw a light across the way. I turned on my phone flashlight and waved it. It was a couple. One of them made his way toward me. "Are you okay?" he asked. "I was afraid I would be hiking in the dark," I said, and that's when I realized just how frightened I was. "I'm so happy to see you." His name was Dan, and her name was Christina, and they were two of the kindest people ever ever ever. They invited me to join them for the end of the hike. They, unlike me, were properly equipped with hiking poles and, um, water. (I know, I know.) I followed them feeling like a lost child with a new appreciation for being obedient.
The plan was to do a loop at Minnewaska: a hike comprising Lower Awosting, Rainbow Falls, Upper Awosting, and Mossy Glen Trail. 5.8 miles and maybe a couple of hours.
What actually transpired: 7 miles, almost 4 and a half hours, and fearing that I wouldn't finish the hike before dark. A hike whose last couple of miles wound through the woods, over large sections of dangerously smooth ice, gnarled roots, and frighteningly smooth uneven rock formations. My pace was quick, but with a long way to go and the clock rounding 5 pm, yikes. And though I was warmly dressed, it was 19 degrees and dropping…
It wasn't always this way. About an hour into the hike, when the sun was still high in the sky, I met a pit bull in a pink fleece. Her name is Lucy. I reached out to pet her, and as she lunged for my hand her owners exclaimed, "Watch out! She likes to steal gloves." (Not what you were expecting, huh?) And then halfway through the hike, I arrived at Rainbow Falls, epically frozen and legitimately jaw-dropping to witness up close. About that time, Endorphina, Queen of Elation, joined me, and I was feeling pretty triumphant for having navigated through relative peril to get here.
But all that was nearly forgotten now as panic crept in. And then, as I was considering how to traverse a wide swath of ice, I saw a light across the way. I turned on my phone flashlight and waved it. It was a couple. One of them made his way toward me. "Are you okay?" he asked. "I was afraid I would be hiking in the dark," I said, and that's when I realized just how frightened I was. "I'm so happy to see you." His name was Dan, and her name was Christina, and they were two of the kindest people ever ever ever. They invited me to join them for the end of the hike. They, unlike me, were properly equipped with hiking poles and, um, water. (I know, I know.) I followed them feeling like a lost child with a new appreciation for being obedient.
Photo © Kristina Feliciano.”Driving to Cuyama at Night,” Cuyama, California; written November 2021 and revised January 2025
What best describes the day is the drive back to the hotel. A sky creamy blue and dark round the edges. Brake lights, headlights, and yellow stripes. Soft curves of mountains like cut felt. A nearly full moon keeping watch.
Today was a winding drive to Santa Ynez, about an hour and a half, and a four-mile hike to complete Lovers Loop. No one on the trail. Not well marked. Found my way following the U-shaped prints of a horse that had just been through. Near the end, small children with faces smudged from playing in the dirt. One of them, a little boy of about 4, stood looking at me in that silent, semi-distracted way of a child whose brain is busily piecing together feelings and data. The teacher—a woman wrapping pea-green yarn round a large spool—sang a song, softly, upon noticing me. When the boy didn’t move, she gently took his arm. “You move out of the path when I sing this song, okay?”
Then Solvang, a Danish town that’s part tourist novelty and part real life. I got a cheap massage from a guy who was all eagerness and haste. Felt like after school in the rec room with a high school boyfriend in an imagined past.
Later, a jaunt to Gaviota, for 20 minutes of beach bliss. A woman who’d been languidly swimming in the cold surf walked by me as she made her way back to the parking lot. She had noticed me writing in my notebook. “Isn’t the water cold?” I asked. “I hypnotize,” she said. Her accent, her all-knowing eyes reminded me of Viveca Lindfors, who I first encountered at poetry performances at the Swedish council in NYC in the early 90s. Viveca and this woman both were warm an enigmatic. Like electricity—something whose presence can fill a room but that you can’t touch.
And lastly, s’mores at the hotel. Alone, because it’s November 2021, there’s a pandemic, and I’m the only one here.
What best describes the day is the drive back to the hotel. A sky creamy blue and dark round the edges. Brake lights, headlights, and yellow stripes. Soft curves of mountains like cut felt. A nearly full moon keeping watch.
Today was a winding drive to Santa Ynez, about an hour and a half, and a four-mile hike to complete Lovers Loop. No one on the trail. Not well marked. Found my way following the U-shaped prints of a horse that had just been through. Near the end, small children with faces smudged from playing in the dirt. One of them, a little boy of about 4, stood looking at me in that silent, semi-distracted way of a child whose brain is busily piecing together feelings and data. The teacher—a woman wrapping pea-green yarn round a large spool—sang a song, softly, upon noticing me. When the boy didn’t move, she gently took his arm. “You move out of the path when I sing this song, okay?”
Then Solvang, a Danish town that’s part tourist novelty and part real life. I got a cheap massage from a guy who was all eagerness and haste. Felt like after school in the rec room with a high school boyfriend in an imagined past.
Later, a jaunt to Gaviota, for 20 minutes of beach bliss. A woman who’d been languidly swimming in the cold surf walked by me as she made her way back to the parking lot. She had noticed me writing in my notebook. “Isn’t the water cold?” I asked. “I hypnotize,” she said. Her accent, her all-knowing eyes reminded me of Viveca Lindfors, who I first encountered at poetry performances at the Swedish council in NYC in the early 90s. Viveca and this woman both were warm an enigmatic. Like electricity—something whose presence can fill a room but that you can’t touch.
And lastly, s’mores at the hotel. Alone, because it’s November 2021, there’s a pandemic, and I’m the only one here.
Photo © Kristina Feliciano.The Goddess Party at the Old Dutch Church, Kingston, New York, May 4, 2024
Last night, the Goddess Party filled the Old Dutch Church with modern-day visions of the feminine. Sexy because it feels good, not angling for male approval. Tattoos, eyeliner, lipstick, soft curves, hot licks. Covers of PJ Harvey, Siouxsie and the Banshees, the Go-Go's, Le Tigre, Panda Bear, and a Bulgarian field song. It felt like anything goes, and we can all go there together. All on a dark, quiet street one night in the town of Kingston.
Last night, the Goddess Party filled the Old Dutch Church with modern-day visions of the feminine. Sexy because it feels good, not angling for male approval. Tattoos, eyeliner, lipstick, soft curves, hot licks. Covers of PJ Harvey, Siouxsie and the Banshees, the Go-Go's, Le Tigre, Panda Bear, and a Bulgarian field song. It felt like anything goes, and we can all go there together. All on a dark, quiet street one night in the town of Kingston.