trying to keep sane as the rules keep changing!
"that's all speaking is [...] showing yourself to the world and hoping someone else understands" — R.F. Kuang, Babel
So, it’s a new year. Happy new year.
There’s something about this time between the calendar new year and the lunar one that is precious, so much happens and so much is coming and yet nothing has begun nearly as much as it’s going to begin. Not yet. As I write this, it’s still too early for the deep cleaning and it’s too late to still be sending out happy new year calls. January is always a lot, however it comes.
On the first day of 2023 I sat in a chair that wasn’t mine in a room that wasn’t mine in a country that wasn’t mine and listened to Spirituals by Santigold. Start to finish, hoping I wouldn’t be interrupted, wanting to sit with it fully. Inevitably, I was interrupted, but only once and so the listening took place almost in one go.
Some thoughts:
I have listened to the album three times in full since then.
My Horror, the opening track, starts with a sound that is bright and vibrant even as Santigold sings I think all the numbness finally sank in/It’s making my head decay, head decay, the contrast between the two intriguing and compelling and very much how my head has felt so far this year (bright, filled with energy, rotting)
My favourite track off the album is hard to pick, perhaps The Lasty (Mother said, looking at the sky, who will the last be? One by one I watched them die so don’t ask me) or maybe Ain’t Ready with its “gothic R&B cranks and coils” or even Fall First which I delighted in hearing in her Tiny Desk
To me, Santigold is one of those musicians who has just been a part of your life for so long that there’s a sense of soft familiarity that can only been gained through time. Before listening to Spirituals for the first time, it had been probably a year, give or take, since I had really listened to her music, but coming back to it was comfortable. I watched her Tiny Desk after listening to the album and as I watched her perform, something settled up against my rib cage.
I think the first time I heard Santigold was sometime in 20181 when I heard I’m a Lady, a song released ten years earlier. Fourteen and having added to my MCR/FOB/PATD collection with artists like Sufjan Stevens and The Stone Roses and Halsey and Alvvays and many many others that should never ever be named, I don’t remember how I came across Santigold, but by god did I come across her!
There’s something about that song — I’m a Lady — the way it is so secure in itself, the strength behind Santigold’s voice, the assurance she has. “Got my mind made up, got my mind made up” she sings, the fullness of the music itself, the solidity of her statements. Revolutionary to me at 14, revolutionary to me a day away from turning 19 as I watched her perform in her Tiny Desk, nothing short of beautiful, the assurance of it even more in November of last year, 14 years on from when she released the song, 4 years on from when I first heard it.
I can’t say it enough times: I really fucking love Michelle Zauner. Like, a lot! I read Crying in H Mart last year in one sitting, it was a middle-of-the-night-holy-fucking-shit-i-have-to-finish-this-i-have-to-consume-this-i-have-to-have-it-carved-into-my-bones-or-else-i’ll-shrivel-up-and-die kind of read. I have caught countless buses and trains to Psychopomp and Soft Sounds from Another Planet and more recently, Jubilee, playing through my wired earphones. Little Big League are still a band I adore and listen to regularly.
Zauner, in all her projects, is much like Santigold in that there is a sense of deep comfort and familiarity when I once again press play on her music or read through an interview or as highlighted above, listen to a podcast. Parasocial? Maybe. But what am I going to do about that now, truthfully speaking? The fact remains that Japanese Breakfast and Big Little League sit firmly in my music rotation and have for the past four years now. The fact remains that Crying in H Mart sits on my shelf, pages dog eared, waiting patiently for the next time I can stomach a read. The fact remains that this letter is scraps and scribbles of my January and unsurprisingly, Zauner features high on the list.
Sometimes I look at a photograph and feel like a moth drawn to flame. The most popular theory of why moths are drawn to artificial light sources — though as it turns out, there is no fully backed hypothesis yet — is that they use the light of the moon and the stars to navigate their flight paths, man-made artificial lights of course, get in the way of that, the light so bright that they forgo the moon for a lamp thinking they are one and the same. Looking through Steven Siegel’s photography of New York City in the 1980s, I feel much the same way. My attempts to navigate are useless, not only because these are photos, not the real thing, but because this New York is no longer in existence.
Like essentially everyone who hasn’t been there who is even a little bit interested in the capital-lettered The Arts, I have spent years being more than a little obsessed with the idea of New York City. So much takes place there, you’re always told, you’re always hearing. Films are set there, books are set there, and though I never had a real musical theatre phase, Broadway was always within my periphery2. It would have been strange had I not had some attraction towards this place. Then, of course, I got saddled with an interest in history and theatre and literature, with more of my favourite things taking place well before I was born. And thus, someone fine-tuned to be an admirer of Siegel’s photography was born.
Maybe though, all the factors that I think lead up to this moment aren’t even that important. There is something in Siegel’s photography that does the mythologising all on its own. Perhaps even without the desire to step foot in this city for the past however many years, perhaps even without the knowledge of the outpour of music from this city, perhaps even without having watched and loved Angels in America/Company/Dog Day Afternoon/Taxi Driver/Inside Llewyn Davis/Falsettos/[insert filmplaybook of your choice here] there would still be an allure to these photos.
There is something compelling about them, even if you forget that it’s New York he’s capturing. There is something to be said for a moment of stillness in a city, artificial or not. As someone who has nearly always lived in or around cities, a moment of pause is something infrequent, something special. If no one’s jay-walking, you find it in the breath before the lights at the crossing turn green; you find it in long bus rides; you find in in sitting on a park bench, breathing out cold air; you find it in the millisecond after you link arms with your friend when your muscles relax again and your gait aligns with theirs. And so, Siegel’s photographs, an art form inherently about taking a moment of stillness, are compelling entirely in their own right.
Siegel’s photos feel to me the same way that film sets which look lived in rather than lived on feel. Perhaps it’s that these are photos of the ‘80s and that type of film set seems most popular before the turn of the century, but I think it has more to do with the fact that these are lived in spaces Siegel is choosing to capture. The stairs, the graffiti, the people, in the picture above — they were living elements of the world at the time the photograph was taken.
Currently, I live in a city where graffiti is scant. I was lucky enough to visit another city across the new year and on the drive between the airport and our accommodation, the first thing I noticed was the fact that there was graffiti spread across nearly everything. It came almost as a relief. Don’t get me wrong, I think the city I live in is beautiful, but there is something about graffiti that reminds you that you are existing in a world with other people, other people who have thoughts and feelings and opinions and a desire for expression. Your paths cross by way of them creating and you viewing (or vice versa!). Graffiti features heavily in Siegel’s photography and I like to think that is part of what gives it its lived-in feel.
I am not a photographer by any stretch, I do not know how to take advantage of the light or the composition or the movement of a scene in any way that matters. One day, I would like to develop these skills, expand my collection of pictures into something with weight to it, perhaps, some real beauty as well as a tool for ensuring my memory doesn’t slip away entirely. But for now, I am content to admire the photography of others’, and I have to say that this is one of my favourite photos just about ever.
I don’t know what it is about this photograph that draws me to it so much. Maybe it’s the contrast in the light, maybe it’s the fact that it is so very casual, maybe it’s the way there’s an inherent relationship between these men, all handball players according to this New York Times article. Whatever it is, it compels me, similar to the way that Siegel’s photos from the ‘80s do, similar to the way a beautiful piece of writing does, similar to the way the set design of All The President’s Men (1976) does, similar to the way a lit candle will call to a moth.
Jean Rhys writes: “it’s funny when you feel as if you don’t want anything more in your life except to sleep, or else to lie without moving. That’s when you can hear time sliding past you, like water running.” I have spent January fluctuating between something akin to this quote and something in direct opposition of it. My January has alternated between the need to sleep for weeks on end to and the need to expel all the energy that feels like it has been building up inside me for as long as I’ve been alive. Jean Rhys also wrote: “I was thinking ‘I’m nineteen and I’ve got to go on living and living and living,’” freshly nineteen, that gives me some hope.3
moments to hold onto: the lights in the windows of the apartments across from you, your own window must look the same to whoever is inside, looking outside as you are. waking up to messages from a friend you love, timezones are awful, but sometimes there’s something beautiful about going to sleep knowing that there’s someone on the other side of the world who you love. leaning against the wall of your sister’s bedroom, you remind her to walk the dog and ask her what she wants for dinner, a mundanity that you want to fold inside a locket. rearranging your bookshelf, shaking dust off books, piling up those you no long want, reminding yourself of what you want to read soon. boiling the kettle. taking a shower. lying in bed, sunlight through the window.
365 days ago from when I’m writing this section of this letter, I watched Little Miss Sunshine (2006) for the first time. It was a particularly timely film for me to watch all those days ago. So much so that I spoke about it in one of the letters I posted here not long after I watched it. It’s a beautiful film, it broke my heart, it fixed me in some ways and gave me a way to contextualise some of the grief I was experiencing.
It’s funny to think about 365 days ago. I generally don’t. These days I am far less subsumed by nostalgia, by a desire for the past. Too much has changed and I think it has finally settled in that if I were to go back I couldn’t have changed so much of it, no matter how much guilt I felt/feel.
Guilt ≠ Something You Could Have Changed !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The most recent film I watched was Cléo from 5 to 7 (1962) dir. Agnès Varda. I watched it because Michelle Zauner and Kogonada spoke about how much they love and adore Varda, I wanted to be privy to that love, I wanted to see if I too would join the group of people out there who was Varda with knowledge and fascination and insight. I don’t know if I am yet, but I liked the film. I liked the way it was light and heavy at the same time, I liked the way it conveyed the sense of dread you get when you just know something is going to happen and the way you need everyone to know what is weighing on your heart but you just can’t exist in that space of heaviness because it’s too much to bear. I liked the relief when she finds out.
In 365 days maybe I will look back to the date that I watched Cléo and her dread and smile at the fact that it was a timely film for me to have watched. It was. It is. Something like dread settles over me and I don’t know when it will wash out into relief, so I am sitting with it. It becomes a man on my bedroom floor. He braids my hair.
I have been tracking the albums I’ve been listening to in a spreadsheet4 and I think it's an interesting thing to do. It's interesting to write down an album after I've listened to it or the next day and remember that was something I existed with for the 30 or 40 or 50 minutes the album runs for. Here's a little bit about the albums I've listened to more than once this year (Spirituals excluded, she's right up the top as you know xoxo):
Back Home by Big Joanie — Big Joanie are back and better than ever!!!!!!!! There are only ever two reasons I wish I lived in England and they are 1) to see my friends, and 2) to see musicians I love perform. I have listened to this album twice now and fuck, man! I love them!!!!! I think the first time I listened to Big Joanie was back in 2018 with the release of Sistahs and it brings me so much joy to be here and able to listen to this 2022 release. I exist at the same time as this beautiful group of musicians and how cool is that? From don’t mind being soft in the middle/be kind while i’m here in the middle/you make my world feel smaller still in Taut and the staccato of the beat behind it to Insecure’s i take the train (i take the train)/ride far away from here (ride far away from here)/i sit and think (watch the terrain)/of all the things i could be (slowly disappear) and the melodic, dreamlike quality it holds in its hands, there are so many songs I love on this album and I feel honoured to experience it. Some articles: 1, 2, and a podcast.
Fetch the Bolt Cutters by Fiona Apple — I RESENT YOU FOR BEING RAISED RIGHT I RESENT YOU FOR BEING TALL I RESENT YOU FOR NEVER GETTING ANY OPPOSITION AT ALL I RESENT YOU FOR HAVING EACH OTHER I RESENT YOU FOR BEING SO SURE I RESENT YOU PRESENTING YOUR LIFE LIKE A FUCKING PROPAGANDA BROCHURE + BACK THEN I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT POTENTIAL MEANT AND SHAMEIKA WASN’T GENTLE AND SHE WASN’T MY FRIEND BUT SHE GOT THROUGH TO ME AND I’LL NEVER SEE HER AGAIN SHE GOT THROUGH TO ME AND I’LL NEVER SEE HER AGAIN + I GREW CONCERNED WHEN I SAW HIM START TO COVET YOU WHEN I LEARNED WHAT HE DID I FELT CLOSE TO YOU IN MY OWN WAY I FELL IN LOVE WITH YOU BUT HE’S MADE ME A GHOST TO YOU + all the transitions and changes in For Her + the fact that this is the third year this album has existed and it has become no less insanitymaking
Retired from Sad, New Career in Business by Mitski — in writing this letter, I came across Mitski’s Tiny Desk and felt like I might throw up as she played Class of 2013. The concert was performed 7 years ago, this album released 10 years ago. The anniversary of an album that has lived on in my brain ever since I first listened to it whenever it was that I first listened to it. There is so much to be said about Mitski, there always has been and it makes me furious what has been taken away from her, from her music, from her personhood. I can only hope that one day she receives the respect she deserves. In the meantime, there’s no point in asking me for my favourite songs off this album, the whole thing makes me explode in fiery agony <3
She Hangs Brightly by Mazzy Star — A poet I occasionally read called Mitski a lesser Mazzy Star, I don’t agree!!!! But I have listened to this album four times since the beginning of the year and I think the parallel is interesting. Certainly, there is something to be said for the both of them having tracks titled Blue Light, and people have pointed out the first few seconds of Geyser and Blue Light sounding very similar. Blue Light by Mazzy Star isn’t on She Hangs Brightly though so that’s by the by. Favourite songs: Halah i guess that you believe you are a woman/and i am someone else’s man/but just before i see that you leave/i want you to hold onto the things you said/baby i wish i was dead and Before I Sleep, the songs bookending the album, first and last tracks, maybe there’s something to be said for that.
This letter is frankly, all over the place! So let me leave you with some bits and pieces to really cement that fact. Happy January, baby!
i could well be wrong! but for the purposes of this we’ll say i’m right xoxo
made the mistake of re-listening to falsettos in full on the plane not long ago……
there’s also like. the fact that that book says some v questionable things about race but ummmmmm we all know how to read critically here
i fucking love spreadsheets, 2023 year of spreadsheets fr <3
finally had time to Sit With This Newsletter because you always deserve all my attention mwa ! it's a bit belated, but happy new years (and lunar new years but that seems to have already passed as well). +thank you for sharing steven siegal's photography--i am now obsessed!!
i've just discovered your substack and i am absolutely obsessed!
your writing is incredible <3 <3