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Thais Carrion

An Interview with Alberto Roblest

By Thais Carrion

This article was originally published in the Washington Independent Review of Books here.

In his forthcoming collection, Inquilinos Mudos/Silent Tenants, Mexican poet, multimedia artist, and professor Alberto Roblest celebrates the power of being bilingual. Divided into two sections comprising 19 poems printed in English and Spanish, the work takes readers on an exploration of the richness of language, playing with form and word choice to create vivid scenes that evoke a range of emotions. Taken as a whole, the collection is a love letter to the trials and triumphs of expressing oneself through multiple tongues.

Themes of migration, colonialism, and history are central to this collection. How did writing in both English and Spanish help you explore them more deeply?

One of the central themes of the book is language and people who learn another language. In “Silent Tenants,” language is perhaps the main protagonist of the collection; of course, it touches on themes that have to do with migration, but also with love, music, friendship, and learning. When one can carry [on] a conversation with another person for, say, 15 minutes, it’s a very big achievement. You can feel it. I can tell you from personal experience. Speaking the official language makes one feel more secure, regardless of skin color, accent, manners, clothing, etc.

“Silent Tenants” is essentially about my neighbors in Columbia Heights, from their life experiences, from their difficulties to continue working two shifts in order to pay the rent, but also from their pleasure in learning another language, having other friends, non-Latinos, talking with co-workers, etc. In general, the success of being bilingual. Some poems are based on real people, like the one titled “Clara.” This poem is about a woman I met at a language school where I worked teaching Spanish. She was learning English and worked for a cleaning company specializing in movie theaters, arenas, and other entertainment venues.

What was it like to explore these themes in two languages? And what does literature in translation mean to you?

It’s always good to have your book translated since it addresses two audiences and more readers. Maritza Rivera, the English translator, did an excellent job. She took great care to find the right words that preserve the original meaning of the poems. When a translator manages that, it is of great benefit to the book. As for the writing, sometimes I think the poems in Spanish, and other times in English. I like to go to the National Gallery of Art to have coffee, surround myself with artistic pieces, and read. Washington is a privileged place in that sense, where the museums are free and so many places exist where you can read and be inspired.

When it comes to creative expression, how does working in video or digital media compare to writing?

I started writing at a young age — I would have been about 10 years old or so — inspired by a magnificent literature teacher. My mother wanted me to be a doctor or an architect, so I wrote all my life in secret. I did not share my poetry for fear of being branded corny, cheesy, and ridiculous. Many of my early poems have been lost to time. I didn’t publish anything until I was 19, when I was about to enter university. What I want to say is that I define myself as a poet. Video semantics [are] just an additional tool. I make use of video tools. With them, I “write” poetry. I do the same with the art installations I’ve created, and many of my digital prints are conceived or designed as poetry. That is to say, I consider them poems rather than collages, digital paintings, montages, or installations.

You experiment with form throughout this collection. When writing poems, does thinking in terms of form complicate or enhance the process?

I like experimentation. It’s like playing. Particularly, I think you must have fun while performing the creative act. I experiment not only with form, but also with content. I get bored doing the same thing all the time. I [lose] interest, and after a while, I don’t like it anymore. So, I vary my approach a bit. Obviously, making a video takes more time. Sometimes, there’s a long preparation process; sometimes, it involves a team, etc. The good thing about poetry is that it remains such an intimate act that it can be written anywhere, even on the subway, on the way from home to work. While many people are immersed in their phones, I am immersed in my poems. I put them on old-fashioned paper, with an old pencil, in a small notebook that I keep in my jacket pocket. I believe that poetry itself is an act of experimentation with the word and nothing more.

Are you thinking about the visual component of a poem — and how it might impact the reader — when experimenting with form?

I like visual poetry. I am not very given to esoteric, metaphysical, or symbolic poetry. I prefer the poetry that is written about the events that happen around me — the poetry that feeds on reality to become a sign or a metaphor. I do not think that the experimental form is inconvenient for reading; if the language and the meaning of the poem serve their purpose, it can be as experimental as a Dada poem.

Joanna Hiffernan Through the Looking Glass

By Thais Carrion 

This article was first published August 7, 2022 in DC Trending here.

This past June, the National Gallery of Art celebrated the re-opening of I. M. Pei’s light-filled East Building, following a series of renovations and structural changes that have been taking place since its most recent closure in February of this year. The exhibition chosen to inaugurate the iconic space is Margaret MacDonald, Anne Dumas and Charles Brock’s The Woman in White: Joanna Hiffernan and James McNeill Whistler, a beautiful and essential exploration of Whistler’s most important subject, Joanna Hiffernan. On view through October 10th, Whistler’s many depictions of Hiffernan provide an exquisite impressionist contrast to the bold colors of Rothko and random splatters of Pollock currently housed in the East Building’s permanent collection. 

Few gallery spaces are as dynamic and visitor-centered as the National Gallery of Art’s East Building, whose quirky trapezoidal shape and abundance of light has seen important infrastructural changes with the new renovations. With Pei’s original vision at the forefront of renovation initiatives, new skylights have been installed to both filter out paint-harming UV rays and restore the level of light within the building to what it was at its opening in 1978. New galleries have been installed, as well, to house the growing permanent collection and temporary exhibits that find themselves within the East Building.

“I’ve always found this building very uplifting and full of life. The architecture is very movement-oriented and the way the light enters the building is truly special,” says Susan Wartheim, Chief Architect, National Gallery of Art.

With the integrity of the building as a work of art in and of itself at the center of the renovations, the gallery has been transformed into a more technologically modern, accessible space.  In contrast to the symmetrical, rectangular galleries of the neoclassical West building, the dynamism of the East building provides open gallery spaces full of personality.  “As an architect, I think the architecture and the modern art really go well together,” says Wartheim, “there’s undeniably a conversation taking place between the East and the West [buildings]”. 

This conversation takes place between the art and architecture within the East building as well, with James McNeill Whistler’s white-clad muse in The Woman in White reminiscent of the light-filled  atrium just outside the three connecting rooms that make up the exhibition. “It’s very intriguing to put 19th century art in modern galleries like the East building because it gives [the public] a new perspective on how relevant they are to modern design and certainly that’s the case with this [exhibition], ” says Charles Brock, Associate Curator of The Woman in White exhibit.

Filled with ethereal white dresses and her signature wild red hair, The Woman in White, is Margaret Macdonald, Anne Dumas, and Charles Brock’s attempt to piece together the human behind Whistler’s depictions of Hiffernan and to explore the resonance of Whistler and Hiffernan’s collaboration for Victorian culture as a whole in the late 19th century. Posed just at the entrance to the exhibition, Hiffernan stares out at her voyeurs atop the menacing skin of a wolf in Symphony in White Number 1, the wild eyes of the dead animal at her feet seemingly acting as a vessel for whatever hidden emotions run beneath Hiffernan’s composed surface. Despite the curator’s best efforts, Joanna remains at arm’s length throughout the exhibition, which ends up revealing more about Whistler’s gaze than the subject herself.

The curators have done an excellent job at taking Whistler off his pedestal and asking questions about the nature of his relationship with Hiffernan throughout. The audience is included as an active investigator throughout the exhibit with wall texts urging us to consider Joanna Hiffernan beyond Whistler’s portrayals and to “discern a difference between the ‘real’ Hiffernan and a model playing a role” (wall text). Regardless of Whistler’s own reputation and importance within the world of art, the curators make it clear that none of his standings would be possible without his most important muse. 

Furthermore, once having seen what influence Hiffernan held in other impressionist and modern works of her time period, one can hardly help but ask how it is possible that so little is known, or available about her today. As part of the reclaiming of Hiffernan’s agency as a collaborator in Whistler’s art, the exhibition includes a dedicated wall containing quotes from DC area models that speak to the ironically anonymous position they hold within the world of art and creation. This through-line drawn to illustrate the continuity of the anonymity imposed upon Hiffernan despite her central role in the various artworks displayed throughout the exhibition is powerful, and draws on her historical position to inform viewers of the model’s silent role today. 

The collaboration between the stunning improvements to the East Building’s lighting and facilities, as well as MacDonald, Dumas, and Brock’s audience-centered investigative exhibition, results in the reclaiming of the East Building as a space made for congregation, a building with the enjoyment of its visitors at the forefront of its infrastructure. “To see [Hiffernan’s] image at such a large scale within the very modern spaces of the East Building speaks very eloquently to the point of the exhibition,” says Brock. 

The East Building’s wide open spaces, fascinating geometric layout, its natural feel brought forth through gentle sunlight, and the ficus trees planted into the ground all act in conversation with the modern and contemporary art housed within its walls, a conversation that places the audience and their participation as a key figure. The Woman in White is one of the first of its kind, an exhibition that encourages museum-goers to look past the supposed genius of its painter and instead take part in the search for humanity within the subjects of the paintings themselves.

Celebrating Women’s Fiction: Creatures of Passage by Morowa Yejide

By Thais Carrion

This article was first published in DC Trending here. 

Creatures of Passage pays tribute to an unseen southeast DC, a magical, dark, humid space where the dead walk amongst the living and intuition rules the land. Blending Egyptian mythology and the strong black history of Anacostia, author Morowa Yejidè, gives us a world where there are no states or counties, instead, kingdoms and fiefdoms spread out along the East Coast.  A cast of characters find themselves inevitably drawn to the mystical realm of Anacostia, a place where “Dreams come true even when you don’t want them to.”  In an endlessly dark story, the tragedies faced by each character interconnect and join in a heart-racing climax, where many must finally confront their ghosts in order to move forward with their lives.

We first learn about Nephthys Kinwell — a mysterious driver with a half-finger and a supernatural sense for lost souls — when she is summoned by the wandering hearts of Anacostia’s residents. She never fails to show up in her haunted 1967, blue Plymouth Belvedere, which never breaks down, runs out of gas or gets pulled over despite her inebriated state of driving. She is a somber character, always on the move, so as not to feel the pain after losing her twin brother, Osiris. 

Nephthys, her nephew Dash, and his mother Amber Kinwell (the death witch of Anacostia) are simultaneously reviled and rendered indispensable residents of Anacostia. For all the fear and mysticism generated around the family, the Kinwells guide the wandering hearts of Anacostia through their painful journeys and individual tragedies.

Helplessness is center to the story and Yejide masterfully cultivates dramatic irony across every new scene and character. Jumping through timelines, the narrator never fails to include the developments of the future that render our character’s present conflicts and worries futile. Much like the nature of death and rebirth, futility and the promise of change play big roles in the undercurrents of the story as characters are swept up in their respective paths and ultimately forgotten by the future and the gentrification of Anacostia’s black history.

Yejide’s intensive use of dramatic irony is a nod to our own privileged lives.  Writing about places of privilege within the structures that govern so much of our daily lives is a topic Yejide navigates subtly, but clearly drawing a line between the reader and the realities of her characters.

The magical kingdom descriptions of the east coast and its neighboring states work to further separate the Anacostia of the ‘70s and our own understandings of the United States and its history.  Anacostia’s black heritage feels like an otherworldly, anachronistic place, one fully separate from the development and gentrification that has taken over the area today.

Yejidè is careful in telling her story with its histories and complex inner worlds. Much like a ride through the river Styx, Creatures of Passage starts off with a clear purpose, loses its way in the tragedy of the lost souls along the path, but finds purpose anew as tragedies are weaved in and move closer towards closure and release.

Yejidè’s odyssey confronting relevant current societal issues has set her apart as one of 16 nominees for the Women’s Prize for Fiction long list. Championing the voices of women writers on the global stage, the Women’s Prize for Fiction goes beyond a simple award by working with libraries, and writers, organizing reading groups, and events, and prioritizing free resources to honor the work of historically marginalized writers.