The energy and people that started and sustained The St.Claire have moved in different directions. The St.Claire was of a time and that time is over. The St.Claire is withdrawing to make room for new voices — new platforms — new ideas.
Walking in the city, my pace quickens as I’m directed into this construction that invariably makes me feel more vulnerable than I did on the unenclosed sidewalk. How strange to now pass through this structure on feet moving at museum pace.
The space at one moment is never the same as the space at the next, nor is your perception of it.
Greeting us, blocking us, is The Champion.
Appearing suddenly down the same path from which we entered: Otake swaddled in layers of fabric of differing weight–silk charmeuse with bamboo print and purple duvet majesty.
The Colored Girls Museum contains harrowing levels of metaphoric entryways into once traumatized eyes of the black girl.
The last weeks of summer carve out new space to be later filled with the anticipation of the next summer. The cycle continues.
We talked comfortably, I had a few beers, I was happy, she touched my arm. It was early. I felt buzzed, the day felt special.
On a subjective level this often results in a true and deep sense of dread.