| | | Creating art in chaos, DIY potions, and pantsuits for progress. | | | | | | | | | |  | | | | November 22, 2016 | Letter No. 61 | | | | | | | | | | | Advertisement | | |  | | | | | | | | | Dear Lennys,
It's been two weeks now. I am falling asleep decently well, but I wake up around three each morning with a start, as if the specter of Trump is chasing me in my subconscious. Then I have trouble falling back asleep after I remember that yes, he really is our president-elect. While we must continue to stay on guard, to stay active, to stay angry, I wanted to write about the times I have felt peace: when I have been in the company of raucous women.
One was a meeting of fellow moms from my daughter's preschool. We met to discuss a book at a bar, but we ended up talking about our dashed presidential dreams, how to teach our sons and daughters about consent, and who had done (or would do) ayahuasca (answer: would never; am not interested in hallucinating while having explosive diarrhea).
The other was at a shiva for the father of a dear friend. Five women — some of whom had never met before — sat around a living room in Queens, admired foxy photographs of the deceased from his Speedo-wearing youth, revealed our salaries to each other, and argued over whether a sincere belief in chemtrails was a relationship deal-breaker (answer: it depends).
What these meetings had in common was that I felt fully myself and utterly accepted in each grouping. Finding your people, and your solace, in moments of stress and strife is something we're emphasizing in this week's issue, starting with a gorgeous essay by Alison Stine. Alison writes about feeling bereft of hope when she became a struggling single mom in a forgotten town. It's only when she finds a community of fellow artists, who pursue their work no matter what their financial and life circumstances may be, that she can see the beauty in her surroundings.
Then we have the glorious Jenna Wortham (whose podcast, Still Processing, should not be missed) writing about DIY potions and tonics that will heal and "help you deal." Certified genius Meena Harris writes about figuring out how to funnel her postelection malaise into something positive: she is starting a pantsuit drive so you can donate your new and gently used power suits to women in need. Then we have the fantastic Kendra James, who interviewed the costume designer Ruth Carter about her work on movies like Roots and Malcolm X and the relationship between clothing and protest culture. Finally, we have the Lenny editors' guide to postelection self-care (it involves a lot of snuggling with babies and animals).
I really hope you find your people and your peace this week. And if that involves doing ayahuasca while monitoring chemtrails, do you, sister.
Xo
Jessica Grose, Lenny editor in chief | | | | | | | | | | | | Advertisement | | |  | | | | | | | | Graffiti Taught Me Grit | | | | By Alison Stine | | |
Befriending a graffiti vandal in Appalachia freed me from many things, one of which was my dreams.
I dreamed of a perfect marriage. I dreamed of a good teaching job. I lived in a poor place, the poorest county in my state, in the steamy foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. But as a graduate student, I didn't really see the broken windows, the burned-out trailers, the drug arrests — all the evidence of struggle.
Then, midway through my English-degree program, my husband left me. We had a young son, and I didn't know any mothers in town, especially not any solo mothers. I barely knew the town, beyond the brick gates of the university, covered with weeds that were carefully browned with poison before I could learn their names (jimsonweed, jewelweed). I didn't understand the poverty of where I lived. I didn't know what I was going to do.
I remember lying awake with my baby on my chest, alone with him when he woke throughout the night and early morning. At 2 a.m., I thought my life was over. At 4 a.m., I thought my career was over. At 6 a.m., I thought art was over for me.
Always I had written: stories, essays, poems. Throughout my day jobs as a high-school teacher and then as an adjunct, I had made it work; I had found the time for art. But now, I saw no way. I could summon no energy. I could find no beauty in the gray hills. I had to take a leave of absence from teaching because I had no child care. Done with coursework, I was supposed to be studying for exams, but I spent most of the time rocking the baby, who batted away the pages, who would not nap unless he was physically on my body. My days were lonely, broken with lost sleep.
Sometimes in the stroller my son would rest, so we walked. We walked places I had never been before. On the bike path that used to be a railroad, by the company town that used to house the miners, by the tornado-ravaged trailer park, by the red river. It all looked like ruin to me, if I even bothered to look at all.
It was walking by the river when I saw her: the image of a woman kneeling, a chickadee flying from her palm. It looked like she was offering the bird to me. A flurry of white wings, the woman in black and white.
It was a painting on the side of the bridge.
A three-foot-high graffiti piece, illegal — and the most beautiful thing I thought I had ever seen. A woman staring straight into me.
In the quiet by the river, my baby finally napping, I started to feel not so alone.
I began to notice more and more graffiti, down alleys, on old barns: a girl kneeling, three crows surrounding her. Her hands were handcuffed; one bird held the key.
I started to feel like these graffiti pieces were guardians, protectors.
I'm not talking about tags, which are signatures or names of graffiti artists. These were graffiti pieces, short for masterpieces. And they were masterpieces. Walking by the railroad tracks, where the highway bridge was painted with colorful tableaux six feet long, I felt like I was in the presence of something hallowed. It felt hushed and holy.
So the train tunnel rising out of the woods was a masterpiece. In a way, so was the shuttered bar, its windows bursting with goldenrod. So were the valley of ferns and rusted car parts. So was my town. And so were its people.
I felt a surge of hope, seeing these flashes of art where before I had seen only rust.
I had waited for a teaching job. I had waited for time. I had waited for money. I had none of these things.
But a graffiti artist had none of these things, either.
I met a graffiti artist — for the first time — because I ran into him, painting on the street. I saw a stencil on the sidewalk: a sheet of cardboard, cut into the shape of rope. I recognized it; I had seen the image before, in a painting sprayed up on the highway bridge.
I looked up and saw the artist, holding the stencil with gloved hands. He saw me. He wasn't panicked at being spotted. If anything, he seemed relieved. Now he wasn't alone.
That began my first friendship with a graffiti artist. I had felt the pieces were people — and now the artist told me their stories, and I learned how to make them. The pieces were born of ingenuity and trash, used cardboard nicked from the curb or foraged through Dumpsters. The artist took me to his studio, which wasn't a studio at all but a basement full of pieced-together parts: a taped-up cutting board, a projector held in place by a brick. The artist taught me razor blades could be reused by sharpening them, clotted paint caps revived by blowing through the clogs.
I starting writing about graffiti, and through research, met other artists online: one in New York whose graffiti was marked by desperation; grieving for a friend, she had reached for a marker and scrawled on a mattress left for the trash. An artist in the Netherlands, a solo mother like me, who expressed her sexuality through stark black and red images of women, some of them self-portraits, painted on the walls of an abandoned warehouse.
What these artists had in common was a burning calling, a desire to give art away — and no money. No professional stage.
I started showing up more, for gallery openings, for events in my own town. I met other local artists. A cartoonist/bartender/cook who drew comics about his kids. A musician who made zines about consent. Another solo mom who soldered stained-glass windows.
These were not artists who had, by conventional standards, made it. And yet they made art constantly — sometimes at "Art Night," where we would meet at my friend the cartoonist's house (which was right next door to my friend the screen-printer/bartender/drummer's house) after our kids' bedtimes, sit on the floor, and just work. Even if nobody was reading or watching or buying what we made. Even if nobody knew we made anything at all.
My new friends accepted me, and they accepted the conditions of my life: I was always tired, frequently running late, preferred to meet at a park so my kid could play and I wouldn't have to pay for anything.
My friends accepted me as an artist, too. They didn't just ask me: "How are you doing?" They asked: "What are you working on?" We shared drafts and dreams. A sketch my friend made on a napkin became a stencil I drew, an artist cut, and we screen-printed together to make a broadsheet.
In this acceptance, I felt respect. In letting go, I found liberation.
My town is a place of rivers and foothills, acid creeks and old coal mines, homesteads and heroin. There are ridges and hollers ravaged by injection wells. But there are also dozens of thriving farms, tiny houses, homemade cabins — I see them now — homes made of straw bale and reclaimed wood and recycled steel and whatever. I have learned "whatever works." Every day: whatever works. I'll write in the car, braced against the steering wheel while my son naps in his booster. I'll write at Burger King. I'll write in the time I steal.
My friends will paint on walls, on boxcars, on trash left by the road.
Living where I do, in a wild and often wholly forgotten place where self-sustainability, resourcefulness, and helping others are daily tenets of life, I have learned how to eat from the land. I have learned how to live off it: how to chop wood, how to dig ditches for a driveway, how to unclog a cistern, how to harvest pawpaws and black walnuts.
I have also learned how not to bother with appearances. Not to waste time on what others think, whether or not an establishment approves or even notices.
In this way, losing my marriage, losing out on a white-collar career, and letting go or being set adrift from academia as a new mother have been the best things to ever happen to my writing. By freeing me from the expectations of being professional, of being the perfect (or any) wife, my life, divergent as it has been and difficult as it sometimes is, makes space for art.
There is no room for art in perfection. There is art only in chaos, in change, in mistakes, and in deviance. These cracks in my life have let my voice be free.
Alison Stine's most recent book is a novel, Supervision (HarperVoyagerUK).
This feature has been supported by the journalism nonprofit Economic Hardship Reporting Project. | | | | | | | | | | | | Advertisement | | |  | | | | | | | | Potions and Tonics | | | | By Jenna Wortham | | |
I had a great-aunt named Lannie who made teas, poultices, and tinctures to treat her family. They were poor and living in the Appalachian Mountains and couldn't afford visits to the doctor unless it was a life-or-death emergency, and not always even then. So when my mom or one of her many siblings fell ill, my grandmother would write down the symptoms on a paper bag and send a healthy kid up to see Lannie. Lannie would go into her big barn, stocked with dried herbs and jars of roots that she'd grown and harvested herself, and select things she thought would help. She'd write down the instructions on the bag — what should be steeped and what should go under the bed for luck — and send the carefully bundled package with its courier to be delivered back to my grandmother. I first learned about Lannie after I asked my mother if I could use part of her big Virginia yard to grow some lemon balm and yarrow. "Just like Lannie," she said, her voice colored with the happiness that comes with seeing part of your own historical memory manifest in someone else. I'd been dabbling in tonics and herbs for the last few years, both as a way to formulate my own definition of wellness, and as an alternative treatment for the anxiety and stress that I've been experiencing in recent years in response to the heightening stakes and crises in the world. Nearly everything I've learned is self-taught, which is another way of saying — I'm no expert. I've taken a few herbalism classes, read a lot of books, and watched many traditional healers at work, but I still encourage everyone to interrogate and investigate remedies and tonics that appeal to them, rather than taking my word for it. The biggest lesson I've learned about herbal and holistic treatments and remedies is that some work for you and some won't. Every body is different, and we have to experiment with our own to figure out what we respond to and what we don't. But above all, this is meant to be fun and empowering and invigorating. All that said, here are a few of my favorite recipes, to treat, to heal, and to help you deal.
Late Nite Lemon Balm
I first tried lemon balm by adding some dried leaves that my mom grew to hot toddies. I liked the flavor, but noticed that afterward, I slept deep, deeper than I have in a long, long time. I finally looked it up in my herb encyclopedia and was pleased to find out that it's known to reduce anxiety and has a calming effect, making it ideal for a bedtime tonic. You can buy it online or find it in most health-food stores. Despite the name, it's a leafy bush and a member of the mint family, and is sometime listed as "Melissa." I like steeping a crushed handful in a large cup of just boiled water. I usually add some peppercorns for spice and an extra immunity boost — peppercorns are an Ayurvedic treatment for coughs and sore throats — and then I like to stir in some honey and some fresh sweet citrus (like kumquat or blood orange) to even out the taste. You can add a dash of bourbon if you like a little whiskey with your tea, like me and Beyoncé's dad. It's a lovely tonic to sip before bed, when you're trying to decompress from the day and transition into a state conducive to a restful night's sleep.
Power Up Tonic
Over the summer, I became obsessed with rose hips. They're hard little fruits on wild rose bushes that grow in sandy areas, like beaches and dunes, and I first encountered them in gorgeous full bloom in the wild during a trip to Cape Cod. They're dense with vitamin C, making them extremely ideal as a preventive measure against winter colds. Plus, vitamin C is thought to reduce skin dryness, which is ideal for my entire aesthetic as well as for the cooler months. I collected mine in Cape Cod earlier this summer, but you can buy them in bulk online or find them at most tea and spice shops. Steep them like any other tea, and a good ratio to follow is one teaspoon per cup of water. You can drink it hot or iced. It's a sour-ish drink, with notes similar to hibiscus, so be sure to add a sweetener and fresh lemon for additional immunity.
Ginger 'Tussin
Ginger is my 'tussin — whenever I feel a cold coming on, or get queasy from menstrual cramps, or have an upset stomach from a bout of anxiety or depression, I haul out my big soup pot and make a batch of ginger tonic. It's the most restorative and healing thing I drink on a regular basis. Take two large ginger-root systems (grab a couple of palmfuls, and get organic if you can swing it). Peel and chop them and throw them in a soup pot. Add enough water to cover, plus a little more, and set to a low boil. Add a cinnamon stick, or some anise pods if you have any lying around. Cardamom pods work well here too. Cook for 30 to 40 minutes, until the liquid turns dark amber, and then allow to cool. Strain the ginger and various twigs, and discard the solids. Add a little raw honey or maple sugar to taste. Pour into mugs on a cold night. I keep a few jars of this in my fridge and have a couple of teaspoons every morning and at night until it's finished.
Jenna lives in Brooklyn, and you can follow along with her herbtastic voyage by subscribing to her TinyLetter. | | | | | | | | | | | | Advertisement | | |  | | | | | | | | Radical Fashion | | | | By Kendra James | | |
I had to resist the urge to wear one of my homemade Hamilton costumes to my interview with costume designer Ruth E. Carter. We were meeting to chat at San Diego Comic Con, and when I wasn't working I was running around dressed as a character from the Revolutionary War–era musical Hamilton, because that's just what you do at a comic-book convention. And because I wanted to impress her. But in the end, I kept it cool and denim casual, because the topics I wanted to discuss were a little too weighty for four sets of corsets.
A frequent Spike Lee collaborator, Ruth designed a significant part of my childhood. Halle Berry's gold teeth and orange jumpsuit in B*A*P*S, the blond high-tops on the gangs in The Meteor Man, and that black trench coat that embodied the 1970s cool of Shaft in 2000 are all crystallized images, firmly embedded in my memories of growing up in the '90s and early aughts. As a black woman who loves vintage clothing, I find many of the looks she's created for black actresses aspirational. As a student of American history, her work has made it easier for me to paint a clear picture in my mind of my own past and how it directly relates to my present.
Ruth has created costumes for nearly every type of protest, movement, and rebellion in black American history. She's dressed revolting and runaway slaves, anti-lynching leaders, civil-rights icons, and gun-control activists, just to name a few. This aspect of our work was made unfortunately more relevant by the timing of our chat — two weeks after the police shootings of two unarmed black men, Philando Castile and Alton Sterling.
In the few minutes she had between panels, we chatted about how Black Lives Matter has influenced her thinking on her newest project, Ryan Coogler's Marvel film, Black Panther; the arc of protest fashion; and what clothing says about the movements who don it.
Kendra James: Your costumes for Roots looked meticulously researched, especially in contrast to the generic loincloths and patchwork leathers from the '70s version. Is that informing your designs for Black Panther, where you're creating an aesthetic for the fictional African nation of Wakanda?
Ruth Carter: I'm looking at the whole continent and a wide range of people, like the Masai and the Suri. It all becomes a part of the framework of Wakanda. Most people who read the comic books know Wakanda is a mountainous area; it's a secret place that's not necessarily trading and interacting with the rest of the world. They're a little bit more advanced in technology than other civilizations. We are creating that world, and trying to create a culture and pride that feels authentic to the specific location.
KJ: Pop culture often forgets that Africa is a large, diverse continent, and it's often homogenized in Hollywood. Do you feel an extra weight of responsibility because of that?
RC: Oh, yeah. I do. I felt it with Roots, and I feel it now with Black Panther. That authenticity is very important to me. With Wakanda, I'm sort of piecing together a puzzle. It's the puzzle that is our history. Black history didn't start with slavery or end with the civil-rights movement. I'm trying to put together that puzzle while considering everything that relates to us, including present stuff like the Black Lives Matter campaign.
We're speaking to an international black culture that knows film, that's smart, that travels, that knows what's happening in the world. I want to respect that. I start designing by saying "Don't make it up." After the research, then I can make it up.
KJ: You've costumed almost every type of protest and rebellion throughout the Black American experience. What kind of insight has that given you into the nature of how protest has evolved?
RC: The dress codes are always unique to the protests, if they can be, and to adhere to the uniform has always been a large part of committing to the cause. For instance, in the '60s they wore the trench coats, and they padded themselves underneath, and part of the posture was to keep their hands in their pockets when they marched to show that they were nonviolent. I love that trench coat.
The '70s was the Afro, even though that's not specifically clothing. Say it loud, I'm black and I'm proud, right? The bigger your Afro, the badder you were. It's similar to what kids do when they sag their jeans today. It becomes a radical fashion, just like the zoot suit was back in the '40s. Now? We're a T-shirt culture. So you see a lot of message T-shirts in the Black Lives Matter movement.
KJ: It's so interesting that the fact that wearing your hair the way it grows out of your head is a political statement.
RC: Exactly! And then here's all of these really cool things that come into mainstream fashion, stemming from protest fashion. That meshing of the two helps calm the waters so that people that want to make a statement can wear it without their boss or their colleagues at work feeling like they're making too much of a statement, but they are still proclaiming their self, self-pride, pride in their culture, pride in their history, and taking a stance for justice.
Sometimes it's not as obvious, but I think that Black women in the movement are starting to be a little bit more natural, a little bit more Afro-centric. We're taking the weaves out, we're getting out of the heels.
KJ: Do you have a favorite look from your résumé?
RC: There is a costume I'll never forget from Malcolm X. We went to Egypt, and I put Denzel in the traditional Muslim garb and seeing him… well, I was right in the middle of the desert, feeling like I had really taken Malcolm's story full circle as we watched him go on that hajj to Mecca. Before Malcolm X, many people saw Malcolm and his movement as hateful, compared to MLK. I felt like we were helping people understand his whole movement and agenda with this movie, down to that costume.
KJ: From the same era, I was looking at your work from Selma and marveling at the clothing on John Lewis and Diane Nash. Diane's clothing was so impeccably tailored, and she was perfectly put together. For that era of protest, that was part of the uniform you're talking about too — looking respectable at all times, to represent the face of the movement. Black Lives Matter has completely shifted that — we're not dealing in the appearance of respectability anymore.
RC: There's always a part of black culture that is well groomed and they take pride in their appearance. The '60s were a time when everyone, black and white, wore suits, even when they were in protest. You see those pictures of Martin Luther King and the protest marches. People are dressed.
KJ: What are your thoughts on Black Lives Matter — the movement and the aesthetic, if you think there is one?
RC: Black Lives Matter is asking for basic rights. Those shouldn't be based on appearance! Many of the early Black Lives Matter tees were black, with big, bold, white letters on it. They were screaming at you. What we're seeing now is more like the Malcolm X side of protests, where we actually want to be a little bolder and not be conformists. And it's important that it has what some might see as a more "urban" look. We're past the era of dressing like the Fruit of Islam in bow ties and suits, where their physical presence meant nonthreatening.
The dress code of this movement reflects the appearance of the black young men and women it's fighting to save. It's a casual, everyday look because the violence happening to us is unfortunately a casual, everyday thing.
This interview has been condensed and edited.
Kendra James (@KendraJames_) is a costume design enthusiast who enjoyed Chi-Raq more than popular opinion generally allows her to admit. | | | | | | | | | | | | Advertisement | | |  | | | | | | | | Pantsuits for Progress | | | | By Meena Harris | | | |
I joined the Pantsuit Nation Facebook group early on, when its simple but brilliant purpose was to get as many women as possible to wear a pantsuit on Election Day in support of Hillary Clinton. In the weeks preceding the election, Pantsuit Nation became more than a modest call for a show of solidarity on a single day — it became a vibrant and uplifting community of millions of women and allies demonstrating their commitment to Hillary. It truly was a "safe space," something that seems increasingly rare on the Internet. It affirmed the hope, love, kindness, and support we all are capable of when we come together to fight for something we believe in. It elevated the values embodied in Hillary's campaign and proved that, indeed, we are stronger together.
Almost immediately after joining I bought a pantsuit, in Democrat blue. I proudly wore that blue pantsuit on Election Night, when my mom and I took my four-month-old daughter (dressed in suffragette white) to the Javits Center in New York, hoping to celebrate the election of the first woman president. Since that soul-crushing evening, I've returned to Pantsuit Nation often, seeking the same comfort and inspiration as I did before.
| (Photo courtesy of author) |
But a few days later, as I walked down the street in my affluent San Francisco neighborhood to drop off my dry-cleaning, I reflected on what an obvious privilege it is to even own a pantsuit, let alone to buy a new one for a special occasion. And I had an idea for something that would acknowledge that privilege and honor Hillary, too.
Hillary spent her entire life fighting for children and families and for women's rights around the world. If there is any message she made front and center during her campaign, it's that we still have much work to do. In 2016, too many women still struggle to raise their families. They are disproportionately minimum-wage workers who juggle multiple jobs to make ends meet, and they still don't earn equal pay. The pay gap for women of color isn't just a gap, it's a canyon. Hillary understood that until women can achieve educational opportunities and reach financial independence, they cannot realize their full potential.
As a way of honoring Hillary's public service — while recognizing the roads we still must travel, as well as the great service Pantsuit Nation has provided me in affirming the goodness, optimism, and generosity in all of us when we unite in common cause — I'm starting a Pantsuit Drive. If you wore a pantsuit on Election Day, or you have a new or gently used pantsuit at home that could be given to someone in need, please make a donation. These pantsuits will be given to organizations across the country that support poor and homeless women with job-interview preparation and employment opportunities.
So many of us continue to strategize about how to move forward in ways that personify Hillary's selfless public service, personal fortitude, intelligence, and extraordinary resilience. The Pantsuit Drive is only one small act, but in a world that too often questions the true value of women and girls, it is an immediate and relatively easy action that will provide direct assistance to women who need it most. The economic empowerment of all women helps puts all of us on a path to achieving full equality.
During her concession speech, Hillary expressed gratitude for Pantsuit Nation, while acknowledging that it was a "secret" effort. She then said, "I want everybody coming out from behind that, and make sure your voices are heard going forward."
So let's do our part, both small and big, to come out and make our voices heard.
If you would like to donate a pantsuit, please use the following mailing address: PANTSUIT DRIVE, P.O. BOX 170326, SAN FRANCISCO, CA 94117-0326.
Meena Harris is a proud Democrat. You can usually find her misbehaving at @imanentrepreneurbitch. | | | | | | | | | | | | Advertisement | | |  | | | | | | | | Carrying On | | | | By Sally Nixon | | | Christ, it's been a rough coupla weeks. Here's what Lenny's staff has been doing to take care of themselves.
"I wrote to all the women I worked with on the campaign thanking them for their bravery and telling them I loved them. That connection felt powerful and unique. For a moment we were proud to have been a part of something, and I hope it wasn't in vain." —Lena Dunham
"I went to the gym. I cried all the way through, sweat mixed with tears. I also wrote our kids' teachers a letter thanking them for caring for our children today even though they are as gutted as any of us." —Jenni Konner
"I played with my fat baby, who is so sweet, and I promised her I'd keep fighting for her and her sister." —Jessica Grose
"I went to a friend's house and held her ridiculously cute baby, and ate tacos and pie while commiserating about the absurdity of the world. Afterward, I went home to my boyfriend's, and watched episodes of Planet Earth, which really brought joy into my heart and reminded me of all the beauty and wonder in the world." —Laia Garcia
"I burned sage, sat with my cats, and cried while listening to 'I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel to Be Free' by Nina Simone." —Dianca Potts | | | | | | | | | | | | | | The email newsletter where there's no such thing as too much information.
From Lena Dunham + Jenni Konner. | | | | | | | |  |  |  |
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