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4.26.24 - 5.2.24

Do you ever find yourself thinking: What still feels possible? 

Lately, I have found myself allowing my hope to die a bit more consistently, my faith in the world to wither and deteriorate, and I get the feeling that I am far from alone. With the pressing and urgent state of late stage of capitalism, the seemingly endless wins afforded to those on the wrong side of history, and what feels like a never-ending stream of death and calamity, from Palestine to Sudan to the Congo, to right here on American soil, it has been particularly hard to hold on to hope—hope that things are getting better, that society is learning from its past, and hope that people still care about art, about artists, and about human beings. Even in my personal life, holding tightly to ideas as slippery as hope and faith, has felt uniquely challenging. And this level of hopelessness, that seems to be creeping in at every angle, has made me ask so many questions of myself.

Nearly every conversation that I’ve had this month has left me with big questions about my life. This week alone I’ve had eight people vent to me about wanting to quit and do something else. I had a four-hour conversation with writer Casey Gerald over Zoom a few of weeks ago. It was one of those sprawling, enlivening conversations that by the time it ends, you’re kicking yourself for not having recorded it. This was the first time that Casey and I have talked, though we’ve been fans of each other’s work for some time. I was moved to schedule a call with him because I’m comfortably entering my writing era and Casey is a writer who I love and respect. Maybe at the outset I thought that the conversation would be about career and advice, but by the end, it was all about communion and commiseration. We talked about typewriters, James Baldwin, undefinable love, and great loss. 

What I appreciated most about the conversation was Casey’s intentionality. Before he speaks, he takes these long introspective pauses, deliberating on each word and each thought with care. He offered a great deal of transparency about his appreciation of pointed criticism, his resistance toward the celebrity profile, and his feeling that perhaps being a writer is not his highest calling at this particular moment at the end of the world. I appreciated hearing a writer of his caliber, one who is not necessarily struggling to get opportunities or be taken seriously, speaking candidly about this kind of disillusionment because, as I’ve written before, I am in a moment of great ambivalence toward continuing my career as a photographer, not just working as a photographer, but my commitment to the instrument itself. Working in an industry that punishes and silences those with unyielding points of view and rewards folks who stay silent and complicit is discouraging and exhausting and I’ve had enough. However, in reality, we’re seeing the ways that absolutely EVERY industry is committed to silencing, punishing, and banishing those who move against the status quo. Nobody is safe. 

After our conversation, my thoughts were ricocheting off the walls. It made me wonder, are there still Baldwin-esque stories, Baldwin-caliber writers? Are there still folks who believe that writing can change the world, that art can? Are there anymore mountaintops that reward those brave enough to reach the summit? And is there a reward? Is reward necessary?

The other day, I was in my hotel room in Baltimore, preparing to check out and listening to an episode of Talk Easy featuring actor Kevin Daniels as the guest. Listening to his story of fearfully moving to NY and having “one person in the city who believed in him” made me wonder: Is that kind of story over? The story of grit and tenacity, of hard work and perseverance? Are there any more dreams, with the current state of the world, in industries like writing, filmmaking, and photography? Can this level of hope, passion, and courage get you anywhere in the face of so much mediocrity and voicelessness?

I have listened to so many of my Hollywood friends who feel dissuaded, bitter, and heartbroken by their industries. The consensus for some is that nobody’s hiring. Meanwhile, I have a couple of friends who are sifting through a new offer every day. They are not better than these other people; they are just in a different moment. I’ve talked with writers who are getting pieces rejected left and right and having their spirits broken. I’ve spoken to writers who think their stories, white stories, are no longer treated with preference or consideration.

Flying into Los Angeles last night, I finally got the chance to read this article by the brilliant Daniel Bessner, that has been making its rounds around Hollywood. The article talks about the history of writers in Hollywood, the laws, the conglomerates, the salaries, the strikes, all of it, but in a way that mostly spells a kind of doom for writing as a career in Hollywood, at least one where people are able to be treated with respect and dignity. It was a spectacularly thorough read and I think it spells doom for other creative, freelance industries as well. It was a very challenging read to sit with as I have dreams of making television and films as a writer and director. Today I met a lovely woman, who scoped me out and asked if I was a writer (apparently, she could tell from my style). We talked for a bit while she waited for her party to arrive, and she divulged that she’s been writing for television and film for 20 years. She felt like this moment for her and her peers was exceedingly difficult, citing the changes in the size of writer’s rooms and the substantially lower rates of payment. But, she noted, having been in this industry for 20 years, she has seen it all before. She seemed mostly unbothered by the whole thing assuring me that people are indeed being hired.

As a photographer, I have been hired about five times this year. If it were not for a personal project, a collaborative one that came through genuine means of love and respect, I would either be working a full-time job or homeless. People’s knowledge of and interest in my work or in me as an artist seems to have moved on to younger, thinner, less jaded people. Maybe it’s for the moment? Meanwhile, I have photographer friends, publicly apolitical ones, who are geniuses and getting bags left and right. Several notable photographers have shot five or six campaigns in the first quarter of the year; they too haven’t uttered a political word when they couldn’t profit from it. Silence pays. There is abundance out there, but how do you hold firm to your dream when there is no abundance for you? 

I have a friend in LA questioning whether the thing that he has dedicated his life to is even worth it anymore. Is it the thing? I reassure him that his creativity, his dedication to craft, and his unique perspective will get him across the finish line. But sometimes I wonder, I question. How do we know when it’s time to hang it up, to do something else or let the thing that we love morph into a new shape?

I have written over and over again that I’m in a period of transition. Sometimes it feels like, damn bitch, can you just go ahead on and transition already? This transition of lives, careers, locations, projects, boundaries, relationships is happening all at once and on its own timeline and I, in the slowness of that shadow work, of having one foot on the train and the other on the train platform, am feeling submerged by my doubts instead of uplifted by the possibilities. I can never do enough. I can never work hard enough or appreciate the work I’m doing enough. I have come close to the fire (the fire of homelessness, helplessness, and truly being defeated by rejection) so many times but the universe, my own guile, something has always saved me. So why is faith (in my work) so difficult for me to hold on to? 

Does anyone care about photographers? About craft? About the archive? How do you keep believing in yourself when it seems that so many people have stopped believing? What is the highest calling of your medium? If everyone is doing the exact same thing, what makes your work special? Is special important anymore? Sometimes my commitment to ideas and aphorisms like, “hard work always pays off” or “the cream always rises to the top” feels like clinging to antiquated notions of fairness in a white supremacist America. Is Mercury really that powerful? Why is this bitch still retrograding? Are we all just retrograding? My head could explode from all of the questions, the ambivalence, the doubt, and frankly, I haven’t figured out what to do about any of it. 

April was a difficult month for my emotional and spiritual dexterity, and then came the deaths.

A few weeks back, I was riding a bus to a Hertz in Colorado, when a person I was working with mentioned Chance Perdomo. “Oh yeah, you photographed Chance Perdomo right?” My face lit up as I don’t hear many people speaking about Chance, and I love him so much. “Yeah, that’s the homie. Why?” The person paused, tilting his head in confusion. “Because, he… died.” All of the air left my body, and I deflated right there in my seat. When the bus stopped, I sat at table and cried quietly into my hands. Chance was a friend. We weren’t super close, but DM’d each other regularly after I photographed him in 2020. I have so many voice notes from Chance asking after my family during the pandemic, congratulating me on cover shoots, and making sure that I was well. He was a deeply caring and spiritual person, and he was the first young actor that I envisioned photographing over and over again, throughout what we both believed would be a long and storied career. Now he’s gone. I don’t really have the words yet but I smile every time I think of his voice, his sense of humor, the way he thought it was so “baller” that I photographed him in my slippers. I’ll cherish it all. 

Two weeks later, Faith Ringgold was dead. 

Faith Ringgold was my very first assignment as a photographer. I traveled to her home in Englewood, New Jersey, so terrified and thrilled to meet her. We spent several hours talking and laughing and making pictures. I have audio recordings from some of our conversation where she shared stories of her home, her work, her marriages, etc. Sadly, after our shoot, I never saw her again, but I was told by her assistant that she truly loved our portraits, and I do too. She lived such an impactful life that I can’t feel the numbing sadness I feel with Chance. I can’t cloak my grief for Faith in the same language of, “he was so young” and “with him dies so much promise.” But it is still a loss, the fall of yet another giant tree in our culture. 

There have been bright moments though, areas of breakthrough where I bear witness to real growth, real power. 

Watching university students all over the country rising to the occasion of protest, and demanding transparency from their schools has been affirming. Watching the students and faculty building encampments and forming human chains to protect one another has such an unfortunate beauty to it. But even sitting in the pride I feel watching these young people devolves into more questions.  How are we still here as a nation? How are all of our institutions so entirely corrupt? Is no place safe? Is no organization on the right side of history? I’m so proud of so many for demanding a ceasefire and an END to the genocide as well as an end to the decade’s long occupation of Palestine. 

I’ve been watching my sister Fatima Jamal (Hey twin!) share messages, sermons, bits and pieces from her archive, and it has been such a boon to me. I’ve taken copious notes on her genius but specifically on her practice of tending to the archive, world building (even at the end of the world), and shadow work. Her video on Mobocracy and bearing the cross of visibility gave me chills. “Whether you are exalted or crucified, they want a show.” Seeing her hop on Instagram live every week has been a blissful return to something I’d been missing, her light. A gift, truly. I think about all the artists who would be inspired by her thoughts and her mind, the people I’d want to urge to spend time with her work, and I note that there are still so many people in my life who are transphobic, who could never bask in the warmth of her luminescence because of their own fear and self-loathing. Thinking through this, through still loving and being in a relationship with people who are so full of hate and ignorance leaves a terrible feeling in me, but I won’t miss the message or the genius of any member of my community that is as committed to a revolutionary liberation as she is.

During the month of April, I traveled between 6 states and 7 cities. I was assigned to photograph two incredible women; I’ll share more about that in May’s letter. I also traveled to make personal work--hard, grating, heartbreaking, and joyful personal work. Though my relationship to this medium is in peril, it feels like I’m ending on a high note. Maybe ending is too strong? I’ve had sweet coffees with Megan, Zac, T’Shay, and Drew, and chased rainbows through Arizona with Joel. I sat on the stoop with my baby sister Melly and danced around the lush grounds of the Barnes Foundation with Elli. I’ve watched excellent documentaries, wonderful dance performances (Hey Arien bb!), and ate mussels at my favorite neighborhood bar more times than I can count. I had sleepovers with Claude, Rafa, and Zeshawn and visited with a psychic who told me that I have a truly beautiful heart.

I revisited this amazing podcast from Ezra Klein on friendship as it really moved me when I first listened to it in February, recovering from Covid and leaving the following day for Yaddo. Coincidentally, I never finished the podcast the first time around, pausing it during the last 10 minutes. How shocked I was when Rhaina Cohen, right at the end, suggested a book by Andrew Solomon, the same Andrew Solomon I would meet at Yaddo the very next night. That coincidence made me smile with appreciation. I texted Andrew and he mentioned that he’d just spoken about me the night before and that my writing had really stayed with him. Someone whose work I respect so much (though I am admittedly late to it). I don’t know what the hell is happening in my life, with the universe, with my career, but these tiny moments feel, to my intuition, like messages to keep moving forward, whatever that means. 

I’m currently in LA where I’ll be for the next few weeks (5-8 weeks). I’m sitting in my original favorite cafe and for the first time in months, I’m allowing thoughts of the person who first brought me to LA to fill my mind. Thinking about him is so bittersweet and it probably always will be. I haven’t allowed myself to think about him much this year, I’ve been too busy, but the moment I sit still, really quiet my mind, there he is. It used to only hurt when I went to our favorite places but now, even when I go somewhere new, somewhere that’s all my own, I think about him. I guess he’s in the air out here. 

I wonder why I keep coming back to the same places, sitting in the same cafés, drinking the same lattes, going to the same parks or to the same book stores. It’s such a strange way to travel and maybe not the best way to live, chasing the echos of what was, what came before. I imagine it has something to do with looking for home. Anyway, I don’t have much capacity to share more of what I’ve been reading, watching, and listening to this month. But I’m sending you my love and hoping for your safety.

Thanks for reading!