MOTHER TONGUE A zine inspired by Valencia Robin’s exhibition at Second Street Gallery Vol. 2 (March 2023)
In February/March 2023, Second Street Gallery invited community members of all ages to participate in a call for writing submissions inspired by the artwork in Valencia Robin’s recent exhibition, Mother Tongue (February 3 - March 24, 2023). Valencia Robin’s interdisciplinary practice includes poetry, painting and sculpture. The recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship, a Margaret Towsley Fellowship and a King-Chavez-Parks Fellowship, she holds an MFA in Art & Design from the University of Michigan and an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Virginia. She lives and works in Charlottesville, Virginia. MOTHER TONGUE A zine inspired by Valencia Robin’s exhibition at Second Street Gallery Vol. 2 (March 2023)
Table of contents 2 “Hither and thither” by MaKshya Tolbert 4 “Always Elsewhere” by Madeleine Clodfelter 5 “Listen Between the Lines” by Susan S. Muse 6 “In Translation” by Matt Dhillon 7-8 “In the Green Desk” by D. Williams 9-10 “Broken Link” by Carreen and Brontë de Cárdenas 12 “I got your letters” by Greg Gelburd 14 “Maybe Now” by Stephen Haske 16 “Division” by Jess Walters 18 “Always Elsewhere/Everywhere” by Phyllis Koch-Sheras 19 “On Valencia Robin Paintings” by Helen Kanevsky
Valencia Robin Research, 2022 Acrylic and pencil on canvas 36 x 36 inches 1
Hither and thither MaKshya Tolbert Wandering words without an audience Study makes itself seen on the inside and out I seek closely I yellow I become the color I am Letters turn toward space I love the circus they make All the words have color and speak of it yell ow Is this study or is this me 2
Valencia Robin Always Elsewhere #3, 2022 Mixed media on canvas 24 x 18 inches 3
Always Elsewhere Madeleine Clodfelter You said the world overlays itself a thousand times every night every sea just an opening in time. Your words were always a reminder of breathing. You ruined every perfect heaven with your cruel tranquility, lined in shatterings of vases and pearl strands. I tried to tell you that God was just a name for the space between wordsthat lungs one day run out of breath runs out of life runs out of pain. And maybe if you could teach me to touch the charred remains of your body suspended from that blue palimpsest you called sky Maybe then. 4
Listen Between the Lines Susan S. Muse I hung the wash outside today to gather the smell of sunlight in its seams. The sky is azure, the sea. Turning my face to the sun I closed my eyes picturing the beach again, how the sky mirrors the ocean, how clouds with whitecaps and waves pound the shore. I go there to marvel at where we have come from, first slithering, then crawling before rising to our feet walking west out of the sand. Later I walk underneath the hanging clothes, burying my face in their yellow warmth. The clothesline itself squeaksa portal to my childhood when my mother pushed metal arms of the clothesline in a circle, pinning clothes so wind could raise them in its embrace. Winds off the water, voices in a tunnel, chase sand into even higher dunes, away from slivers of shells in the swash. Each voice teaches me to listen, listen between the lines. 5
In Translation Matt Dhillon Pink- as in heart, as in love, as in pink lady apple, as in sin, as in love like it’s a sin, as in blush, as in lips, as in gums, as in hunger, as in eat, as in tongue so dry, tongue as a desert with a story about rain. I want to tell it to you, but there are no words I have not already eaten. Rosa- as in magnolia flower, as in plum blossom, as the petals falling from cherry trees. this much is lost from everything. even open doors and the men inside waving, even fire hydrants and stop signs, even buses are blowing away by petals and the morning is full of little thumb-sized smudges where someone has been wiping it away, even language, petal by petal we will forget all the words we know. then we will look straight into the face of things like mica, like quartz, like mirrors and our faces will be huge questions. Gulabi- as in holi powder, as in shrines, as in everyday holiness and the gods of short walks and the gods of oatmeal and the gods of breakfast sandwiches, as in beef tenderloin, as strips of meat on bone, as in sacrifice, there is a country of sacrifice always standing right behind me, as in silk shawls, as in grandfather’s turban, my grandfather’s word for bone is not my word for bone, my grandfather’s hunger sounds completely different from mine, if I heard it I wouldn’t even understand it. Wardy- as in 5am on marble steps, 5am on cool sand and snow on the mountains, as in the ruins of old cities are not that different from the ruins of modern cities, as in cypress, as in cedar, as in heartwood, as in rings inside of rings, as in cities inside of cities, as in mothers inside of mothers, there are countries we will not return to, there are people we will not return to, there are things we’ve imagined that we will never do, there are words we know that we will never say again. still, we need their silence, we keep it. there are dead languages we carry, they speak to us when we kiss. 6
7 Valencia Robin Memory is a Strange Thing, 2022 Acrylic and pencil on canvas 36 x 36 inches In the Green Desk D. Williams If it was important, she kept it in the green desk in very plain boxes coated in mold, dust, with a smell I would call “Lost Hopes and Dreams.” It was my job to wrangle the desk drawers, expose their contents
8 to fresh air. Fresh eyes. Disturbing the words written in perfect penmanship, looped, curled, the angle just so. Written as if the writer just liked the way it looked, the thoughts picture perfect on scrap paper. Words for no one or drafts of the same. And carbon paper. Who uses carbon paper or a “trusty pencil.” An envelope “The Depressing Year” or a note about how not even her dog acknowledged her that night. The Green Desk. That place that holds the Resentment. Cards and musty love letters addressed to My Darling. A break up note, two in fact. And more quarter pages of scrap paper from the office recycle box. Their backsides spilling details of a decades long love affair. “My Darling” couldn’t handle the whitehot intensity of the Writer’s emotions. Making it their problem. Demands for apologies and romantic meetings. A list checked off, fantasy dates and wishes for time together. Desperation for a soulmate concocted from decades of too much TV and movies, a brain packed with Gullibility. Now they are frail words. “My Darling” never left the wife. But continued to buy gifts. Expensive ones with appraisals and insurance. The green Desk hid those receipts too. The desk spills too many things. I take up my pencil for the Desk: Dear My Darling, She was fine without you. She didn’t need you. She doesn’t write you anymore. You left her and you trained her to wait for you to come back. She only sits and watches for you. Her life empty when you aren’t there.
9 Valencia Robin Poem for 8 Fingers, 2022 Mixed media on canvas 12 x 12 inches Broken link Carreen and Brontë de Cárdenas Abuela’s Spanish is rapid-fire and whiny and dripping with breathy s’s and when she speaks with her sisters in Miami’s marbled hallways it’s like the clipped sing-song of tropical birds in a cacophony of sound
10 Sound that reverberates in me, so deep I don’t always know it’s there Words that rise in the rarest moments making me question everything ¿Hablas español? I don’t know. But you’ll think sometimes by my accent I do. You’ll think because my abuela’s sounds come out of me sometimes, because breakfast table chatter with my father sputters off my tongue, that I did that on purpose and those words are mine. I understand more than I speak, I tell you. I understand as a child understands the words coming to them like a waterfall rushing over their ears. A cacophony of words That I can never reproduce. If language is the transmission of culture, I must be the broken link – a molten mess of different cultures flooded with gibberish because my elders took their words off their tongues and lay them with the family jewels, locked them up in empty houses for an empty future We, this mess of words and sounds and bloodlines We, the ever searching for home with our mouths We, the new generation – the not before, the never after At least we have this. The kitchen table greetings, the goodbye blessings, the rhythm and rise of words of advice and worried “mira” as you forget your keys. We’ll survive with this and we’ll help it to survive.
11 Valencia Robin Always Singing, 2022 Acrylic on canvas 24 x 24 inches
12 I got your letters Greg Gelburd Dear Valencia I got your letters today on the walls of the gallery. As you know I’ve been waiting for your reply for several years since our last visit in Barcelona . We spent a few hours at that bar together, I hope you remember. I’ve been thinking about you ever since , me being the art appreciator, not the artist. What you said about colors and how to mix them and how to make them more cacophonic so that it would be harder for me to understand you. And so when I read your letters today I responded with a gut feeling and this is what I have thought about. How do we put colors together so we can explain ourselves? This is what I believe you have asked. Today I walked slowly and read each painting with my eyes and my heart. Your paintings I would say tell me that you are a compassionate woman who is bright, loves extravagance and projects a willingness to surprise and challenge the viewer. I recognize that your heart is healing and that you have been able to explain yourself very well with your brush and your canvases. And in fact, the lines, the shapes, speak to what I first named you at that bar on La Rombla, les Fauves. So what I see also is that you have been somewhat divided in your life over the years, you might not think of this in a good way but I think you have lived several lives in your short time here and each one is now connected. The squares and circles on your canvas, the colors all working together tell me who you really are. You’re not only a gifted artist who can express herself so very well, you’re a deep thinking, loving individual whose life reflects what beauty is here. So Velencia perhaps we can again share an Esqueixada de bacallà and chat about all the past times, the present and perhaps even your future. Greg Gelburd
13 Valencia Robin, 2015 Poem for 17 Fingers, 2015 Mixed media on canvas 12 x 12 inches
14 Maybe Now Stephen Haske Maybe now is a good time To write - To fill out the guest book - To take off my coat - To check in with you. Have you been tending your garden In these long, dark days? Do you recognize the mums from the daisies? The truth from the real? The beauty in the fog? Maybe now is a good time To hold your hand - To say The Mother’s prayer - To breath deep and clear. Maybe now is a good time To feel the texture Gathering on my fingertips - To think of you And smile. Maybe now is a good time.
15 Valencia Robin I Have a Time Machine, 2022 Acrylic and pencil on canvas 36 x 36 inches
16 Division Jess Walters I am divided. Thick black line down the middle of all the stuff layered to make me whole –with a seam Like, you could run a zipper down and I could open, revealing familiar shapes (in pinks and greens) both separate from and a part of me: A paradox of boxes and circles and abstract scribbles making binaries beneath a surface wrestled into being.
17 Valencia Robin Always Elsewhere (#2), 2022 Mixed media on canvas 18 x 18 inches
Always Elsewhere/Everywhere Phyllis Koch-Sheras More than the blue bowl of the sky Are my heart and mind swirling and simmering inside it Connecting to the oneness of it all As I melt into the void. Then the clouds appear, And I feel the building fear About to boil over-- But instead of getting lost in the void, I remember that it’s ALL GOOD, And that I am never alone. 18
19 On Valencia Robin Paintings Helen Kanevsky Looking out her window day in and day out, quenching the old thirst to capture simple life beauty, nipping at the heels of Vermeer to glean information like a farmer gathers ears from the dismal field at the mercy of the fall wind, not seeing me and my dog silently sneaking into the picture plodding next to Rivanna on the Sod Farm lea, living a happy life, leaving earthquake, war, and drought behind the canvas, painting this world as she wants it to be.
About Second Street Gallery Founded in 1973, Second Street Gallery (SSG) is the oldest nonprofit 501(c)3 contemporary art space in Central Virginia. Our primary mission is to enliven Virginia through access to the best in contemporary art and artists and to inspire new ways of thinking, seeing, and doing. SSG presents a full calendar of free and low cost outreach activities and programming that complements our exhibition season. Contact the gallery to learn more about our offerings and partnership opportunities. To support our mission, make a contribution or become a member of the gallery through our website: www.secondstreetgallery.org/support
Second Street Gallery 115 2nd Street SE, Charlottesville, VA 22902 www.secondstreetgallery.org | @secondstreetgallery