86. After
How we close out 2024. Mom's return. Preparing for new work. Highlights, herbal elixirs, and a last supper with strangers.
As this year comes to a close, I’m struck by contrasts.
2022 was a year of anxiety and collapse, one family catastrophe after another leading up to a devastating finale. During that period, perhaps when I needed it most, my relationship of five years also dissolved. Shortly thereafter, other relationships fractured, this time under the weight of history and caregiving; my sisters and I became largely estranged.
Craving a different kind of pressure as well as growth and productivity, I took on a demanding job the following year. In retrospect, more stress was probably not a good idea at that time. I moved on, but not before my already battered mental and physical health took another hit.
Terrified, alone, and defiant—feeling like a coatless kid holding up a middle finger like a lamp through a storm—I white-knuckled my way through the rest of 2023.
That January, I wrote:
Mom is still not someone we recognize—the tender, soft-spoken woman who reared us, and with whom I so recently collaborated on my animated short film Chamoe—but we’re hopeful that she’ll return. We miss her.
And last holiday season:
The past is rising up around us, muted and translucent, a shadowy replay.
It’s now December of 2024. I’ve just returned from California, where I spent a different kind of Christmas with my mother.
My sisters and I’ve been gossiping and sharing memes over group texts the way we used to. One of them has her own family now, and on Christmas Eve, her twin and I, along with our mother, FaceTimed them after a dinner of roast fish and champagne.
A few days earlier, we’d taken Mom out to a restaurant. She’d worn a fashionable outfit, and jewelry. She was playful, and a little vain. Today, she texted me to say that she went for a walk outside. In our daily chats, she’s begun to talk at length. For the first in years, I’m the one who needs to hang up first.
Her return feels sudden; as if everything changed overnight. In truth, she must have been making her way back for a long time. There’s no way to know much about that journey—the run of the terrain, the magnitude of storms. The only certainty has been the moment of return, when she walked in through the door: it’s me.
She’s not exactly how she’d been—who would be?—but it’s clear that she’s my mother. Perhaps, it appears to me, she’s even true-er. Not in the sense that she is “more my mother,” but in that she seems more a self: reinforced, and without certain veils.
There was a Before, and there is an After. Who we are now, and the motions we take, feel familiar. But we are changed.
It’s been a long trek, I suppose.
One must account for wear.
In the studio
This year, I focused on exploring new techniques, collaborating with other artists, and paying it forward. I leaned into meaningful 1:1 conversations. I took time back from algorithms. I was open to things and people at least twice. Then, I said no a lot.
This publication now has over 6,000 subscribers. I feel more involved than ever with different artist communities, including writers on Substack. There are clear signals that I’ve leveled up in craft and sensibility. I feel energized.
I worked right up to the day I left for California, kicking off the next iteration of paintings for an upcoming show.
I’ve been digging through family photographs for reference.
I see a thread running through my first and second rounds of exploration. That’s gratifying. That’s progress.
Sketches from the second iteration:
Lastly: I ordered a peg bar!
Excited for explorations in the new year.
Thank you
I want to take a moment to express gratitude to Members of this publication. Thank you so much for financially supporting my work, and the operating costs of this studio.
The last twelve months, you helped me pay submission fees to over 20 film festivals. You also helped me license music for my last film, and mount an exhibit. You paid for my paint brushes, studio equipment, and software. Most of all, I felt incredibly uplifted by the statement that your memberships made.
I can’t begin to express to you how exhilarating it is, and how grateful I am, to support my living by making art. Thank you for believing in me, and for recognizing the value of this kind of work.
Special thanks also to fellow artists at KAAC, with whom I’ve shared many meals and words of support this year; esteemed peers like
, whose support began early and never flagged; artists like (instagram) who’ve been both inspiration and counsel (check out her recent interview in ’s brand-new Substack Edge of Frame).Thank you again, dear reader. I hope this biweekly glimpse into one artist’s life of labor, discoveries, and problem-solving, continues to add to your own life somehow.
More to come.
Year in review
Many good things happened in 2024, but here are some highlights. They’re a mix of follow-throughs as well as signs of progress and growth. They also include things that I particularly enjoyed.
More than what may strictly be considered accomplishments, I was most energized by quiet nods from industry peers through invitations to speak, or solicitations for my input as a designer, writer, and artist.
I’m humbled that my point of view remains relevant and provocative across these domains.
2024 highlights:
엄마 나라 | Mother Land officially selected for screening in NY, CA, London.
World premiere at Brooklyn Film Festival
Guest speaker at Animation Speak/Easy
Guest editor for Substack Reads
Guest critic at SVA’s MFA Design thesis review
Helped raise over $64K for NAKASEC x Adoptees4justice
Savored Connections exhibition at Hana Makgeolli
“Other Mother” published in Roxane Gay’s The Audacity
Featured in Analog is Heavy’s Resilience issue (and at Casa Magazines 🤯)
- began recommending TLB
Substack Bestsellers events with writers, artists, and NYC icons
Audited Derrida & Literature course at Columbia University
Gave 100% of design time advising women’s health and lifestyle companies
Prioritized self care
Lowered average blood glucose by 20+ mg/dL
Optimized breakfasts and meal prepLeveled up in physical strength and fitness
At least two (as many as seven) miles of walking/running, every day
Strength-training five days a week
Two+ pounds of fat exchanged for muscle
Pull- and chin- ups from full hangTook advantage of living in NYC
At least ten shows (Broadway, opera, dance, symphony; fav Appropriate)
At least one exhibit per month (fav Doug Wheeler’s Day Night Day)
Julianne Moore and Julie Mehretu at The New Yorker festival
Rachel Cusk at The Center for Fiction
Midnight book launch for Murakami at Three Lives
Twenty-six new restaurants and bars (fav was Penny)
Local film festivals, including Brooklyn, Tribeca, and SohoContinued healing as a family
Daily conversations with Mom
Welcomed a niece into the world
Time together in personDeepened meaningful relationships and sparked new ones
You know who you are ❤️
In closing, a last supper.
Human connection feels more important than ever in a world that feels increasingly destabilized. NYC overflows with it, literally and otherwise. There were many moments of frustration and beauty this year, living shoulder to shoulder with other weirdos in this crazy, magical place. I’m happy to close out with this one, a meal at a beloved local restaurant during its final week of service.
A few Tuesdays ago, I walked into Contento, a Peruvian restaurant in East Harlem known for its dedication to accessibility. I’d heard that it was closing by the end of the week. Somehow I’d never dined there, and wanted to visit for the first—and last—time.
I’d blithely assumed that it’d be trivial to nab a last minute spot as a solo, but there was nothing available when I arrived. Not even at the bar? I asked. Not even at the bar, the host was apologetic: It’s our last week and everyone’s scrambling to experience one more meal.
I’ll only be thirty minutes, I pleaded. Couldn’t you squeeze me in? The host was sympathetic but firm. We actually just squeezed someone else in just before you, he said. There really are no more seats. I scanned the room. I know you see some empty chairs, the host said quickly. I assure you, everyone’s arriving in the next few minutes. I stood in dismay, reluctant to admit defeat.
Suddenly, a voice: if you don’t mind eating with strangers, you’re more than welcome to sit with us. I turned to look at the speaker, a woman wearing a holiday headband with twinkling red antennae. She was holding a baby. Her husband sat alongside, his back to me. A little lamp glared from a shelf above their table, violent in the otherwise moody lighting. I hesitated—are you sure?
To be honest, I wasn’t sure, myself. I’d wanted a quiet dinner alone with a glass of wine to celebrate some good news. My would-be-seat was wedged awkwardly in a dark corner, and I’d no idea how I’d even get to it. The bar and its stools butted up against the table, a stroller (containing a small dog) barring the only way. The woman’s wheelchair took up the space in front of that, and across the table, a staunch pillar. It was like that one bad seat at the theatre, in the Siberian wings with the blocked view.
This wasn’t what I’d imagined for my evening. Still, I found myself saying, that’s very generous of you. If you really wouldn’t mind…
Then I squeezed toward, and contorted myself into, that corner seat. I quietly took down the glaring lamp as I settled in, and said: Please don’t let me interrupt your conversation and dinner; I’m grateful to be here, but happy to be ignored. At this, the woman just laughed and waved her hand.
For the next hour, we shared a meal, chatting over fried yucca and curried goat. We talked about family, New York City (they were both born-and-reared), babies (theirs was 11 months old), and disability (both of them were wheelchair-bound, the husband with additional dexterity challenges). We commiserated about the closing of the restaurant, an establishment devoted to accessibility (“a mission that was personal to [one of the owners] who, while working as a sommelier in fine dining, was paralyzed below the waist”). Toward the end of the meal, I discovered that they’d long been friends with this owner. Everything about the place and the evening felt personal, and intimate.
The family left as I lingered over my dessert and glass of wine. They waved goodbye before disappearing into the winter darkness.
On Saturday, December 21st, Contento held their final service. I hear that it was nothing short of extraordinary.
It had been a gift, in any case.
Until next time.
An absolutely wonderful issue -- one of the best TLB's ever run. Congratulations on a huge year! Thank you as always for the shout-out, and happy New Year!
Happy New Year Coleen! and thanks for the mention! All the best for 2025 :)