Latest Posts by yvepaints - Page 2

trick or treat!

“Centennial Means 500 Years of Genocide!” by Ricardo Favela (photo taken at Frist Art Museum 9-21-24)

TRICK OR TREAT

“Tenth Annual Día de los Muertos Celebration” by Luis C. González (photo taken at Frist Art Museum 9-21-24)

Trick or treat :3

“Rules of Cats” by Elise Bainbridge (photo taken at Frist Art Museum 9-21-24)

💡 front porch light on!

You shall receive arts & media recs from a wee little painter 👩‍🎨

after “The Song of Achilles” by Madeline Miller (warning: violence)

Heliotropic soul who smells of spring.

Sunshine hair with gold-leafed summer irises,

Bright, shining from alabaster flesh.

Chiseled hands over carved wood,

Sinew-plucked strings.

They would never draw blood.

Winter is a minimalist,

Warmed by our roseate love,

Thawed anew.

Druid Heights: Northern California Legacy

Go north of San Francisco, through the woods of Marin, up the southern side of Mount Tam, and you may find what remains of Druid Heights. This is the name of the bohemian community that settled there in 1954, led by poet Elsa Gidlow. Gidlow was best known for On a Grey Thread, thought to be the first book of openly lesbian love poetry published in North America. Initially envisioned as a secluded retreat, Druid Heights quickly attracted other trailblazers: Beats like Allen Ginsburg, queer radicals, women’s liberation activists who came to socialize or get away from socializing. For many, it was a place to party and listen to music: The Rolling Stones, Neil Young, and the Eagles all played there. A few made it their home, like philosopher Alan Watts who moved there in 1971, had a library built, and died soon after. The countercultural figures who visited this fabled five acres remain in popular memory. The buildings they stayed in have had a more precarious history.

These were designed by Roger Somers, a carpenter-turned-architect who with his white beard and maharishi clothing looked somewhat like a druid himself. A Somers house is wooden and seemingly inspired by Indonesian batak houses, Japanese stone gardens, Frank Lloyd Wright’s Usonian fancies, and The Hobbit. They made perfect sense, but probably only if you were on any number of drugs at any number of parties that made the retreat infamous.

The party lasted long after Druid Heights’ heyday—lasted probably until 2001, when Somers died in his hot tub on site. It was definitely over by 2006 after the National Parks Service, which had used eminent domain to seize the land in 1977, evicted all residents who did not have permanent leases. Since then, the forest has slowly reclaimed its territory, and only the occupied buildings are in sound condition.

The Parks Service has shown little interest in maintaining what is left. In 2017, a campaign was launched to save the Heights, to little effect; and the few remaining residents are in their 80s. Is this a fitting end? Watts once wrote: "What makes this world a beautiful experience is the impermanence and mutability of all things.“ Druid Heights was based on spontaneity, anarchism, improvisation—a preservation society is the opposite of this. In a culture of constant growth and productivity, one in which we expect all things to remain available at all times, to let the Heights decay into the past is perhaps the most countercultural action to take. But the Heights also represents an authenticity rare in a radically changed Bay Area that has allowed its cultural heritage to vanish or corporatize; perhaps then the most subversive act is to save it, and to save it for the same reasons we want to save the redwoods that surround it: because it is unique, because it is there, because places like it can’t grow just anywhere and might never come again.

Elsa Gidlow in her shoji room.

Gidlow and Watts in the gardens of Druid Heights.

Gidlow in her bedroom surrounded by her books.

lol “HRT slightly increases the risk of certain cancers” HRT could have caused me to guaranteed drop dead at 30 and it still would have gotten me eight more years than I would otherwise have had

Untitled (warning: violence against marginalized & minority populations)

Sitting on the ground reading Emily Dickinson

Just me, God, and the ants

One on my ankle, one on my shoe

I’m sure I’m getting eat up

Oh well

There are worse things that bite

Fix (warning: substances, abuse, enslavement, self harm, suicidal ideation)

Pile up my substances

I want control

Obey my captors

The same old, same old

Countless masters I serve

Superficial reality

Rinse and repeat

Lies I tell myself to fall asleep

Cut up my willpower

And sell it to a fallacy

I want my life back

Tell me it’s not too late

Don’t want to say goodbye

Sick of paying for mistakes

I Spy Shadow Box, art camp 2024

Full post on my Instagram @ yvepaints

Sex Ed Time

ok I'm gonna tell you about some things that might happen if you are transitioning m->f. this is not a comprehensive list just my own experience, be sure to do your own research I just really wanted to voice how this affects me because I think open discussion about this type of stuff is just more helpful for everyone rather than keeping it private

BOOBS HURT WHEN THEY GROW

your sex drive (libido) will probably go down a lot

facial hair is very hard to get rid of

my go-to gender affirming clothing is high-waisted jeans. I suggest going to a goodwill or some sort of cheap store that lets you try on clothes to figure out what you like

muscle mass will go down, fat will be redistributed

boobs do all sorts of crazy stuff when you run / exercise

overtime your skin will get softer, you also might smell nicer, and I've been told it can thin body hair but I don't really see it all that much 🤷

your brain chemistry can change when you reduce testosterone and increase estrogen, there are lots of factors that contribute toward any changes to your personality, but hormones can have an impact as well. for me this is a good thing because I struggle with allowing myself to feel emotions sometimes, no matter how hard I tried I was never really able to get myself to cry. I've gotten closer to being able to cry since I started transitioning though and that makes me very happy

this is a slow process that can take several years, ultimately you're going to be in your body for several years regardless, so if this is something you want it's definitely something you should try to pursue if possible. the time will pass anyways, and it does feel nice to work towards something that can make you happier.

also this is very important, you don't need to do any sort of hormone replacement therapy in order to be trans. not everybody can access HRT, and for those who can access it, not everybody wants to take on all the changes that come with treatments. you don't have to chemically or physically change your body in any way in order to deserve respect

all right that's all I have for right now feel free to add anything in the comments, I would especially like to hear from trans men what your experiences have been, I think openly talking about these types of things can really help some people

Hallway (warning: horror, death, blood, gore, violence)

The PA system boomed

“They’ve made it into the school.

Lock and barricade your current room.”

I was in the hallway.

A stampede of bodies arose,

Living turning to dead to decompose.

Frightened and running through pools,

Slipping on blood in the hallway.

Beings crammed behind doors,

Quasi train cars as hopeful shields from doom.

Fearful faces cowered from windows,

Hiding from monsters in the hallway.

The growls approached.

The claws made their presence known.

Limbs and organs covered the floor.

The monsters were hungry for more than those in the hallway.

Blood-Singed II (warning: addiction, body horror)

Burnt red wine

Slinking down to slender fingertips

As sweet blood

With bite.

Wholly tremoring

With a fragile gaze

And blurred existence.

Lovers

Velvet blood coursing through intertwining paths

Supported by ebony pillars of bone

Supporting us in dance.

Your tender flesh, your cradling warmth

Clasped around my waist

Like it was made for your hands to rest on.

My limbs hung over your shoulders, around your neck

Like a garland made to grace your collar,

Pull you closer,

Hold us together, lovers.

It Is (warning: depression, self sabotage, trauma)

Behind as dirt, numb as snow,

Handcuffed rage by my own red-handed self.

The monster’s back, isn’t it?

Monochrome duality of emotions

Like drama masks that fit briefly,

Then slip off.

Little horrors behind the eyes of a jolted girl.

It’s chronic, isn’t it?

Night Choir

Night choir,

Songstresses of the dark,

Serenade with your warm melodies.

Soothing screech,

Piercing hum,

Smooth vibrato,

Harmonize with the lights—

Twinkle, fade.

acrylic on stretched canvas, 2024

Full post on my Instagram @ yvepaints

Untitled (warning: death, trauma response)

Dead horse, what have you done?

Traumatized into complacency,

Sat down,

Allowed to continue the charade.

Bloated carcass,

Needing to decompose

To nurture something—someone—anew.

I’m painting my nails to Queen and thinking about queer history (warning: hate crimes, violence, homophobia, transphobia)

I’m painting my nails to Queen

And thinking about queer history,

Bloodied,

Beautiful,

Weather-worn.

The artists that allow

My type in men to sparkle,

Gorgeous,

Pretty,

Free.

Don’t talk,

Save me.

Fights over love renewing

With people’s being

Free perceived

Threatening.

I want to break free.

Favorite piece of contemporary art? Or what art piece do you have hanging in your place? (I’ll show you mine if you show me yours) 😵‍💫

My favorite pieces of contemporary art are “Feel It M*****f*****s” by John Boskovich, “Untitled (Portrait of Ross in L. A.)” by Felix Gonzales-Torres, and “Unfinish Painting” by Keith Haring!

In my space I have prints of “Madonnina” by Roberto Ferruzzi, “Houses in Auvers” by Vincent Van Gogh, and another piece that I’ve yet to identify. ❤️

Pink Kitchen Table (warning: illness)

The Advent wreath is erect but cockeyed; it wasn’t lit during the recent season. The pink kitchen table is littered with masks, bottles, medical notes; doctorly linguistics beside Latin religiousness. Sundays smell like medicines instead of makko-powdered ether, rosaries in the windowsill with therapy aids. Images of Christ surround a rented bed, a vessel for healing holding a vessel, weakened.

Advent wreath lit,

Pink kitchen table littered,

Latin Sundays smell like makko.

Rosaries with images of Christ surround,

A vessel for healing.

Advent wreath lit pink

Kitchen table like Sundays—

Vessel for healing.

18 (warning: suicidal thoughts)

Blow out the candles, darling.

You might make it to 18.

After all the nights crying

Through gritted teeth.

After the day you thought

That if you killed yourself

Their lives would be more pleasing.

Congratulations, darling.

You’re almost 18.

A Prayer of Joy ✝️

May joy come with the same ease

As your mother tongue,

Something learned so young

It’s almost intrinsic.

May the sun and rain both

Remind you of our true home,

Shining and pelting down from

Where some earlier folks referred to as Heaven.

May God bless you

For all of your days. Amen.

let me relax……………will comment later…………………..

Happy National Poetry Month!

Poetry recs:

“On Meeting a Stranger in a Bookshop” by Oscar Williams

“Clean Socks” by Anna Kate Stanley

“14 Lines from Love Letters or Suicide Notes” by Doc Luben

“2AM, and the Rabbinical Students Stand in their Bathrobes” by Yehoshua November

“I Remembered” by Sara Teasdale

“a poem to all the dead things” by Ava (@amethyst.hour on Instagram)

“The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe

“I want to see the tulips in Holland.” by @byrdieprose

“Palestine,” acrylic, watercolor, & paper collage on paper, 2024

A visual commentary on the U. S. government’s involvement in the genocide of Palestinians 🍉

Happy birthday, Vincent!

Full words on my TikTok @ yvepaints

Love

Touch me.

Caress me.

Shiver the dust from my bones

And patch the rusted holes of my organs.

Quell the drought of my valleys,

Ushering in the wildflowers and honeybees.

Breathe life back into this old clay

And make me whole again.

Lover

Melt your fingertips into my skin,

Honey dripping between limbs.

Ebony hands gripping porcelain hips,

Obsidian and howlite,

Evening and starlight,

Melt me with your tender kiss.

Oh, lover,

Sweet embrace among silken cloth,

Hovering like a moth

To your flame, under our covers.