#''for enrichment'' my soul squeaks

[surohsopsisofclouds]

Me when I remember how many weird stories I have the potential to pull out of my hat at any moment.

[mslanna]

Arguments

Chapter 3 of Be My Guest now up on AO3

Enrichment? In this enclosure? I think not. Still, it can't hurt to be a little soft.

"You will not enter the kitchen again." Raphael's verdict is final and Tav fumes.

They have been doing good work there. The Feast Hall is always packed with food that nobody eats. It makes sense to have the pieces nobody can reach replaced by dummies. It also makes sense to swap some items for stuff Tav likes and let them eat it at the end of the day before it goes bad. Not that anybody talks about the eating bit.

I to do in your presumptuous opinion?" Tav puts their hands on their hips, rising to full height. "You are dashing to and fro in your little war and I can't even change the menu?"

"It is not a little war." The devil's patience strains; he has more important things to do than argue with an unhappy human. Unfortunately, that human enabled his current sweep through Avernus. Zariel will fall first. And then – then the other rulers of hell would find themselves at his mercy. The future looks bright.

Raphael forces his thoughts back to the unpleasant present. The human still glares at him as if it was his fault they are stuck. Fury flares for a second. Two deals that irrelevant pup made, and neither with him. He feels a snarl rise, even though he knows that won't improve the situation any. But really, who is to blame?

"None of this would have happened, if you had just taken my deal."

"I didn't need your deal. I did great on my own."

"You broke into my House."

"You could just have let me go!"

"Have you listened to yourself recently?" Raphael spits. "Let me do whatever I please and then let me go scot-free and all will be fine."

"Oh no." Tav presses a hand to their heart. "I sound exactly like you. Don't like it? Better get rid of every mirror in this place."

"Be glad I do not cast you out," the devil growls. "The Crown of Karsus is mine. There is no changing that. The crusade against Zariel goes exceedingly well. Soon the other devils will fall in line. Isn't that what you counted on?"

"I am bored out of my skull here!"

"Well, leave," Raphael returns. "I am sure you won't have a thought to spare once my dear father gets his claws into you."

To his surprise, Tav actually turns on their heels and leaves. He watches them until they are out of sight. But the human is making a bee-line for the foyer. Raphael rumbles to himself. It is none of his business if the foolish mortal wants to risk their soul. Better Mephistopheles have theirs than his.

Memories from his short interlude at his father's mercy crash into Raphael like a wave. Yeah, definitely better anybody than him. Another memory stabs through the desperate pain. Tav. Standing before his father as if it meant nothing, negotiating for his life.

A frustrated grunt falls from his lips as he turns to follow the foolish human. Mephistopheles' whims are not something to wish on your worst enemy, much less somewhat of an ally.

He finds the foyer undisturbed. The circle into Baldur's Gate is not active. Maybe he is too late. Raphael takes a deep breath. And in the silence of the room, a small sob squeaks from behind one of the soul pillars. He tilts his head but there is no other sound. Just as Raphael turns to leave, the tiny noise repeats. High, and constricted as if somebody worked very hard on not letting it escape.

For a moment Raphael considers getting Haarlep and let the incubus deal with the problem. With a snap of his fingers, he turns into his human form. Less threatening, less aggressive. It may help to keep things calm. Raphael walks around the first pillar to finds the space behind it empty.

Tav wouldn't chose a place close to the doors to hide so he turns to the pillars framing the windows. Of course, the first he chooses to inspect is not hiding his paladin.

He finds them curled up around their knees behind the last pillar. Tav ’s body shakes violently and it looks eerie without any sound coming form the wretched creature. Tav doesn't notice the spectator, caught up completely in their misery.

"Listen."

Tav's head shoots up. They stare at the devil glaring down at them and try to scoot around the pillar.

"None of that now." Raphael crouches and ends their scrabbling with a firm grip on Tav's shoulder. "You didn't leave and I am grateful for that. You deserve better than eternal suffering at my father's hands."

Red rimmed eyes look at him. The whole face is red and somewhat soggy. But Tav's hands stay clutched around their ankles, a desperate attempt to protect themself. Raphael wants nothing more than to send them to clean up. Some bodily fluids are exquisite, but tears and snot are not. At least not when they don't come form some delicate from of torture.

"What do you want, Tav," he finally asks with a sigh. Deals are the easiest form to deal with people after all.

"I don't know." The words are small and despondent. "But there is nothing I can occupy myself with here. I am going crazy, Raphael. I am ready to bite the walls. I need something to do or I might just deliver myself to Mephistopheles out of desperation."

"And Haarlep is not a solution?" Raphael puts as much persuasion into the words as he can. Still Tav shakes their head.

"Haarlep is very single-minded and the one thing on their mind is sex." Tav sighs and releases their legs. "I need something to occupy my mind. And you are gone more often than here." A dry laugh wrings free from their lips.

"I have a war to lead," Raphael says softly. "What time I have is yours already."

"It is nothing."

"It is all there is." His words are firm.

"My day has so many hours. ” Tav leans back against the pillar and closes their red eyes. "So many hours, Raphael. I considered helping out your debtors."

"Please don't." The words come without thinking. But it gives the devil an idea. Somehow, some way he needs to find a way to utilise Tav. Anything within theses walls is a welcome change. He regards the paladin for a moment. "I will find you distractions if you will hold it together."

Tav sends him a tired look. "Deal."

Raphael smiles and stands. "Deal. Now get up and-" he trails off uncertain what the proper procedure is.

Tav helps out by reaching up with their hands. The devil takes them and pulls the human upright. For a moment, Tav simply regards their hands, not showing any signs of letting go. "I thought it would be easier," they admit without looking up.

"Noting is easy when devils are involved." Raphael raises Tav's chin with a finger. At least they try to smile. "A lesson you may want to learn quickly."

For a moment it seems as if Tav will lean into his chest. Raphael finds himself strangely disappointed when they pull back instead. But he rolls with it putting one hand on the small of their back to guide them back towards the house.

"Maybe I should just stop dealing with devils." Tav smiles lopsided. "When this is all over."

"I will hate to lose m favourite house guest. But am very open to welcoming my new favourite client."

Tav laughs. From the tear-streaked face it's a sad outburst. "You wish." The smile morphs into something more genuine.

"I plan," Raphael counters. "And that you brought me the Crown of Karsus from your own free will tells me that there is something to work with in here." He puts his index fingers against Tav's temple.

"Heh." For a moment Tav leans into the touch. “I thought you'd like me if I did that."

Tav doesn't notice that the devil, rooted to the spot, doesn't follow as they return into the House of Hope.

[jeremy-ken-anderson]

A prayer for Bill, my grandfather. When Ann passed before him he spent a year entirely lost. He hadn’t built a structure to his life that allowed for life without her. Near the 1-year mark, he went back home and visited family members, said his goodbyes, and died.

This is one of the more absurd things a human can do, once they’ve reached a certain level of seniority. They can just opt to die. If I hadn’t seen it myself so many times I would not believe it.

A prayer for Priscilla, my first long-term cat. We had several cats, from Casey to Squeak to Emily and Cream. Priscilla is the first I was with when she died. She would not pass until I let her go. She was always proud and dignified.

A prayer for Henry and Tiger. They were good dogs. Tiger in particular I met when both of us loved to run and walk, so we were exercise buddies. Henry, for all his size, was clear he was at the bottom of whatever pecking order was available. He was a perpetual sweety, however.

A prayer for Rob, my father. He got us all through college without debt. He was kind of spirit and swift of wit. He was a servant to those who needed his help. He was at times insecure about his fathering; Stories with strong themes of fatherhood (especially deeply flawed fathers) - Black Panther, and before that Smoke Signals - made him deeply emotional and after such films he would double check what I thought of him.

A prayer for Don, and Leonard, my other grandfathers. Both were genial and friendly to these unknown young people who came to visit, with Len having the added bonus of being wicked smart.

A prayer for Lorraine, my principal for the more unorthodox portion of my schooling. I still recall listening to her teaching one of our teachers how one teaches a child to tie their shoes. It was the first time I learned that teaching was a skill that had to be developed; that it wasn’t just “tell people stuff you know” - or at least, that it could be more, if you were good at it.

A prayer for Kelly, my pen pal. It feels terrible to say but dying under spooky circumstances the day after visiting an abandoned asylum and leaving her pen pal wondering what had happened to her until he found out a year later was entirely on-brand for her. I know so little of her compared to the rest, but she was confident, self-possessed, and quirky. She was entirely herself in our conversations, never suffering to be less.

A prayer. A prayer. A prayer. Let the wheel turn, and the world spin. Let the soul rise, and the next path be ready. Let the lives they lived ripple and enrich the lives going on now, as ours will enrich those that come after.

I have lost so many people I have loved. There is nothing wrong with this; It is only evidence that I have loved many people.

A prayer for Kathleen, my grandmother, as she passes. The time is nigh.

[centeris2]

23. Fuzzy Friends (Dark Core) (SSO December prompt)

A new dog toy is released for the holidays. on AO3 and Wattpad.

“You love your dog, but your dog doesn’t love toys that break!” A voice spoke over a black and white shot of a sad looking dog, a shredded toy next to it. 

“But now, there is a new toy your furry family member will love! Give your pet a Fuzzy Friend!” There were sparkles and color appeared, the camera switching to a stuffed blue squirrel with pink markings.

“My dog loves Fuzzy Friends! He plays with it for hours!” A woman with luscious curly black hair in red smiled brightly, petting a larger doberman as it shook the stuffed toy in its mouth, teeth showing.

“The super durable construction means your pet won’t be able to tear their new Fuzzy Friends to pieces in minutes!” The bright voice continued, panning over a tall man with incredibly light hair in the woods, crouching and smiling as a massive wolfhound charged up with the toy in its mouth.

“It’s perfect for outdoor play and hunting enrichment,” the voice began.

“And my hound loves the realistic squeaks!” the man finished with a dazzling smile and wink, the dog squeaking the toy in its jaws.

“And for the ‘rough’ chewers, there is a surprise inside!” the voice said, a grinning woman with brilliant green eyes and long black hair held a blue stuffed squirrel in her hands, pushing on the back to pop out a smaller bright pink hard toy inside, the woman pulling the pink toy from the squirrel’s stuffed chest with a wink.

“Fuzzy Friends are not only perfect for my pups, they’re perfect for my budget!” a woman with blue eyes and white hair said as two Alaskan malamutes tugged on the squirrel.

“Your dog will thank you this holiday season when you buy them a Dogs’n’Cats Fuzzy Friends! Sold online and where pet supplies are sold!” the narrator said over a split screen, showing off the durability and perks of the toy from previous clips, as well as different color options, though the blue one was front and center.

“And remember: if it’s not DC, it’s not quality!” the woman with green eyes and black hair appeared again, giving a thumbs up while petting a saluki with the squirrel toy firmly between its front paws as it chewed, tail thumping.

“Call now or go online to order,” a monotone voice began, detailing the cost and where to buy the toys before the commercial ended, going back to the Christmas show.

The soul riders stared at the tv, their night of watching holiday movies together interrupted by horrified silence. 

“They’re psychotic!” Lisa exclaimed, shocked.

Hysterical laughter echoed through the Dark Core headquarters, the Dark Riders along with Mr. Sands and Laverne just finished watching the commercial launching their new product.

“We are psychotic!” Jessica managed as she regained her breath, wiping tears of laughter away.

“I wish we could see their faces…” Sabine said, unable to stop giggling, raising her glass and clinking it with Katja who was still breathless. 

“Totally worth creating a brand new business front just to sell that,” Katja declared once she was able to breath again, all of them raising glasses and clinking again.

[7r0773r]

The Gift by Vladimir Nabokov, translated by Michael Scammell & Dmitri Nabokov

If I were to return now into that past, enriched in but one respect—awareness of the present day—and retrace exactly all my interlooping steps, then I would certainly notice [Yasha’s] face, now so familiar to me through snapshots. It is a funny thing, when you imagine yourself returning into the past with the contraband of the present, how weird it would be to encounter there, in unexpected places, the prototypes of today’s acquaintances, so young and fresh, who in a kind of lucid lunacy do not recognize you; thus a woman, for instance, whom one loves since yesterday, appears as a young girl, standing practically next to one in a crowded train, while the chance passerby who fifteen years ago asked you the way in the street now works in the same office as you. Among this throng of the past only a dozen or so faces would acquire this anachronistic importance: low cards transfigured by the radiance of the trump. (p. 41)

***

“Leave Pushkin alone: he is the gold reserve of our literature. And over there is Chekhov’s hamper, which contains enough food for years to come, and a whimpering puppy, and a bottle of Crimean wine.”

“Wait, let’s go back to the forebears. Gogol? I think we can accept his ‘entire organism.’ Turgenev? Dostoevski?”

“Bedlam turned back into Bethlehem—that’s Dostoevski for you. ‘With one reservation,’ as our friend Mortus says. In the ‘Karamazovs’ there is somewhere a circular mark left by a wet wine glass on an outdoor table. That’s worth saving if one uses your approach.”

“But don’t tell me all is well with Turgenev? Remember those inept tête-à-têtes in acacia arbors? The growling and quivering of Bazarov? His highly unconvincing fussing with those frogs? And in general, I don’t know if you can stand the particular intonation and the maudlin endings of his chapters. Or should we forgive all his sins because of the gray sheen of Mme. Odintsev’s black silks and the outstretched hind legs of some of his graceful sentences, those rabbitlike postures assumed by his resting hounds?”

“My father used to find all kinds of howlers in Turgenev’s and Tolstoy’s hunting scenes and descriptions of nature, and as for the wretched Aksakov, let’s not even discuss his disgraceful blunders in that field.” (pp. 72-73)

***

Have you ever happened, reader, to feel that subtle sorrow of parting with an unloved abode? The heart does not break, as it does in parting with dear objects. The humid gaze does not wander around holding back a tear, as if it wished to carry away in it a trembling reflection of the abandoned spot; but in the best corner of our hearts we feel pity for the things which we did not bring to life with our breath, which we hardly noticed and are now leaving forever. This already dead inventory will not be resurrected later in one’s memory: the bed will not follow us, shouldering its own self; the reflection in the dresser will not rise from its coffin; only the view from the window will abide for a while, like the faded photograph, fitted into a cemetery cross, or a trim-haired, steady-eyed gentleman in a starched collar. I would like to wish you good-by, but you would not even hear my greeting. Nevertheless, good-by. I lived here exactly two years, thought here about many things, the shadows of my caravan passed over this wallpaper, lilies grew out of the cigarette ash on the carpet—but now the journey is over. The torrents of books have gone back to the ocean of the library. I do not know if I shall ever read the drafts and extracts rammed under the linen in my suitcase, but I do know that I will never look in here again. (pp. 144-45)

***

When the French thinker Delalande was asked at somebody’s funeral why he did not uncover himself (ne se découvre pas), he replied: “I am waiting for death to do it first” (qu’elle se découvre la première). There is a lack of metaphysical gallantry in this, but death deserves no more. Fear gives birth to sacred awe, sacred awe erects a sacrificial altar, its smoke ascends to the sky, there assumes the shape of wings, and bowing fear addresses a prayer to it. Religion has the same relation to man’s heavenly condition that mathematics has to his earthly one: both the one and the other are merely the rules of the game. Belief in God and belief in numbers: local truth and truth of location. I know that death in itself is in no way connected with the topography of the hereafter, for a door is merely the exit from the house and not a part of its surroundings, like a tree or a hill. One has to get out somehow, “but I refuse to see in a door more than a hole, and a carpenter’s job” (Delalande, Discours sur les ombres, p. 45). And then again: the unfortunate image of a “road” to which the human mind has become accustomed (life as a kind of journey) is a stupid illusion: we are not going anywhere, we are sitting at home. The other world surrounds us always and is not at all at the end of some pilgrimage. In our earthly house, windows are replaced by mirrors; the door, until a given time, is closed; but air comes in through the cracks. “For our stay-at-home senses the most accessible image of our future comprehension of those surroundings which are due to be revealed to us with the disintegration of the body is the liberation of the soul from the eye-sockets of the flesh and our transformation into one complete and free eye, which can simultaneously see in all directions, or to put it differently: a supersensory insight into the world accompanied by our inner participation. (Ibid. p. 64). But all this is only symbols—symbols which become a burden to the mind as soon as it takes a close look at them. . . .

Is it not possible to understand more simply, in a way more satisfying to the spirit without the aid of this elegant atheist and equally without the aid of popular faiths? for religion subsumes a suspicious facility of general access that destroys the value of its revelations. If the poor in spirit enter the heavenly kingdom I can imagine how gay it is there. I have seen enough of them on earth. Who else makes up the population of heaven? Swarms of screaming revivalists, grubby monks, lots of rosy, shortsighted souls of more or less Protestant manufacture—what deathly boredom! (pp. 309-10)

***

The real writer should ignore all readers but one, that of the future, who in his turn is merely the author reflected in time. (p. 340)

***

Suddenly [Fyodor] imagined official festivals in Russia, soldiers in long-skirted overcoats, the cult of firm jaws, a gigantic placard with a vociferous cliché clad in Lenin’s jacket and cap, and amidst the thunder of stupidities, the kettledrums of boredom, and slave-pleasing splendors—a little squeak of cheap truth. . . . Oh, let everything pass and be forgotten—and in two hundred years’ time an ambitious failure will vent his frustration on the simpletons dreaming of a good life (that is if there does not come my kingdom, where everyone keeps to himself and there is no equality and no authorities—but if you don’t want it, I don’t insist and don’t care). (p. 358)

[versatilepoetry]

But Still Loving You And Only You

Strip all the inimitably bountiful melody from my voice; heartlessly leaving me to wander; through the aimless streets of cacophonic incongruity and thwarted obstreperousness, Strip all the immaculately enriched artistry from my fingers; uncouthly leaving me to claw my way; through a robotic matchbox of maniacally manipulative and corporate darkness, Strip all the spirit to philanthropically hoist from my shoulders; diabolically leaving me without a singleton mission on this earth; and shirking further and further away from the fabric of miraculous humanity, Strip all the unfathomably passionate yearning from my eyes; parasitically leaving me in a dungeon of vindictive blackness; where all I could sight were the ghosts of monotonous give and take, Strip all the undaunted compassionate from my chest; sinfully leaving me in a slush-pile of pathetically lame meaninglessness; wildly groping in every conceivable direction for the warmth of fresh creation, Strip all the exultating rhythm of adventure from my feet; disastrously leaving me to follow the same treacherous route to shame; every monstrous day and viciously marauding night, Strip all the insuperable temerity from my teeth; hopelessly leaving me to wantonly suck every ounce of benign achievement; from every fathomable bosom that I encountered my way on the trajectory of soil, Strip all the victoriously bedazzling romance from my skin; morbidly leaving me in a coffin of hateful lamentation; with even the most sensuously hilted knives floundering to have the tiniest effect on my soul, Strip all the ubiquitously enthralling fantasy from my brain; grievously leaving me to squander an infinite miles; under the treacherously acrimonious rays of the afternoon Sun; and crippling sinking sand beneath my feet, Strip all the zealous tenacity from my bones; abysmally leaving me to fret and ludicrously regret; tossing like an impotent idiot as the hideous devil massacred and violently rampaged through my motherland, Strip all the untamed ardor from my sweat; preposterously leaving me like the ultimate beggar of my time; unrelentingly staggering on obdurate ground; without the most infinitesimal wings of desire, Strip all the unparalleled sensitivity from my spine; abjectly leaving me to squeak till death; in the gutters of fetid moroseness and deliriously beheading practicality, Strip all the spell-binding humanitarian valor from my blood; wretchedly leaving me to solely sight my reflection in mud; seek solace in the utmost hell's of obscurity; far from the most invisible cry of eternal living kind, Strip all the burgeoning virility from my loins; mercilessly leaving me in victimizing morasses of incarceration; unable to blissfully emboss even a footprint of mine on earth; even after an infinite births and deaths, Strip all the enlivening rhapsody from my lips; agonizingly leaving me to squabble and sob; even as the most unassailable epitomes of success and happiness; profusely kissed my doorstep, Strip all the unshakably divine truth from my conscience; unsparingly leaving me to confront each instant of passing life; abominably entangled in a jailhouse of blood-stained chicanery and thorns, Strip all the unconquerable fieriness from my breath; banefully leaving me to unceasingly gape amongst lividly infertile patches of sky; with the true elixir of my existence evaporating; even before it could be born, Strip all the perpetually passionate ardor of my heart; cursedly leaving me in the graveyards of baselessly penalizing war; where the only diet that existed day and night; was that of symbiotic blood and human breath, And you'll eventually get my body- living the life of a gruesomely dead corpse; but still loving you and only you O! heavenly beloved; and with an intensity which was an infinite times even greater; than when I was naturally and perfectly alive.

[photosofusly]

Remembering Khadija Saye, the artist who died in the Grenfell Tower fire

A series of self-portraits by Khadija Saye (1992-2017) are now on show in the Diaspora Pavilion, a collateral event in this years Venice Biennale, the opening of which the artist attended in May. Saye and her Gambian-born mother, Mary Mendy, died in the Grenfell Tower fire in west London on 14 June. As a memorial to the artist and all the victims of the disaster, which claimed at least 80 lives, Tate Britain is displaying a print from Sayes final series, Dwelling: in this space we breathe (2017). 

Remembering Khadija, by Ingrid Swenson and Andrew Wilson Khadija Saye completed her photography degree in 2013 and, as an aspiring artist, did a variety of paid work, which fed into her growing knowledge of art and broadened her networks. As part of this she joined up to Creative Access, a London-based charity that promotes diversity within the creative industries by providing work experience for young people from black, Asian and minority ethnic backgrounds through a range of paid internship programme partnerships. Both the Tate and PEER, a small arts charity on Hoxton Street, east London, are part of this programme. At her interview, Khadija was the outstanding candidate for the exhibition assistant role at PEER, and she started work in July 2015.

Joining a staff of just two, Khadija played a key role in a range of the charitys activities. It had recently embarked on a project to improve the gallery and the public space outside, and she was involved with raising support from local and arts communities to attract funding from the Mayor of Londons High Street Fund.

She was also very engaged with the planning and planting of a community garden outside PEER which, along with other landscaping work, began in September 2015. The charity and the local tenant management organisation are organising a memorial and naming ceremony in July to call this Khadijas Garden. She continued to work on plans for the second phase of capital works to the gallery, including a fundraising auction with Sothebys, as well as the reopening exhibition and events.

Over the past two years Khadija has became a dear friend to us both. Her upbringing and her part-time work as a carer (like her mother) are a reflection of her relationship to the world. Quiet, calm and calming, generous, sympathetic, warm, giving, gentleshe was comfortable talking to anyone and would always put people at their ease.

In a way she cared for us all; the idea of community meant a lot to her. Early on we heard how she suffered racist abuse and on one occasion gently turned the tables so that such hate was shown to be irrational. Most importantly, in her photography she had a caring eye that was fitting for her chosen subject of portraiture. After her internship she was employed to interview and photograph visitors to PEERs reopening exhibition by Angela de la Cruz. The resulting pictures, produced as a poster, are evidence of her sensitive 

and compassionate eye, and as she said later, breaking down barrierswhich is something I strive to pursue within my career.

Blossoming of an artist

It was only with the approach of the Venice Biennale that we saw her latest work. A few weeks beforehand she came and laid out a large group of these photographs in our kitchen at home for us to look at and talk with her about. We were both excited and overwhelmed by what we saw. We were witnessing the further blossoming of an artist. With this group of tintype photographs Khadija had found a material, a subject and a way of working through artistic traditions and cultural languages that was unique to her and lay realised in this group of photographs, to which she gave the title Dwelling: in this space we breathe.

There was something utterly instinctive in these photographs, which were in part a working through of a trauma that she had recently suffered. In doing so she was making a new and enriching space for herself and her work. To then see her work in the Diaspora Pavilion in Venice, to meet her there with her mentor, the artist Dave Lewis, and witness her experiencing the positive reaction to her work at the opening was a really special moment.

She wrote that the blessings are abundant and we were excited for her future. She had gone from being a mostly unknown artist to someone who had made work people were talking about. We discussed with her about perhaps doing an MA and how this could be made to happen. We are left with images and memories of her work, the powerful force of her being, and Khadijas Garden.

Ingrid Swenson is the director of PEER; Andrew Wilson is the senior curator, Modern and contemporary British art and archives, at Tate Britain

Remembering Khadija, by Nicola Green During this time of tragedy, anger, disquiet and fear, Khadija Saye remains a source of light. Her warmth has been widely written about and, like so many others, I found her unusual in her gracious, kind and determined beauty, which is reflected so powerfully in her work.

I met Khadija when she had just finished her photography BA at the University for the Creative Arts in Farnham. I was a judge on a panel of the Discerning Eye exhibition in 2014 and selected her series, Crowned. She came to the opening night so excitedit was her first exhibition after her degree show.

She stood with her mother Mary next to her art work brimming with enthusiasm. This genuine joy at any one of her successes was a trait that continued. Exploring the identity and power of black women through images of the hair of women close to her, Khadijas Crowned series left a lasting impression and moved me deeply. She said recently that she made this series with zero money, just some black velvet with beautiful friends and family.

As I got to know Khadija more in the following years her interest in identity, activism, heritage and faith steadily grew and informed her practice in deeper ways. During her time assisting me she was working on her series Eid. Khadija spoke often about her multifaith heritage, which was a source of constant inspiration in both her work and her search for self-understanding.

Khadija travelled to Gambia and made a series of portrait and landscape photographs entitled Home. Cominga powerfully personal and generous window into her discovery and understanding of the heritage that meant so much to her.

Spiritual grounding

Her work, made with the help of the artist Almudena Romero, exhibited in the Diaspora Pavilion in Venice, is titled Dwelling: in this space we breathe. In the photographs she took that she used as source images for Dwelling, she combined relics from her heritage with elements of pop culture including Beyonc and RuPaul. The final work is a series of wet-plate collodion tintype self-portraits. Khadija always focused intently on channelling her experiences into her art. I think the inherent strength that is seen in this series mirrors that of Khadija herself.

She wrote herself about this work that this series was created from a personal need for spiritual grounding after experiencing trauma. The search for what gives meaning to our lives and what we hold on to in times of despair and life changing challenges. We exist in the marriage of physical and spiritual remembrance. Its in these spaces that we identify with our physical and imagined bodies. Using myself as the subject, I felt it necessary to physically explore how trauma is embodied in the black experience.

While exploring the notions of spirituality and rituals, the process of image making became a ritual in itself. The journey of making wet-plate collodion tintypes is unique in the sense that no image can be replicated and the final outcome is out of the creators control. Within this process, you surrender yourself to the unknown, similar to what is required by all spiritual higher powers: surrender and sacrifice.

In 2015 Khadija was part of a group of artists and curators who went to Venice as part of the Diaspora Platform. At the opening week Khadija tweeted a photo of herself in front of Lorna Simpsons work. Two years later in Venice during the opening week Simpson saw and admired Khadijas series Dwelling so much that she invited Khadija to come and spend time at her studio in New York. When I called Khadija recently to tell her this, she made a squeaking sound and said: Im so sorry, I actually dont know what that sound is. She paused, and before laughing with uncontrollable joy, said: I can only respond with noises from my soul.

Like so many others touched by Khadija, I had the privilege of watching her rise from a shining light of emerging talent, who was struggling to get her work into the world, to a star at the crest of a wave of international success.

It is impossible to believe that such a positive force of energy and power is gone from this world.

Nicola Green is an artist

Appeals launched

Two complementary memorial appeals have been launched to remember Khadija Saye. The appeal target for Creative Access internships for young people from the black, Asian or minority ethnic (BAME) community is around 10,000. The general memorial fund aims to raise around 50,000 to support young artists like Saye to realise their potential.

To support paid internships in Khadija Sayes name, visit www.justgiving.com/crowdfunding/khadijasayeinternshipfund

To support the Khadija Saye Memorial Fund, visit www.justgiving.com/crowdfunding/khadija-saye-memorial-fund

There will also be a Grenfell Tower Benefit auction (18 July-1 August) of works donated by 25 artists, which has been organised by the art advisor Lucy Meakin and Artsy. For more information, visit www.artsy.net

View Full Article Here: Remembering Khadija Saye, the artist who died in the Grenfell Tower fire

Remembering Khadija Saye, the artist who died in the Grenfell Tower fire was originally published on CALM | We Drive The Calmest, Strive Regardless