lebanon, i love you, and my heart aches
it's 3:33am and I've been up since 2. not completely abnormal. but all I can think about is lebanon. I think about the days filled with ease, no underlying sense of urgency, spent walking down hamra street. trailing from the mosque near the waterfront to an airbnb nestled along an elbowing Mar Mikhael street. I hear the prayer calls, wailing through tight, powdery, hot springtime air, and the pitter-pattering of the two striped cats outside our rented room door - one fluffy, one slender. grabbing shawarma from Barbar, succulent and satisfying to a degree I never knew could exist, and chasing it down with the most crisp cola. a love so evident, still palpable to this day, this moment, every single second. lebanon, I love you. I love your craggled edges, the weathered pathways in Tripoli that make me wonder if my father has walked my exact steps, my grandmother, her grandmother, and onward. my heart aches. my eyes are sore. my throat is dry. I am a wreck. but I love you lebanon, that will never dissipate as long as I will live. I feel myself welling up again. what a gift to love a place so much, a country, a people, my family. my father told me of games on the streets with marbles, and my aunt tells me of when my dad owned a bookshop on the corner. I never knew that. I borrowed trousers from the clothing shop down the road from there, and my uncle took me to the mosque - right next door to a church. I see the clock tower, the one my father told me about. it sits straight ahead of me on the edges of a park circled with citrus trees - out of season - and surrounded by streets bustling with cars. I love you lebanon. I will come back to you. this will not be the end of you. my heart aches. my eyes are sore. my throat is dry. I am a wreck. but I love you lebanon, that will never dissipate as long as I will live.
new work
A reminder that there’s always a choice.
“You don’t smile right.” Burning rubber. Punching holes in walls. Slinging a bowl, and spit, too. A screeching voice, like one thousand tons of crystal glassware cascading from the back of a truck onto pavement below. “You’ll want to when you’re older.”
____
Initially, I knew I wanted to create a body of ceramic work that referenced my background in photography, melding my early adulthood with my now early 30s. This is a collection of triptychs, beckoning the idea of a film strip. Every frame contains a different shape, color, or has a complete absence of both, representing the idea that each day we can choose who we are, and who we are not.
Living in an environment where havoc is spilled upon you, it often feels as if the muck will never wash off. In time, it will, and every single day, hour, minute, you have the choice to emulate the tar-glazed abuse, or forge your own identity. To melt at the feet of their rage, or grasp for something different.
With this body of work, I ask you - by whose standards and expectations do you live? Whose behavior do you reject? Whose behavior do you applaud? Who do you choose to be? Who are you not?
____
This body of work is ongoing.
Ceramic, underglaze.
Cecilia Majzoub 2024.
All pieces are available for purchase, please enquire at studiosecondsight@gmail.com
new site
after a few weeks of planning, I finally published the 2.0 version of my shop! I’m really looking forward to changing things up. there’s a lot more freedom with a website than there is with an etsy page. there are certainly drawbacks (less traffic, no more being included in a huge search engine), but i’m interested to see how it goes!
it’s interesting to see how many different people have checked it out so far. definitely one of the positives to being on squarespace rather than etsy! People in Copenhagen, Denmark. Moscow, Russia. Porto Alegre, Brazil. West Bromwich, England. Hermosillo, Mexico. Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. it’s mind-blowing!!
I feel like I’m finally diving into the whole “world-building” aspect of having a “brand,” which I’m reluctant to even call it, a “brand.” “brand” cheapens it. it’s a creative endeavor, allowing my sole vision to come to life. it’s a stepping stone to creating a livelihood for myself and my partner. it’s an extension of myself and my ideas - not only the ones that live in my colorful imagination, but also the vision in which I’d love to see the world evolve into. one filled with circularity, sentimentality, care, encouraging slower life, slower consumption.
i’m really excited! i’m looking forward to it! it’s going to be fun! stop by if you haven’t already! studiosecondsight.com
a singular gray hair
I feel a great amount of bliss in the mundane, the anticipated, the obvious - even a singular gray hair.
Growing up, dying early was a given. I lived in a home with a level of volatility that didn’t lend itself to a reality of brighter things, only a fantasy world that would never come true. I had a brother who threw punches at walls, and tossed bowls, spit, and searing words. He had friends who walked along our backyard, peeking through windows, hoping for a hit, as he lit up in his bedroom. I grew up with a mother whose own wounds were never healed, projecting her fears onto me. A head cheerleader in high school and college, who never grew out of it. Her ego clung to a happy, healthy veneer for Girl Scout moms and Starbucks goers, when all I could see was the true decomposed rot.
I learned to expect violence at any moment. Even sleep was a potential death sentence. Fighting my eyes to reject drooping into slumber, I was continuously on alert, worrying that myself or my parents could be killed by my brother each night. And I wonder why, years later, I still wake up multiple times throughout the night.
I “loved” boys who were “bad” with a lick of softness. The ones who are “nice” to you, but slightly cold to others. The ones who pre-apologize for hurting your feelings, ghosting you, only to come running back without apology the moment boredom overwhelmed them. I boiled myself down into entertainment.
I obsessed over music and artists, lyrics burrowing tunnels through every inch of my ravenous imagination. An actually healthy coping mechanism that allowed my mind to saunter through creeks and cobblestones, scarlet fields, dark matinees. My mind was sculpted by their words, melodies, rhythms, allowing me safety and calm in a bosom of uncertainty.
2023. 31 years old. And at the back of my scalp, I found a singular gray hair. Leaning towards the mirror, pulling the swath of hair forward, and needling through with my fingertips - yep, it was true. A slight disbelief encouraged a double-take, and elation followed. While obvious that we gray, we wrinkle, we slow down with time, for me, it was hard evidence of a life being lived, beyond expectation.
27f
when the door squeaks open gently
brace yourself
close your eyes
but just enough to peak through
as your heart races urgently
feel it in your teeth
pulsing
stinging
raging
and somehow ringing, too
a sphere of fire building inside
surging through each limb
I wonder how long
this all will take
to unwind
and to undo
what a man will do to a woman
exert your dominance
show us what it means to be a man
cheer him on and join in
what a man will do to a woman
fire throttled from his chest
out of his mouth and through his fingertips
he will do to you, too.
but much more slowly
like a leopard in wait
in the thick of disguise
his patience never waning
and one day
precision skillfully masked
the penultimate moment at which he decides
he will pounce
catch you by surprise
what a man will do to a woman
he will do to you, too.
Flowers for Palestine event
UPDATE: THE FINAL TOTAL WAS JUST OVER $2,400!!!!!! AMAZING AMAZING. THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO CAME OUT!!!! I put together a little video of the event, which you can view here: https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZPRw7UMbB/
I made 5 poppy flowers for a fundraising event in Oakland, and they were all purchased! At $25 a pop, we made $125 which will be split towards Middle East Children's Alliance and one of the #PassTheHat funds started by Operation Olive Branch.
Truly so wonderful to see the community come out and support. The organizers put a lot of effort into creating a well-rounded event, and it paid off. The door fee was $5 minimum, and by the time the first hour ended, there was at least $500 brought in! I’ll update this post in the coming days when we get a final dollar amount.
Organizers @honeycombhideouttt, @tunedoutvintage @tenderbuttons.vtg
Event poster by @tunedoutvintage
Hosted at @elismilehighclub
Truly feels like such an honor to have been asked to contribute my art for this event. Obviously I like my own art, but for others to seek it out and appreciate it means the absolute world to me. I’m grateful I was able to participate and raise funds for such an incredibly important cause. Viva Viva Palestina, forever.
Untitled (fruiting trees)
fruiting trees roar up towards sky
pearlescent blue
no clouds in sight
tree trunks punctured by beaks
the wounds ooze
and feed ravenous neighbors
branches
embracing other branches
echoing the roots raging below
"we count on one another,"
whispered through jiving leaves
survival by means of reciprocity
a dance worthy of applause
"listen closely,"
"hear our words,"
"we count on one another,"
"just as we count on you."
Untitled (friends of yours)
pitiful disdain and animosity are friends of yours
they visited me once
put me on a hamster wheel
stuck in a loop
they told me about your leering and laughing
and how I should do the same
but unfortunately
while I have no taste for you
I wish you well
I really do
it disgusts me a bit (as I do you)
that I must find threads of gold
despite heaps of mistreatment
prodding
so cruel
my wholehearted awe
you will never understand my wholehearted awe
of ivy vines crawling across an underpass
grasping cold stone
sticking the landing
a fallen fig cracked open upon the sidewalk
a meal for ants
and a squirrel passing through
of shadows cast through windows of a time-untouched diner
framing a heart-laden mug between the imprint of me and my love
of a fleeting breeze kissing my neck when I didn't know I needed it
a reminder that all things come as easily as they go
you will never understand
and maybe you were never meant to anyway
but in all the details
in the peculiarities and minutia
I'm just taking care of myself
and my wholehearted awe
searching for softness
Looking at my earlier photographs, I see someone who was searching for softness. From a young age, unsavory experiences forced me to find spectacular little worlds in every detail. It was certainly a coping mechanism, but it brought me more joy than I could’ve ever imagined. An erupting, elation-laden sense of wonder still lives within me - something I deeply love about myself.
I also see a girl who was misunderstood. She deserved grace and patience, a helping hand. Parts of me still want to be understood as desperately as I did then - by everyone. An impossibility, one that I’m learning to let go of (or at least trying to).
Rowdy concert floors become swirls of rouge, powdery and delicate to the touch. Seconds of reflection in gritty greenrooms, quiet and calm. Crowds dancing on a boardwalk, many lives lived, different stories to tell. Parking lots near dusk become moments of contemplation, days ending where another will begin. Performers cradled by the crowd, like mountains cradled by other mountains, layers of atmospheric perspective. Each of these are little treasures.
In the mundane, in the chaotic, in the grandiose, in the miniscule, I will always, always search for softness.
Untitled (weather)
lying in the back of a Volvo wagon he says he's going to kill himself
in the driver's seat below eucalyptus trees
he smokes his meth near pathways that I'll later hike
and go to my great aunts house for Thanksgiving dinner
"you look great"
"I eat a lot of beans"
spoken through teeth fossilized
I bought my first CD at Barnes and Noble after dinner at Tomatina
a white and orange Sony cd player
headphones too
sold for cash
cash for drugs
drugs for hell
a hell that no one would choose
but it chose you
birthday money
purple lucite Gameboy
blank checks
sanity
safety
calm
a body never soothed
only soiled and groomed
to expect fire hurled at any moment
and an especially ferocious burst during full moons
punctuating a storm that already picked up speed
consuming everything in its wake
pulling contortions that years later have only begun to uncoil
and invite back in
sanity
safety
calm
for arts sake
writing as a creative and emotional outlet has been monumental for my mental health. weaving honesty, even when it feels icky, into poetry and other creative writing, has allowed me to honor my emotions. there's an endless amount of feelings we tuck away, afraid for others to see - less "attractive" parts of ourselves. sharing has been freeing.
fusing feelings with rhythm has been creatively fulfilling, even if the words and flow only make sense to me. it's also incredibly humbling! is my writing any "good"? I don't know! and it doesn't matter!!!
writing fluidly and without care has been a reminder that art can just be. though much of my favorite art is profound or political, it doesn't always have to be (and yes, we can get into the conversation that all art is political, because it is! everything we do as individual beings is political! but I suppose I'm speaking about art that speaks to politics, current events, on a very literal level).
for many years, I felt like art wasn't worth making unless it directly spoke on the world around us. that mindset is a huge excuse - for me not to share and be seen - a defense that I'm trying to slip away from. I've enjoyed art pieces that haven't been deeply political, so why do I force that constraint on myself? it's nothing new, we love to drag ourselves down while we let others fly. pushing back on this thinking is reason enough to create for arts sake.
water/blood
don't you remember?
we were supposed to be a family
the future gleaming
overflowing with chrysanthemums
rich grasses teeming
but a family is a fantasy
in the same way that water thins and blood thickens
you never read the rhyme right
and neither did I
boulders
I'm feeling myself begin to lift
the ground less wary
the air crisp - I'm actually breathing
I've been here before
the security the sanity the clarity
I'm grasping firmly
but remember
I'm actually breathing
there's bound to be a slip
but that's the point, isn't it?
learn to grasp with ease
rather than a choking grip
you have to remember
you're actually breathing
exhaustion, confusion, misunderstanding, etc
to be alive and in position to thrive but continuously fall short is an agonizing experience I wouldn't wish on anyone. for as long as I can remember, everything has always been 100x more difficult for me. those who participate in bad faith may assume that statement is a call for attention, maybe it's laziness, egocentrism, but it's really not. it feels deeply embarrassing, though I know it's not. there are no words to describe how impossible life feels sometimes - well, often. it's enraging and exceedingly confusing, to put it lightly.
cook, clean, chat with friends, exercise, eat, drink enough water, shower, read, work. I'm lucky if I get to do a few of these things successfully and don't have an absolute breakdown by the end of the week. that last one, work, only ever makes these things exponentially more difficult. ah, the ol capitalism!!!
people often don't believe you when you tell them how absolutely exhuasted you are on a daily basis. I've been told "everyone is like that!" (yikes), "it's your own doing" (lol ok asshole), "it can't be that bad!" (sure). I don't doubt people get it to a degree, but they never understand the full scope. I'm about to sound like an unruly teenager, but truly, people do not understand. they often just don't want to. it feels like an everlasting loop of being misunderstood, because with the minimizing of your feelings, also comes the twisting of your words. wash, rinse, repeat.
I try to explain the exhaustion to people like this - every single day, you're moving house. you've not hired movers, you're doing it all on your own. every single day of your entire life. not just a few days or a few weeks. every. day. and it doesn't let up, the moving never ends. you don't get a break. you have to keep going.
in high school I was diagnosed with adhd. I didn't do much about it because I didn't know anything about it. no one held my hand to help me understand and learn more, as you should with a child. I honestly forgot about the diagnosis until a couple years ago, and it hit me like a ton of bricks. a lot of things just made sense as I started to learn more about adhd.
I also started to learn more about autism. holy shit. that's the only way to put it. it's as if everything has been put into perspective. everything makes sense. I've been doing research for close to a year now, taking online assessments, both traditional and newer by accredited researchers who are actually autistic themselves, and over the past few weeks, I've started working on a journal, filling it out with displays of autism from throughout my life. I'm looking into a professional diagnosis currently, although I don't believe you have to have one. (tangent here, but I think self-diagnosis is enough. there is a great amount of disinformation and absolute misunderstanding by professionals and the general public. it's also incredibly expensive oftentimes. most autistic people attempt or complete suicide by age 35, so honestly, I don't give a fuck about a professional diagnosis which can cost thousands of dollars, is out of reach by a large percentage of the public. all that matters is people understanding themselves, that they're able to accomodate for their needs and abilities, and the people around them actually listen to and support them. an argument people make is that maybe you're misdiagnosing yourself if you're not being seen by a professional. to that, I say: shut! up! because you do not know the internal workings of people more than they themselves do. most autistic people mask! not many people are going to put tens or hundreds of hours into finding out if they're autistic if - you guessed it - they're not autistic. and if they're not autistic, but the accommodations they've made for themselves have helped them, made them not want to kill themselves, then literally who cares? if that misdiagnosis leads them further to their truer diagnosis - that's what matters.
also, fuck Autism Speaks.)
all of this is on the heels of my pcos diagnosis, and a major traumatic event, or two. my hormones are on a bender and so is my nervous system. it's a joy lol. but slowly but surely, when I can and when I have the energy, I'm learning more. I'm in a living situation where I feel safe and comfortable dealing with these things without being judged. I'm constantly learning new tools to help accommodate myself, ask for what I need. everything is a balancing act, but it's often fucking brutal.
*obviously I have to say, it's a mortifying luxury to be able to lament on all of this. there is a fucking genocide happening on the other side of the world. it's not lost on me. it's another part of the reason why this is so difficult to talk about. i still have trouble keeping myself together with a roof over my head, food in the fridge, a loving relationship, a supportive father, a car, music to listen to, books to read, a phone to type this all out on. I deeply mourn those who need the same things I need, but are being starved to death by hypocritical Israel, a state built on ethnic cleansing. those who are only experiencing discomfort on top of the difficulties of other disabilities.
the exceptional woman
I often think about what happens to the woman who does it all. each of us have been conditioned to be her, to want to be her. we must stretch ourselves thin, pray we won't break (at least not publicly), but we are not elastic, we are skin and bones and flesh and blood. skin will sear, bones will break, flesh will congeal, blood will boil.
I have to actively choose to not be her. I don't want to be exceptional by another's definition, by their expectations, by their lack of boundaries, but it is alluring. it becomes easier with time, but I have not perfected it. has anyone, really?
I think about the women who sacrifice greatly for their men. why must we grind ourselves down into a meek paste? who are you proving yourself to, and why? why must we seek the approval of others so deeply? is it worth it? it never is, but we do it just the same.
I think about the woman who's husband is verbally abusive, but she always makes an excuse. she sticks through the muck he flings at her in attempt to appear "strong" to those she shares her stories with, and romantic to those who only know the glittering surface.
I think about the woman whose life gets flipped upside-down, expectations sitting interstellar. she cannot make her own boundaries, and then sets ablaze anyone who can.
I think about the woman whose figure alters at the whims of her beau's ever-changing, fetishized interests. she loses the opportunity to fall in love with and embrace herself, in hopes that he will love and embrace her. he won't.
it makes me sad. it's a pitiful existence. I'm not saying anything new. I'm not saying I'm above it all. this isn't a moral judgement. but these things are always worth reflecting on, and critically considering in each of our lives.
fools gold
cut the cord
but run backwards
send a shiver down your spine
but peak through the blinds
clean the dirt from your nails
but the grit garners again tomorrow
what do you gain?
what do you destroy?
how to rot
alienation inherited through generations like gold casted crest
carved with precision
portraying perfection
all while the organs rot