This new book is a testament to all the tears that no one saw, not even me; to the late nights I spent wondering, pondering, scolding myself—how tough it is to be both executioner and convict at the trial of Life! In a notebook I carried everywhere, I scribbled my heart down in hopes to get rid of at least some of the weight I was burdened with, for an instant. But there’s also hope in this book, I must say. You need to pay close attention to catch it though because it is often only briefly there, like a shooting star—it’s beautiful to look at and you regret not enjoying it more while it lasted.

This is a book I feel very uncomfortable sharing and that is why it must be shared.

This past year has seen me grow emotionally at an unexpected speed. A bittersweet surprise.

For the first time since my mother's passing in 2020, I have sat down with my grief and discussed it, expressed it. There's a whole lot of grief in this book, all kinds of grief. I find myself in mourning most days of my life, not just about my mother. A couple of months ago, I used the imagery of a widow to describe the feeling, in an essay you can find here.

Sorrowful Sparrow is by far my most honest book, and as I find myself in the editing stage, I am scrapping more poems than I had anticipated. I kept this book secret, sharing only bits and scraps here and there, the shorter poems mostly. That was in an effort to subside this feeling of “writing to publish” and therefore “writing with the idea of being perceived in mind”. But impostor syndrome is a hunter who runs fast and I have to admit it has caught me in its nests again.

To celebrate Summer’s rise from the ashes of Spring, my book “Sorrowful Sparrow” will be released on June 21st 2026. Why this date? It's not a matter of schedule, it's a matter of the heart. The heart of this book, the pulse of my craft.

This poetry collection is drenched in Summertime; I wrote it drunk on life and melancholy that solely exists when the sun is high. Under the weeping trees and by the beach, I bled my heart out until there was almost nothing left for me to drown into.

“I want to step into my poetry and drown in it,

Mourn the night that never dies

And pray for Summertime;

Pray for tides

That leave me ashore,

Away from all this bore.”

Love & All That Jazz is the testament to romance that I wrote over the course of a year and published in August 2025. It is very much rooted in Summer and Spring, as their numerous mentions in the book can testify. But it is also and mostly rooted in unrequited love despite its romantic flair. I doubt most poems would read as something that was written by a woman whose feelings were never reciprocated and yet. I’m a firm believer in the same thing that Ethan Hawke stated recently: “The one who loves always wins.” Or however he phrased it. How beautiful is love, how pure and selfless it is when it’s unrequited. Stunning. This is my literary honeymoon, and I’m bringing the band along with me. I recently thought to myself I could have made a terrible pun with this book and title it “Love & All That Blues”. Get it? But I’m sort of glad I didn’t. The cover’s red because jazz is red in my mind. Red and brown, to be honest. Hope you enjoy it; you can buy it here.

.

*

“Uncle Walt” from Love & All That Jazz

I found you in the wilderness

Like Whitman found God in all that is,

In all that breathes;

I collected parts of you,

Like little stamps,

As I walked around the house,

As I roamed around the world.

I made a necklace

Out of the topaz of your eyes

To ensure I’d bathe in your embrace

And illuminate the place

Wherever my feet step;

For you were everywhere

And you are every thing;

Poetry’s in the eyes of the beholder

And you rest on my pupil

Like water lilies on a pond.

*

Get my book here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FMKTRW8G

“Weeping Trees As Crib For My Poetry” started as a testament to my afternoons spent writing at the foot of what I thought was a weeping willow, before I found out it actually was a weeping beech. Every Summer, I linger in Nature, enjoying the sun in the early hours and hiding during the afternoons—I always rise back from the shadows for sunset though! The “you” in this poem, just like in many others, is the object of my affection despite his reject of it. It is not his fault. It simply is as so. This is a love letter to June, July & August, the months of love & melancholy. The months of instrospection. I always go back to myself—whatever that means—during Summer. September is my new year. I am a butterfly spreading its wings for the first time when Fall arises. Here is a letter to “you”, an answer to a question that was never asked, a card that was never sent. Love is a postal card that was never sent. It was discarded, often left in between the pages of a book that was never finished, alongside sand and sunscreen stains. It’s a beautiful thing, I think. Summer in love. It doesn’t matter if it’s reciprocated, though it is of course sweeter if it is. But I think overall Summer is for love. Love for who or what? That’s up to you. I am particularly in love with linen and fruit, and a good book, and a vinyl record spinning while making dinner. All of these Summer adornments. And I, of course, am particularly in love with “you”. It doesn’t make me cry; and anyways I don’t have to cry. The weeping beech does it for me. How sweet. We must always be grateful for Nature and its gifts. Always. It is priceless.

Sade is back in my playlist, my notebook in which I scribble poetry is back in my bag, and most importantly my sunglasses rest atop my nose again. How beautiful! As I was walking down the street earlier this afternoon, I thought to myself “It would be an insult to God to brood in such a world”. Spring is a world of its own. A world in which you want to stretch in open fields and press dried flowers in between the pages of your current read. I anticipated summer and bought myself monoi-scented body care today. I cannot wait to stretch into the sea. I am Persephone set free and my mother is greeting me from the heavens above, sunbeams piercing through the trees and falling at my feet. I walked through the alleys of the past today; flea markets are like visiting a happy cemetery… or an attic! How strange! How lovely!

I’m more rested, calmer; I walk at a different pace, I live at a different pace: I’m rediscovering myself. That’s something I’ve had a soft spot for lately: the ever changing nature of our selves. Forgive yourself, you’ll be a different person in an hour, who cares? Enjoy the sun, slow down, breathe, write, paint. Whatever it is that might help you to express this rebirth that Spring awakens in all of us, do it. You are Demeter welcoming back her daughter into her arms, except that this daughter is you too. It’s a homecoming. Spring is a homecoming. You’ve struggled all winter, now you’re free. Throw a party.

Long breakfasts, long baths, long kisses.

What is your greatest fear?

Unconsciousness.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?

Cynicism. I recently read an interview in which it was described as a disease. I could not agree more.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?

Any kind of cruelty. I can feel a lack of empathy in our society on an everyday-life scale which both infuriates and saddens me.

Which living person do you most admire?

I don’t admire people anymore. I used to when I was younger but I have lost enough faith in humanity not to admire people anymore. I admire traits in people though: resilience, kindness, softness. I really admire softness in people. It’s so tough to remain soft in the world we live in. I have great reverence for warm hearts.

What is your greatest extravagance?

I’ve noticed through the years that a lot of things I consider part of my daily routine are perceived as extravagance by some people. I only own martini glasses. I don’t drink alcohol. I’ve never had a martini before. I just think the glasses look cool. I drink water and juice and soda in them.

What is your current state of mind?

I’m constantly floating somewhere between optimism and pessimism. I once said I was “a cynical optimist, which makes me a realist.” I’m not so sure of that anymore. I wouldn’t say I expect great things of the future these days, though. I’m a bit lost lately. I’m always at two places at once: here and somewhere else in my mind.

What do you consider the most overrated virtue?

Beauty.

On what occasion do you lie?

I would like to say that I only tell white lies but that’s not true. I like to lie when I’m bored too.

What do you most dislike about your appearance?

I could go on and on so I won’t even start.

Which living person do you most despise?

World leaders.

What is the quality you most like in a man?

When he’s soft-spoken.

What is the quality you most like in a woman?

Strong boundaries.

Which words or phrases do you most overuse?

“Hate”. Also, the word “fucking”, if I’m honest. Every thing is a “fucking thing” if you listen to me.

What or who is the greatest love of your life?

Music and literature. Perfume, too. The sun. Spring. Italian food. I’m a lover, I can’t just pick one thing. There’s that man too, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Or maybe it does, I guess love always matters.

When and where were you happiest?

I don’t know.

Which talent would you most like to have?

Painting. Or singing. Depends on the day. Also knowing how to comfort people. I think it’s a real talent and I definitely don’t have it. I try though.

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

I’d be less pessimistic.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?

Nothing. And I don’t mean that in a self-deprecating way. Simply, I don’t think this life is about achievements.

If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what would it be?

A brown cat. Or a teapot. Though I hate tea; containing everything I hate might not be the way to go. A coffee pot then.

Where would you most like to live?

In my dreams.

What is your most treasured possession?

My mind.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?

To be cold-hearted.

What is your favorite occupation?

Writing.

What is your most marked characteristic?

My creativity.

What do you most value in your friends?

Laughter.

Who are your favorite writers?

Joan Didion, Jack Kerouac, Guillaume Apollinaire, Louise Glück, Walt Whitman. And I guess Camus too, though it’s a love-hate relationship between him and I.

Who is your hero of fiction?

I find the Narrator in Dostoevsky’s White Nights interesting. Meursault in Camus’The Outsider too.

Which historical figure do you most identify with?

None. But when I was 19, I was often thinking about the fact that I was the same age as Joan of Arc.

Who are your heroes in real life?

Kind people, selfless people, soft people, empaths. Curious people.

What are your favorite names?

I like César, and Rust, and Josephine, and Lottie, and Tennessee, and Isaiah, and Augustine. I have a whole notebook of names, first & last, for potential future characters I might write.

What is it that you most dislike?

Cruelty. And having to go to class on rainy days.

What is your greatest regret?

Not saying “I love you” enough.

How would you like to die?

When I was younger, I used to think the ideal death was in your sleep at a very old age. I still want to die at a very old age but recently I saw an interview of a forensic doctor saying that he’d want to feel that he’s dying, that he’d want to know. It made me question everything.

What is your motto?

Knock on every door that’s presented to you. You never know which one might open. And the ones you least expect to open often lead to the most interesting stories. So, knock.

Yes, I do dream. Pretty often. Mostly during the day actually. My sleeping dreams though, I barely remember them. They float for a second in my mind as I wake up but then they disappear into a haze.

Showers or baths?

Showers. I like baths sometimes, but I get bored after awhile.

Is there anything you regret not doing?

Not that I can think of. I’m not very attached to missed opportunities. I forget them very quickly. I think it’s best like that.

What was your first job?

TBD.


When do you get nervous?

Every time I’m being perceived. I was just thinking recently that I hate having a physical vessel, a body. I wish I could be invisible sometimes. Just a soul in a way.

Why can't it just be magic all the time?

Define “magic”. And if your definition of magic cannot be found—at least in glimpses—in the everyday life, define it again. Words are powerful. Powerful and personal, especially words as vague as magic. I find magic to be something that resides in my eyes, it’s the lens I look at life through. Like that, there is magic in sunsets, in my coffee, in music, in art. Especially in the arts, actually.

What did you have for breakfast?

Coffee and toast.

What are you reading right now?

These days, I’m reading a lot of Joan Didion. I love her, I think she’s brilliant. Wuthering Heights too, for class. And Les Yeux D’Elsa by Louis Aragon. French poet. Beautiful. You should definitely check it out.


Where do you dance?

In my room mostly. But dance is just motion. And music is sound. Any movement you make to some kind of sound could be considered a dance move, you know? I know my soul dances a lot inside. Especially when I’m swimming in the sea.


Who's your dream date?

Christoph Waltz. I’ve been sort of obsessing over him lately. I feel like he’d have great conversation.

What do you think about love?

Well, I wrote an entire poetry collection about it so it must mean something, no? I love love, but I don’t think it’s as easy to find as some people like to claim it is. I am very loving, you know? But in my arrogant moments, I have trouble believing someone could love in the same way that I do. Not that I claim that the way I love is the right one, but I know it’s the way I want to be loved. And I have yet to find it anywhere, to be honest.

What are your beauty secrets?

I don’t know if I’m the right person to ask for beauty secrets. I sleep in my makeup and barely do my hair most days. Smiling is a great beauty tip I think, if that’s what you’re aiming for. Just be curious and daring, try things and find out what hairstyle works for you, what jewelry, what skincare, etc., and do that. It doesn't matter that much at the end of the day. It can be fun if it’s done the right way, though.

What's your favorite movie?

Only getting to pick one is cruel. So here’s a list off the top of my head instead: Paris, Texas - LaLaLand - Drive - Before Sunrise - Little Women (2019) - The Darjeeling Limited - Le Fabuleux Destin D’Amélie Poulain - La Haine - Dead Poets Society - La Gloire De Mon Père - Marriage Story - Joker.


Are you interested in furniture?

Yes, especially the kind you find in midcentury houses. And vintage Ikea too!

Do you have a TV?

No.

What do you love about New York City?

The fact that I’ve never been there. I love places I’ve never been to. I love writing about them especially. They haven’t been tainted by reality yet, they can’t disappoint me since I’m the one imagining them.


Do you keep a diary?

I do. I have a journal I keep for myself. No one’s ever read it. But my writing is pretty confessional so I suppose that’s a kind of diary too. A public diary.


What are you most proud of?

Nothing. And I don’t mean that in a depressing self-deprecating kind of way. I just don’t think this life is about achievements and pride.


How many hotels have you been kicked out of?

I’ve actually never stayed at a hotel. I’ve never traveled.


Do you get eight hours a night?

Rarely.

Writing came to me when I was a child. In the “Letter to the Reader” of my first book, I briefly explained that the “first thing I ever wrote was a dialogue for a school play when I must have been eight or nine years old”. That play was a free adaptation of Peter Pan, written by our drama teacher. I still own some of the pages from that script, and I still have the original piece of paper on which I wrote that little dialogue, along with the sweetest note written by my teacher. I remember coming back home after school and sitting at the kitchen table to write this scene. Hell, I even remember which pen I used to do it.

As far as I can recall, this is how I started writing and then I never stopped. Unconsciously, I think, I slowly realized that at the tip of my pen lied the power to create any kind of world, a world that would be less sour than the one in front of me. I wouldn’t say I had a particularly terrible childhood, it was average at best. I was a regular kid, going to birthday parties and wearing princess dresses, but I dreamt of legends and tales. I confess, the older I get, the more I realize how pervasive loneliness has been since the early days of my life. Like a shadow or something, following me since childhood, deep in my heart. Reading became my opium, my first means of escapism. And writing followed. I wasn’t conscious I was lonely, just like I wasn’t conscious I was alive. A child is only conscious of what they are taught exists, and I wasn’t taught about emotions much. How could I understand or voice my feelings when I hadn’t been handed the tools to decipher them? This silence that had been imposed on me ripped my voice away from me before I could even grasp it. Books kept it for me, warmly protected between the pages, confusingly intertwined with the voices of others. Writing handed it back to me.

When asked why I write, I often think of Virginia Woolf’s words “How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn’t pull the trigger” or Lana Del Rey’s lyrics “The poetry inside of me is warm like a gun”. All artists know: often, art is not a hobby, it’s a means of survival. My first reflex when I experience any kind of strong emotion is to write. I carry notebooks everywhere like some people carry rosaries or antidepressants, to save myself from mundanity and its chains, its thorns. When I love, I write. When I hate, I write. When I live, I write. And when I’ll die, make sure to put something I’ve written as my epitaph.

This Summer, I dived into Allen Ginsberg’s work—after discovering Kerouac, it felt like the right road to explore. Amongst many, he has this poem which is quite long called “Improvisation In Beijing”. It’s a poem written on the basis of the anaphora “I write poetry because” followed by all of his reasons to be a poet (NB: poets and artists in general do not choose to have their soul lit by poetry or art, it falls upon them like Grace, a bit like Leonard Cohen explained.) I loved this Ginsberg poem instantly, and immediately after I finished it, I decided to write my own version of it, which I’ll leave you with. Here are all the reasons why I write, here’s my “Improvisation In The South Of France”.

“I write poetry because of Walt Whitman too, Allen.

I write poetry because I like to call renowned artists I’ve never met by their first names. (I’m speaking to you Walt, but also to you, Robert, and of course to you, Allen.)

I write poetry because I saw Dead Poets Society when I was in middle school and it opened my eyes.

I write poetry because the first time I actually saw clearly was when I read Apollinaire and Éluard when I was a child. (I also like to call them by their last names.)

I write poetry because there is a storm raging inside and I’m fighting my way out of it.

I write poetry because I live life through gritted teeth.

I write poetry because I’m in love with a man whose mind is never crossed by my name.

I write poetry because Jesus died on the cross and He wept.

I write poetry because the sun rose this morning and I got to experience it.

I write poetry because I have a million notebooks that need to be filled. (I’m exaggerating.)

I write poetry because lately it’s the only thing that makes sense. (And I’m not organized enough for novels.)

I write poetry because the world is a mess, even more tangled than my hair and headphones.

I write poetry because apparently there are too many humans on this Earth, but I don’t see enough humanity.

I write poetry because the sea moves me.

I write poetry because I have to breathe in order to live.

I write poetry because I don’t say much when I speak.

I write poetry because everyone is deaf.

I write poetry because I fear death.

I write poetry because I have my own dead loves to honor. (Hello Mom, I think of you constantly.)

I write poetry because I feel attached to things that aren’t there.

I write poetry to reach the unpalpable.

I write poetry because Anthony Bourdain inspires me.

I write poetry because the birds are singing by the lake. (Is it a lake? I don’t know. I’m never sure.)

I write poetry because Joan Didion said that “every day is all there is”. (And I trust people who collect sunglasses. I myself unconsciously do it.)

I write poetry because David Lynch died before I could meet him, and I only watched his movies after he passed. (Regrets are stronger than love.)

I write poetry because River Phoenix made me see that peace is possible. (Thank you for everything.)

I write poetry because the man I’m in love with has the most beautiful eyes.

I write poetry because July burns and August is the ash.

I write poetry because I am bored at uni.

I write poetry because I want to be free.

I write poetry because I want to live on the road, but for now I wander through my words. (Say hi to Kerouac for me, Allen. I love him.)

I write poetry because ladybugs are pretty.

I write poetry because I always wanted to be an artist.

I write poetry because I love Italian dishes. (I’m sure I’ve mentioned it once in my writing.)

I write poetry because I love em dashes. (Though I’ve only used parentheses here.)

I write poetry because it warms up my heart.

I write poetry because I’ve been hanging off the thread of loneliness for God knows how long.

I write poetry because I aspire to be the sparrow, not the crow.

I write poetry because I don’t drink.

I write poetry because I want to keep up with thee.

I write poetry because I want to sing the body electric.

I write poetry because I am body electric.

I write poetry because I embody eclectic.”

I went out to the public library today, was there 30 minutes after opening time. I haunted the alleys and carried a stack of book that was way too heavy, sat in my usual corner by the window, shuffled through all the books I had picked, made two piles as usual: one for the books I’d keep, one for those I’d pick up another time. Morrison, Didion, Ginsberg’s Howl… I used the pretext of my phone needing to charge to sit at one of the computers and write another diary entry I’d share publicly on Substack. Then I picked up some records (Lana Del Rey’s Blue Banisters and Paradise) and walked out with a heart as full as my bag. It was raining as I stepped out, how divine! I decided to extend my outing and walked to a coffee shop, sheltered under my favorite transparent umbrella (transparent so I can see the world through its most beautiful lens: rain). I got to the coffee shop and ordered a hot chocolate. I’m trying to cut off caffeine. I think I drank coffee to give off some vibe more than for its delicious taste anyhow. A hot chocolate and my screenplay. I’m currently writing a screenplay. Don’t tell anybody about this. Then I went back home. I’m in the bus now, Leonard Cohen’s Dance Me To The End Of Love is playing softly in my headphones (I’m also trying not to blare music in my ears anymore. It’s hard but I think I’m overall doing not too bad of a job.) (Also, music playing constantly becomes noise so I’m trying not to wear my headphones 24/7 anymore. I’m writing something on that—meaning I got the title coined and nothing more.) I’m going home with books and records, I got a hot chocolate, it’s December, I wrote, what a blessing. We must thank God for the smallest miracles. I’m grateful for it all.

(Oh, and I bumped into my favorite reader in the bus! How wonderful! God bless him.)

In little notebooks before,

But neither my hands nor soul

Could have crafted a poem as beautiful

As the breath that runs through you.

Some days,

As you sit in the Sun,

I wonder who could have written

The verses that adorn your skin.

I am nothing but a mere translator,

And you are proof of God’s existence;

I am less poet

Than I am theologian.”

—

Get your hands on my debut poetry collection “Love & All That Jazz” here!

And soon I won’t even realize it

But the breeze will carry August

And its call:

The melancholic longing of a summer ending.

Everything is so blue in August:

The sky,

The sea,

My mind,

Your eyes.

Time stills during this sacred month,

The Earth stops spinning

And nobody notices it,

As long as the Sun keeps burning.
The atmosphere is heavy of everything that could be

But truly, nothing ever occurs,

For August is as lazy

As it is hazy.”

-
Get my debut poetry collection “Love & All That Jazz” here!”

Yes, this stabbing feeling in my chest, against my ribcage, is nothing more than love knocking, begging to be let out. But to go where? I have yet to determine that. He does not love me, the Earth is dying, I hate routines, my mother passed five years ago, where is this love supposed to go? I ought to find an answer to this question. I am going somewhere to do something. We all are. But going where and to do what? Only God knows, it seems. Life is an endless grief, a perpetual loop of beginnings that knows no ending. What they don’t tell you about the stages of grief before you experience them is that they’re cyclical, and you only realize it once it’s too late to brace yourself.

There is a stained glass window in my chest, like a shield, and it is shivering, shaking, most days—shattering some days. Life: an endless amount of doors shut and open, opportunities found and lost, like keys in a bag. I mourn the keys that were never found and knock on doors that won’t open. Oh, Jesus. Have mercy and open a window for me to climb through. To land where? Only God knows. But somewhere to do something. Maybe bring someone along the way—though if the “someone” is not him, I confess I’d rather go alone or not go at all. I want to stay, remain, decay. Leave, run—as far away as West extends—sing. I don’t know if my body is electric but I know I embody eclectic and I know I want to wake up with no other plans than to drink life and sing its spine, spit its lies.

I am melancholy because life doesn’t have to be—yet it insists to be. Or perhaps am I bored? I think I am both—mankind is never one thing or the other, the poisonous treat of consciousness forces us to always be more complicated than that.

I am alive because life knows no limit under the sky.

I ache because I mourn what is not happening: the landscapes, the rides, the smiles, dinners under starry skies. All that could be but isn’t. All the things that aren’t lies.

I need a maestro to give order and rhythm to this life, I can’t seem to find meaning in the everyday life scam but God knows I try.

I have faith, but I am desperate. I think of Sylvia’s lines “I talk to God but the sky is empty”. How many Italian churches will I have to visit, how much Holy Water will have to be spilled before the blessings start pouring onto my lap?

I am tired of navigating life through gritted teeth, but I am utterly in love with life.

I wear black, I am a widow of life.

I am looking for it through the smoke that scatters the battlefield to evaluate the aftermath. What is left of life after wars and loved ones have been lost? I am not sure, but I am going to find it—somewhere. And cherish it—something.

Mom, mom, mom. I hope you’ve found the peace Earth took away from you. I hope you own the joy I’ve always thought was impossible to find—the kind that lasts. I wish I had been kinder, I’m learning to be soft. I was never a sweet child, always a lonely child. It’s lonelier without you to watch TV with me. I still watch our shows and listen to our songs—if you’ve met Whitney or Bowie up there, just know that I’m seething. I miss you. I live in a house you’ve never seen—could never be a home without the woman who brought me to this world. It’s not the same. Everything has changed, even me. I’ve grown bitter; I’m learning to be soft. Life is an endless litany of beginnings, there is no rebirth. I don’t know where to start, I don’t know where it ends. I hate my studies, I don’t have a job, I have no friends, and feel completely unlovable. Does this ever stop? I don’t know, I’m too young to have the answers. You would tear down my questions with your wisdom, though. I’m pretty sure the thunderstorm is you sometimes, raging against my melancholic dwelling. Dad tries. He doesn’t always know what to say but he’s there, and that’s more than enough. I need people to be there, and you’re not. It’s not your fault. I’m not mad, I’m broken. It’s too fragile inside to contain a storm. Lately, I’ve been contemplating the imagery of a stained glass window in my chest, like a plastron. I can feel it tremble on my windiest days. It’s as best as I can explain it. I hold the pieces together as best as I can, keep a façade, a pretension of harmony. I wish someone would come and do it for me once, like Kintsugi, you know? It’s the Japanese art of fixing broken plates by filling the cracks with gold; I wonder where my gold has run off to, it probably slipped through my fingers—my clenched hands that are nothing else but fists, these days. My gritted teeth and furrowed brow. You were right, by the way. I’m too closed off. I tend to protect myself by shutting out the world and staying in my—how did you use to phrase that? Cotton flower! Right. That’s what you used to say. That I needed to get out of there. I’ve been trying for a year. It’s hard. But I’m surviving it. I’m trying. You’d be proud. All that to say that I miss you. This is shorter than I intended it to be, but I’m crying, forgive me. I miss you. I wish that Time weren’t real, and that Life and Death were only one thing, so we’d never be separated. I’ll see you in my dreams.

—

Cover Picture from Pinterest (not my own)

Nor queen,

Yet I could write a song

About the loneliness of the exile

From the eyes I call home,

Or the reverence of the gold

That lies on his head;

I mourn those arms

I was never buried in

And willingly sleep

On the bed of thorns

That is Memory Lane;

For what could I be

If not tormented?”

—

This poem is extracted from my debut poetry collection “Love & All That Jazz”. You can get your hands on it here:

Love & All That Jazz

In every exit,

In every gas station,

In the dust that clouds my eyesight,

I can’t escape it.

You became my mind

And it’s the only place one cannot leave

And mustn't seek;

I’ve thought about you so much

You no longer exist.”

—

This poem is extracted from my debut poetry collection “Love & All That Jazz”. Get your hands on it here:

Love & All That Jazz by M.V. NIANG

One of the most famous examples of this phenomenon is the death of Ophelia, a Shakepearian character out of Hamlet, which was depicted in paintings. The most renown artwork is Ophelia by Sir John Everett Millais.

The Shakespearian woman dies by drowning. Her death, while not depicted on stage, is recounted in Act IV, Scene VII by Queen Gertrude. It is told that Ophelia sings as she dies, and Queen Gertrude says that she was “incapable of her own distress”, implying that Ophelia is not truly aware of her fate as she floats in the river, highlighting the naiveness of the woman. The painting in itself shows a very youthful woman, her pale skin a reminder of purity and contrasting with the muddy water that surrounds her and that Shakespeare describes in the play as her “muddy death”. Before the loss of consciousness that occurs after awhile in the water, drowning is one of the most painful deaths. Though here, Ophelia seems to be laying peacefully in the water, oblivious, just like in the play, that she’s dying. She is surrounded by colorful flowers, a delicate detail that contrasts with the most gruesome act in existence: death. Her arms are open towards the sky, as if the figure of the young dying woman became martyr or saint, it reminds the audience of religious iconography. The romanticism of youthful death appears to me as some selfish act, as if someone dying young reminded us of all the missed opportunites this person had, and therefore of the opportunites we still have as the living. It all sounds a bit out of touch to see beauty in dying young, as if appearences were all that matters. To die young and beautiful, as if life was not worth living past 30 or 40, as if greying hair or smile lines were some stopline to the fun of life, as if women were a bit dehumanized past a certain age or maybe their youth was idolized.

The tragic woman as a symbol is not something that has been lost in art, not only in the depiction of women through art, but also in the perception of female artists. Writers, singers, accursed poets, tortured painters, the figure of the damned artist is something that has existed for a long time & it remains a formula that works. Instead of worrying about these suffering women, the masses romanticize their pain. They relate to them, and turn them into these sorts of idols for whom sadness has been magnified. I believe there is a sort of catharsis in seeing someone who suffers in a similar way as you succeed at turning this pain into art. Pain becomes aesthetic and we forget that behind those well-crafted verses written by Sylvia Plath or this stunning Lana Del Rey song is not some allegory of pain but an actual woman, a human being who is hurting. Are the values linked to feminity quoted before the reason why Society finds beauty and pity in female pain? Or perhaps do we romanticize these artists’s pain to be able to bear our own much easier?

So, yes, indeed this pain becomes an aesthetic, an entire world crafted around all this depression and/or death. Sometimes, to the will of the artists, sometimes against it. During her Born To Die era, Lana Del Rey mentioned that she was working with the “intention to create a sonic and visual world that [she] find[s] beautiful”. This mix of visuals and sounds definitely expresses the will to create an aesthetic around her world and feelings. The artist took that decision. Once again, behind the art is a woman who really is going through those things but audiences might forget it and see art as art rather than an expression of the artist’s true feelings. Creating an aesthetic around the art doesn’t mean that the artist’s feelings and experiences should be romanticized.

In the Born To Die music video, the same depiction of the epic death of the young and beautiful woman can be found, even more “romantic” as she is held by her lover. Bloody, the gruesome death once again contrasts with delicacy but also sensuality, as she dies wearing a red lace bra. Lace is very delicate, often associated to feminity, but it also happens to appear here on underwear and in a shade of red: once again, the woman is performing for an audience, even through death. It’s a hint to sensuality which is present throughout the clips in which Lana is depicted with her lover. The religious aspect is also featured as Lana wears a cross necklace as she dies. There’s also fire in the background: death is of course violent, anihilating, but it also is related to the idea of renaissance, like a phoenix. The title of the song Born To Die, which expresses the idea of the tragic fate, that life has no higher meaning than waiting for death, could perhaps be perceived as reversed here, as in you need to die before you can live truly, be reborn. Similarly, Ophelia dies in water, bringing us back to the theme of life, in contrast to the scene unfolding in front of our eyes. In all these ways, this still from Lana Del Rey’s music video and Ophelia are quite alike in their depiction of death.

Lastly, on social media, the term “female rage” has been employed to share extracts of women screaming and expressing anger in movies and shows — this anger being the result of accumulated and bottled in feelings exploding all at once. The so-called “Scream Queens” became popular quite quickly. While it is an interesting conversation on the mental charge of women and the pressure to be complacent to the cost of your feelings, the audios from these movies were reused as playback by female creators and led to a debate on whether or not these women were expressing rage “beautifully” — meaning that they’re trying to appear as attractive to the viewers — or not. Once more, the act of performance and “magnification” of pain is back on the table — and it is to note that, another time, women are put against one another, and unfortunately here, by each other.

All things considered, art remains a great way to express emotions but the romanticism of these emotions can be harmful to female artists but also to the perception of women in general. Female pain has been overlooked through History — whether that be physical or mental suffering — and this phenomenon tends to ingrain the idea that women are “built” with pain, and therefore imply the nonnecessity to pay attention to it, which is wholely untrue and detrimental.