Letters to Dead Feminists

Author’s note:
I began creating this project late last year as a compilation of painted portraits and epistolary prose in which I ask my greatest muses to counsel me and share perspectives on art, cats, feminism, fashion, and identity. This collection is a sister project to another I recently created, Sonnets for Sweet Potatoes, a cat’s guide to the ups and downs of NYC.

Editor’s note:
We have presented Jenny’s work in two ways. First as a Gallery so the painted and written portraits can be seen as intended, but also vertically for mobile devices. Click below to open the gallery view, or scroll to read down.

For Grace Hartigan: Headspace and Metaphysical-Whatevers

Dear Ms. Hartigan:

I am writing to you with genuine admiration, hoping for a chance to bond and reminisce.

I will always remember the time we met. It was years ago in Saratoga. I wore red lipstick, as I always did, and you
wore the same color. For whatever reason, we were the same age but 50 years apart. In my memory, we both wore
cropped leopard coats from the Paris Flea.

You were invited to my college painting class to speak with students and give critiques. I showed you my recent
oil paintings “Honey, what’s for Dinner” and “Poets Don’t Have Answering Machines.”: In that one, a bearded man
shook a woman upside down. She had red hair and enormous decolletage. Both paintings were 6 feet tall, dripping
with alizarin crimson and cats. You told me that my paintings were romantic, ironic, and decadent.

My professors did not see me that way. They didn’t see me at all. But they were all pipe-smoking bearded men in
corduroy. You paid attention to me, and I am forever grateful for that. You spoke about my work positively, which
made people pay attention. *There was one woman professor in my college art department. She painted rainbows/
people holding hands and wearing swimsuits. You were nice to her. I was, too.

We didn’t discuss Frank Ohara, but I wish we had. I had my own Frank. He looked like Egon Schiele. Maybe you
could tell I had a Frank. Maybe you knew by looking at my upside-down perspective. Perhaps you saw it in my
not-so-secret smiles and wide-eyed love for the angst of unrequited messiness. Maybe I told you that my paintings
were about overly dramatic plastic soulmates.

Your Frank O’Hara was more famous than mine. Yours died young, while mine is still alive and living in the Catskills. He called me the other day, wishing we were still in college.

Do you remember the night we ran through the art studios screaming and laughing, HELLO? MY PERSPECTIVE IS MISSING!?

YES! I remember that. My perspective was always missing! And, okay, yes. I was cool. And yes, you were cool. And no one understood that better than we did. We were fabulous, but really, weren’t we miserable? And aren’t we better now?

That was what I said to Frank O’Hara the other day. He didn’t want to hear it. He can’t find a new perspective in the Catskills. He is not a cat like you and me.

Back to you. You are my favorite cat. You will always be the impossibly cool art major of a Frank O’Hara metaphysical-whatever. We are cat sisters, don’t you think? Feminist cat sisters in Alizarin crimson lipstick open to new perspectives.

Sending you so much love, xxxo Jenny B.

***

Dear Ms. Neel: Notes and Headspace, January 2024

Dear Ms. Neel:

I am writing with a bit of apprehension: mixing Paynes Gray and Yellow Ochre on my disposable palette. You are a tough cookie, and I am a Mallomar: part tough/part mush. We have valid reasons to be the way we are:We are both fully baked.

Let’s be honest, though: we are not cookies. We are Cats. Although we don’t always agree, I’d like to hear your constructive thoughts on sadness. I’m worried about some sad times ahead: a velvet pool of bad headspace. (I am a cat on anti-depressants, but that is not a cure-all)

I don’t want to collapse. So, I think a lot about the choices I could make to cope with an impending loss. Here are options I’ve observed from people I’ve known or read about.

A. I could forge denial (Use Death Euphemisms and say things like “Oh well, that’s the “Cycle of Life”)
B. I could keep myself busy making lists and schedules.
C. I could cross off list items
D I could stop eating and take up chain smoking
D. I could run away to Mexico (Shellac myself with Avocados and Mangoes)
E. I could spend money that I should be saving
F. I could become a complete cat: embrace solitude and take extra naps on hot pink pillows from Chiapas.
G. I could paint every day and not go out for air. (I could do that easily)
H. I could listen to Leonard Cohen (all day) and soak up raw poetic heaviness
(That’s No Way to Say Goodbye)
I. I could stop thinking about the OUTCOMES
J. I could read 100 sad books.
K. Or I could read a fantasy book. (I’d rather not)
L. I could write a book based on anything other than sadness
M. I could drink Mezcal all day
N. I could sit in the dark and shut everyone out.
O. I could deflect. I could focus more on others than on myself and ask people how they are doing and ask so many questions, making sure they don’t ask about my sadness
P. I could become spiritual or religious (Not in the cards)

I will stop here and let you fill out Q through Z. Even though we have our differences, I am open to having this dialog because I admire you deeply. Please know that I love the pale blue lilac beneath your eyelids. I paint lilac eyelids, too, but highlight mine with lime.

Big hugs to you, Ms. Neel. xoxo Jenny B.

***

Dear Ms Kahlo: Notes and Headspace: San Cristobal de las Casa

2.23. 24: Dear Ms. Kahlo: Hola Guapa! Are you free today? I am daydreaming on a colectivo en route to San Juan Chamula. A six-year-old girl is sharing her mother’s cake. We sit side by side and get filled with sticky sugars. There is room for you on the colectivo! The cake is florescent green with shocking pink strawberries.

This is how I want to see colors in NYC. Daydreams in Mexico are vibrant textiles to pack in my suitcase when I leave. Some sad news, though. The cats in Chiapas are MIA. They are hiding in the mountains, someone says. Are they ok up there?

2.24.: Big relief! Today, I met a Calico Gatita sleeping by a rooster in a handmade paper shop.

2.25: Dear Ms. Kahlo, Let’s visit the night market matriarchs. The Chamula women are running the show in

their black fuzzy skirts! They are so confident and chic. Let’s draw the skirts with pen and ink in a concertina Mexicana.

2.26: Dear Ms. Kahlo: Let me buy you a drink. Let’s order spicy mango mezcals with Chipilin salt. Let’s sketch tiny tomatoes and paper flowers. Let’s go to the Pompom District. There are Pompoms in every color on your palette—Mandarina, Tangerine, Lime, Mint, and Avocados. There are rows and Rows of pompoms with your face! I’ll buy Cat Pompoms for myself and Frida Pompoms for you. We love what we love, and we both love kitsch!

2.27: It is time to pack my textiles and fly back to NYC. It was a short vacation—way too short.

2.28: Dear Ms. Kahlo: Back in Brooklyn now with less time to daydream. I still remember our time together!

When you were a little girl, you created imaginary friends. There were Two Fridas, but there were never two Jennys. But I was a lonely kid. My relationships with cats enhanced my identity. When you were older, your imaginary friends lived in your paintings. Because art was so important, you tolerated your husband. I wish you had sent him to the hills. I would have helped you. I’d banish Diego to the mountains and rescue all the cats.

Please look after the cats of Chiapas. Protect them, and they will protect you. Look after yourself. I send you love and hugs. I’m back in Brooklyn now. I’ll return to Mexico next year

XXXO  Jenny B.

***

Dora Maar Sans Chat: March 5, 2024

Dear Ms. Marr:

I’m at my gallery, hiding in a dark corner, obscured by a barbed wire Detritus sculpture and a broken filing cabinet that we found on 27th Street. The intern was a no-show today, so no one is here to see me writing letters and spilling my tea. I’ve been meaning to write to you all week.

I am dodging chaos here. There is so much chaos, and there are so many egos—lots of that here.

The subway home gives me time to decompress. Time to untangle. Full disclosure: I AM A CAT. I’m
attracted to people and things that need to be untangled. Sometimes, I am sad when the tangles are out of
my reach. I’m pretty sure that you can relate.

Untangle this for me, S’il vous plait: PP called you an Afghan Cat. What did that mean to you, Dora
Maar? I wish I knew.

March 6: An update on old dreams: My rebellious teenage dreams.…oh, brother! I was bored, and I
was looking for reckless soulmate outlaw dramas. Of course, those people turned out to be the absolute
worst. I only understand this now because I am in love with a sensitive misfit. He is not an artist. He
works for the MTA.

March 7: Dear Ms. Maar, Your 1934 campaign for French Hair Products is magnifique! I especially
like the photomontage of a tiny ship sailing on a sea of hair. You were so far out those days. You were
having so much fun!

In 1935, you met PP, and in 1941, he painted Dora Maar au Chat. Who is that black cat smiling on your
shoulder? Was she another Afghan Cat? Was she a comfort to you? I am so jealous! I wish that I could
sit on your other shoulder, watching over you and helping you untangle your dreams.

March 9 Today is Saturday, and I’ll be home all day. We can use a French comb to straighten out your
tangles.

I am here to help you get through this: I can help you get on the right meds. The pharmacy is just 5 steps
away. We will not discuss old boyfriends! The bullheaded artists… Ça suffit!

I will listen if you have anything you’d like to share. No one is here to control you. You are a cat, like
me. Some cats are maladjusted. Some cats need patience, and some cats need to be left alone.

I will be around all weekend, Dora Maar. You will be ok.

Sending love and hugs, xxxo Jenny B.

***

Dear Ms. Rivera: Notes and Headspace, April 3, 2025, Wednesday 8 am.

Dear Ms. Rivera, I am writing from my tiny Brooklyn apartment. I am on the floor, picking up pieces of frenzy and chaos. My cat, Marco, is writing sonnets for the powder-pink magnolias in full bloom outside his favorite window. These flowers will be dead by Saturday. Marco’s tree is generic and boring, except for two weeks every April.

Can we speak openly about the frenzy I just mentioned? Dancers are so driven and unapologetic. They can laugh off chaotic mishaps and then push forward with grace. I am not disiplined this way.

I just spent 30 minutes in my closet searching for photos of my mother. I urgently (mis)remembered that the pictures were stashed away in a shoebox. I needed to get ready for work, which is the worst time to be nostalgic, the worst time to dig through boxes.

But somewhere in my messy closet are beautiful photographs of my pre-teen mom looking so much like you! Leotards and black fishnets. Character shoes. Dark Red lipstick. Pointy eyelashes. Pointy bangs. A black ribbon tied as a choker around her ballerina’s neck.

Photo album rejects are always surprising. You don’t want them in your albums, and then you want them on your nightstand in delicate frames. If you can’t find them, you wind up on the floor.

We were being silly, she had told me. We were trying to look sexy in these pictures. We were just having fun!

Well, wow, Mom. Wow. I’ve never seen a 13-year-old girl look this sophisticated. I know young girls who want to look sexy…but they still look like little girls.

April 4: Dear Ms. Rivera: I am a cat, and you are a cheetah. I’m not a dancer but a driven artist, and I often wish I could push myself even harder, the way that dancers do. I am a cat who misses the mark when she’s making a leap. I step into the puddles that you and my mother knew how to avoid. Dancer Cats don’t ever step in puddles!

None of my missteps would happen to a dancing cat. Like Punching holes in paper that won’t fit in a binder. Like addressing envelopes upside down. Like losing a sentimental picture in a closet full of shoeboxes that are not even filled with shoes.

I can accept that 1) Nobody is perfect, and 2)Women put unrealistic pressure on themselves. 3) This is nothing new. From one cat to another, I give you accolades for making your

perfection look effortless. You are a gorgeous Cheetah, Ms. Rivera. xo Jenny B.

***

Notes and Headspace for May Sarton: Please pretend I’m not here.

Dear Ms. Sarton, Spring has sprung in NYC, and it feels like a perfect time to write this letter: a lacy Valentine in violet ink. I’ve styled myself (just for you) in a green tweed butterfly dress with a pinched waistline and a silver kitten necklace made from a Victorian teething rattle.

I am approaching you as if I were reaching out to Marco, my Casanova tuxedo cat from Crown Heights. As I said to Marco earlier today, I love you madly and respect your space. Am I misreading your tone? If you prefer to be left alone, please pretend I’m not here.

To prepare for our correspondence, I’ve glanced at your Wikipedia page, which includes petty notes from Your Authorized Biographer, Margot P. :

“She was expert at emotional blackmail, and behaved badly in restaurants. Self-absorbed and insensitive, May Sarton wooed others with extravagant attentions, only to betray and humiliate them later . ” This is SOME bullshit. Seriously! Who cares!

You are a brilliant writer and demand more respect. Your book The Fur Person is a treasure trove of cat intuition. I’ve read it several times and gifted it to my favorite cat people. I once tried sharing The Fur Person with a Non-Fur Person, hoping your insight into a cat’s complicated personality would elevate some sensitivity. Of course, this turned out to be a failure. That person still hates cats and is no longer a friend.

I am writing my own Cats of New York book: I have painted over 30 cat portraits and written sonnets for each cat profiled. Last week, an artist from down the hall looked over my shoulder:

Him: I imagine that you do very good figurative work
Me: Thank you. But these cat portraits are figurative. Then he laughed and walked away.
Know your audience, Marco reminded me. Marco is a very good boy.

As you and I know, women with strong opinions are scrutinized unfairly. I am just like you, both a woman and a cat. It is exhausting to be misrepresented time and time again. It stings a bit at first, but deep down, we both know it’s not worth our time to care so deeply.

I am about to be bold and invite you to lunch. (Please don’t throw your fork at me!) I know a cafe with Siamese cat wallpaper ornately spaced with daisies and climbing hydrangeas on the vine.

A picnic would be better. Let’s say the Arthur Ross Pinetum. I’ll reach out again when the weather improves.

Sending you so much love, xoxo Jenny B.

***

June Gloom Notes and Headspace: Dear Ms. Spero: Inhale Pink: Exhale Blue

Dear Ms. Spero: I’m reaching out to let you know how often you are on my mind. Yesterday, I was flipping through old catalogs at The Strand Bookstore. I found a photograph of you from 1946. You were 20 years old, with sensitive eyelashes, and your hair, unparted, looked both styled and untamed, with strands flying away from your pin curls. You were so smoking cool at L’École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts.

I’d love to know who took this poignant photograph. Although the picture is black and white, I can see that you look flushed.

Paris was a happier time, you had said. This was before you began The War Series; Sperm Bomb (1966), Bomb Shitting (1966), War Birds of Prey” (1966) “Crematorium Chimney( 1967.)

I was furious, furious that my voice as an artist wasn’t recognized, you had said.

I hear you, Ms. Spero. You are a cat, like me.

I’ve been distracted all Spring by earthquakes, family weddings, and cranky New York artists crying to me at work. I spent two weeks away from my painting studio and the next two weeks wondering if I’d lost all my talent. Or it was just my focus. Does this ever happen to you, too?

Can we discuss today’s News? Times are dark. There is war. There is another war. Trigger warnings are given in the News before showing graphic footage. Why can’t the News broadcast your war paintings as trigger warnings? A 2-minute screenshot of Bomb Shitting would make a more significant impact.

A strange and heavy summer is heading our way, and the onset will be abrupt. Let’s try to take it slow.

At the start of June, I’ll dress in lilac stockings. I’ll choose lilac because a cranky artist advised me to inhale pink and exhale blue. At night, I’ll slip into a darker purple nightgown. I’ll turn in early at the end of the day. I’ll look at a book of your paintings while watching the News.

Sending you so much love and appreciation, xxxxo Jenny B.

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