Sonnets for Sweet Potatoes

Author’s note:
I began creating this project late last year as a compilation of painted and written portraits of the cats I have known in New York City. It has blossomed into over 30 individual spreads. Each character study shows a New York Cat’s headspace, longings, psychology, and philosophical musings. A Cats of LA sequel is on my to-do list.  Scattered among the sonnets are Letters to Dead Feminists: a collection of epistolary prose in which I ask my greatest muses to counsel me and share perspectives on art, cats, feminism, fashion, and identity.

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 gannery view, or scroll to read down.

COHEN
Treats you like a stranger

On a dim Sunday at 11 am.
The dark rose wallpaper in your bedroom has torn in the corner
A lock of his fur remains on your pillow
A thick white whisker catches light on your wine-colored sheets.

Cohen slept with you last night
Now his soft eyes elude you
Shaking off his dreams.
He is leaving your bedroom.

You’ll never understand Cohen’s dreams
 Anyway, he doesn’t want you to.
The orbit that you share is only 500 square feet.
Maybe he needs more space.

Don’t read too much into Cohen’s distance
He is a cat and a folksinger without an agenda
His plans for the day are impromptu.

While you are feeling snubbed
He is busy keeping a careful record of a spider
Designing her web with definite purpose
By your windowsill stacked with poetry.

Cohen’s spider is not a true friend
She is self-involved. A real big-shot.
She is Ignoring Cohen while he is ignoring you.

The kettle boils
He looks at you for a flashing second
To share his vulnerability?
No. Not that.

He turns away to chase a broken eggshell down the hall
As if you were a stranger.

***

Notes and Headspace: (Dear Agnès: You are a cat like me, n’est-ce pas? )

Dear Ms. Varda: New Wave Matriarch, you have been a constant influence in my life.

Your film, Cléo, from 5 to 7, affected me deeply four summers ago. I watched it on the plane from Montreal to JFK. I was in a trance sketching Brassières and Chapeaux with pen and ink on the folding tray.

I am writing to you now from my painting studio, papered wall to wall with cats and kittens. You are a cat like me, n’est-ce pas? I would love to share my thoughts with you and hear your perspective if you have a free moment.

Let’s talk about loose footing, S’il vous plaît. Isn’t it strange? To feel completely at ease on a Saturday, showing your work in a gallery filled with people who find you charming. But then, the very next day, you are off. Vous êtes rien. Vous êtes un grand zéro.

Cléo, you say, is a coquette lost at sea. You also say she has a “naked fear of being taken.” A bundle of nerves in her cute blonde wig. She cannot cope with her doctor’s vague diagnosis. (I can hardly blame her.) She is not naked enough to grasp this concept, I guess. She is unprepared.

At the same time, she sure does wear a lot of pretty lingerie! Her Parisian apartment is sunlit and full of kittens. It’s not a terrible place to be during a panic attack or identity crisis.

What happened to me on Sunday has thrown me for a loop. Wasn’t I cute enough? (I was wearing polka dots!) I know I wasn’t working hard enough. I was just tired. I was too excited to sleep the night before. Whatever prompted me to snap at the wine merchant who seemed to be a better schmoozer? Sure, it was the end of the day. Again, I was really tired.

But did I need to give that other guy the time of day? Quelle putz! After calling me sweetheart, he talked trash about his ex-wife’s Siamese. I’m tough enough to ignore this kind of man. I’m not at all like Cléo. My fears are never naked….I just lost my cool.

Of course, I know that some days can be this way, and there are so many in-between days, neither here nor there. But what worries me is this: I WAS a cat on Saturday and WAS NOT a cat on Sunday. I couldn’t play the game, and I still can’t let that go.

Queen of Cool, has this ever happened to you? If you lose footing as a cat, how do you bounce back? I will let you go now. Today, I’m working on my book of sonnets (And I’d like to finish quickly.) Merci Beaucoup, for giving me your time.

With so much love and admiration,
Jenny B. xoxoxoxoxoxo

***

DORA

Dora Maar has seen it all

January is a cold game
With sidewalks-full of salty sorrow
Christmas trees: to step on, pee on, pile more trash on

You are crying all alone, Dora Maar.
Stop crying. Make a plan.

Find a Pigeon:
Ask him lots of questions.
Listen to his spiel and his pompous travel stories
Fake interest. Follow his instagram
A smile is contagious.
But so is despair.

Miho
Break a slat off your plastic blinds and focus on Miho:
The dry cleaner across the street.
Progressive avocado glasses looking for square buttons and A spool of ecru thread.
Her tiny calendar is filled with A.I. cats and kittens
She closes for lunch.
She closes for the rest of January
For the rest of the winter.
Is she ever coming back?

These things happen, Dora Maar!

Interuptions
The doorbell keeps ringing for a party downstairs.
Dora sticks her arm out to get an invitation
She falls asleep in this position
Her arm stretched out through the crack beneath her door.

Forget about that Pigeon
Make friends with a handmade pillow instead:
A parting gift from Miho before she left New York to live in California

January is just like a bagful of sweaters: in and out of storage.
A big bag to tear apart or giveaway
Again and Again and Again

***

Notes and Headspace (Dear Louise: I am a Cat)

Dear Ms. Nevelson, You are such a trip!

I’ve recently learned that you wear your cotton art clothes to bed so that you won’t be hassled with changing in the morning. I did the same thing today: I slept in my Marlene Dietrich dress and am wearing it now as I write this letter to you from my studio.

I am drinking a can of Matcha that I bought at a trendy bodega across the street from Barclay Center. I’m wearing a necklace made from my mom’s clip-on earrings. Big bees and rhinestones from the 1980s. Also, red lipstick. It is Monday, and no one will see me, aside from my cat.

Seventeen years ago, I saw Occupant, The Albee production: it was performed in the Village at Diane Furstenberg’s studio. Such a glamorous event! An interview with you after you died. Francesco Clemente and Roy Lichtenstein’s widow were in the audience. She was so charming and perhaps a little tipsy.

The actress that played you was great. Scary! Severe! It made me so uncomfortable!

I’m reaching out to you because of this connection. I know that your style is drastically dramatic. So strange. So cool. I have my own style, too. It is highly cat-oriented. I like my style. It is something I don’t think about, and at the same time…it is everything.

I’m working on a book. It doesn’t look like other books that I’ve seen. I’ve only shown it to a handful of people. I want every page to be a stunner.

The book is about cats but really about people. I AM A CAT and think that you may be one too. (Even if you aren’t a cat…we are both Jewish feminists. So there is that.)

Full disclosure: I don’t think showing this project to you would be productive; I feel like your opinions would be harsh and possibly irrational. This happened with my ex-writing mentor. (She was also an actress.) I admire you, but I worry that your mentorship could harm my well-being.
Anyway, I have four new cat paintings that need sonnets. I need to get to work on those. Today, I need a little courage.

Big love and hugs,

Jenny B.Xxxxoooo

***

Notes from Paris: (Dear Meret: Meet me in Les Halles. Let’s take a selfie!)

November 18, 2023: Dear Ms. Oppenheim: Our hotel wallpaper is all wrong for you: Twee Chinoiserie: Salmon brocade with a black velvet tassel: A palm tree in a golden frame.

I’d like to have a word with you at my cafe, Just a one-on-one. I have a chic new haircut and a yellow scarf from Monoprix. LET’S TAKE A SELFIE! A photo of you, at any age, is magnifique. Was there ever a time when you said to Man Ray: I’ve had enough! I am no longer your muse. MUSE NO MORE!

Parisians do love ornaments. You are not Parisian. Your minimalism stands out when everyone else wants clutter. I aspire to learn from you. I want to isolate my peacock blue bangles and rose lunettes from the Paris flea. I want only to keep one bangle and display it on a clean white side table from my mom, who also had a knack for minimalism.

Your sense of purpose is confident, and my love for junk is stressing me out. How do you maintain this kind of headspace? Do you ever show people your mistakes?

One time, I worked at a sleek design firm. I felt very self-conscious about the trash that I made because their lacquered bin was so tiny and clean; I couldn’t stay at that job for too long because I could not throw away my bad ideas in a discrete way. Eyes were always watching me make trash.

November 19: Dear Ms. Oppenheim: The Louvre is so important, but being there adds more jumble and muddle. Géricault, Delacroix, Géricault, Delacroix, INGRES! Do you ever leave the Louvre feeling nonchalant? Is that even possible? Can you let its importance roll off your back, easy peasy? I can not.

I wonder how I can dial it down? My inclination is to eat everything in Paris, and I am eating too much art. The Géricaults have left valuable impressions. I’ll cram all of these impressions in my suitcase and take them back to Brooklyn.

November 20: Dear Ms. Oppenheim: I’m riding backward on the TGV to Nice from Gare de Lyon. I am reading Edith Wharton. Do you like her writing? I want to discuss this with you when we have our cafe-date.

November 21: Dear Ms. Oppenheim: How are you feeling today? In your clearest moments, how do you really feel? Or are you always clear-headed? I suppose that we are two very different types of cats. I am a cat, whether or not I maintain balance and focus. You may be a solitary cat, but would you please still meet me at the cafe? I kindly await your confirmation.
With deep love and admiration,
Jenny B, xxxxxxoooooxxxooo

***

ROCKY

Undercover reporter at the Vegan Bodega

Looking for a story
Rocky took a job catching Mice
At Serenity,
The Plant-based bodega on Bedford.

The irony is loaded
Receiving orders to kill from a Yogi
With mismatched socks and sandals
This exposé will put Rocky on the map!

Here is the plan:
Pretend to sleep on the shady shelf with tangerines
Take shorthand notes on hippies buying bergamot
Raw Milk
And charcoal toothpaste.

The Zero Waste sign is a complete fallacy
The Yogi does not recycle
He is not a vegan, either
He eats pastrami and bacon for breakfast and doesn’t share a scrap.

By the wall of sage and incense,
Rocky quietly flirts with the Yogi’s girlfriend, who is also working undercover.

She is underpaid
Doing all the work
A pacifist ally who lets mice escape
Out the back door and into the garden

Once his story breaks, Rocky will run away with her to Acapulco.

***

TAMALE
Eats Tacos

Good-natured Tamale is lost in his thoughts
Watching streetlife from a Chelsea storefront.
His neighbors are so clever and he takes it all in.

Por ejemplo, considere Miguel
Tamale’s Dreamboat in purple overalls:
A Mexi-Yorker/ part-time Barback
Who decorates the scaffolding with
Blue Daisies and plastic pigeons.

Buenos Dias, Sweet Potato!

These days, Miguel works at the Tenth Avenue Taqueria,
Where “Mexican street fare and upscale dining casually collide.”
(¡Dios mío!)
My art is less expensive than a honey-doo margarita.
There is nothing casual about paying $32 for a basic shrimp taco.

Miguel sweeps last night’s garbage from the sidewalk to the gutter. New condos are popping up everywhere Construction makes a lot of dust and noise.

Tamale has a hidden skill set
With his X-ray vision, he can see through walls.
Translucent architecture? Or
Is cheap concrete made of parchment paper?

The city is not as hard-boiled as people tend to think.
Neighbors like Miguel share leftover tacos
Camaron, Carnitas, El Pastor¡
Que romántico!
El Corazon del Sol.