Thinking in Richmond
Edna Lewis, Alicia Kennedy, & Frida Kahlo on my mind.
Homer was right: beauty is lifesaving (or life-creating as in Dante’s title La vita nuova, or life-altering as in Rilke’s imperative “You must change your life”). And Homer was right: beauty incites deliberation, the search for precedents…Matisse never hoped to save lives. But he repeatedly said that he wanted to make paintings so serenely beautiful that when one came upon them, suddenly all problems would subside.
_Elaine Scarry, On Beauty and Being Just
Sunday, July 20, 2025. The eve of Cancer season.
In central Virginia there is a lovely cottage-dwelling Libra who spends their days making magic. Though dutifully devoted, if the offer is right, she can be convinced to leave her abode for a hangout every now and then. Recently inspired by the life of Edna Lewis, this past Juneteenth weekend (which I always take off because that’s my independence day) we met up at The Roosevelt to kiki and vibe. Carrington wrote beautifully about their dinner experience here. She picked up on subtleties that I had not because I arrived late, harried, and sweating to our meet-up that had been my own idea.
The reason for my delay was that I underestimated how much time it would take me to get from one side of Richmond (RVA) to the other, having first stopped at Minglewood Bakeshop out of curiosity after having heard rave reviews and with a desire to surprise Carrington with scones for her and her family to enjoy later as well. While the bakeshop’s vibes were top tier, I found out the next day over breakfast that the scones I had purchased were dry, as in, they had been kissed by the Sahara. But ultimately, my visit to Minglewood was aligned because while perusing around I happened upon a stack of used books that were on sale. So untouched was that corner of the shop that when I asked the shop attendant how much the book was selling for she looked at me perplexed and said “I don’t know, no one has ever asked about buying one of those books before.” As the bakeshop attendant recruited another peer to figure out pricing, we got to chatting for a bit and I ended up plugging the bookclub I host because it turned out that the attendant and their partner are avid romance readers who often spend weekends in Northern VA visiting friends in Old Town Alexandria which is where I happen to host Sapphic Sunday Bookclub at Friends to Lovers Bookstore.
I left pleased with my purchased Sahara scones (unbeknownst to me in the moment of course) and a well-loved copy of Vegan With a Vengeance! by Isa Chandra Moskowitz. I say that this roundabout was aligned because just a few weeks prior, I had added that title to my ever expanding deck of cookbook titles after having recently reread and obsessively annotated Alicia Kennedy’s No Meat Required where she refers often to Moskowitz’s influence over her own development as an epicure. While I continue to eat as an omnivore, Kennedy’s newsletter and book have been seminal in my presently spending a lot of time reconsidering and subsequently appreciating the abundance of experiences that arise from refusal. An abundance of refusal as in, how the refusal to center meat has led me to experiencing a brand new world of gustatory pleasure and how the splendid surprises from that pleasure have been leading me to consider abundance in other areas of my life where I had once misperceived difference as scarcity.
After finally arriving and settling in at the Roosevelt, everything was right with the world. It is important to note that neither Carrington nor I had been aware of each other’s existence until I walked into a yoga class they were teaching one autumn evening back in 2021. Now, they are one of my favorite people. Over dinner, we both yapped to our heart’s content while sharing the fried green tomato starter and then enjoying our separate orders of the salt roasted sweet potatoes.
The thing about the starter was that its lightness snuck up on me. “Light” is not a word typically associated with fried green tomatoes, but something about the batter fried pieces was damn near delicate in the most delightful way. The tomatoes arrived plated upon a sumptuous nettle pesto, balanced with a scoop of whipped avocado atop the fried green tomatoes and pieces of pickled celery. Each bite hit different in the best way and went down smoothly.
Tucked away inside my brain there is a memory file titled Tubers. In that file the most stand-out memory is as follows: February 2020, another world. I was living in Sevilla and was in my first few weeks of class when one of my professors casually mentioned that in the mid-16th century, Spanish colonizing envoys brought back potatoes from what we now call Peru. The first recorded encounter with potatoes between the “Old” and “New” worlds was a violent one, the context being a village raid. Encountered in violence and re-planted an ocean away in ignorance. During the early days of their presence on the Iberian peninsula potatoes were used as decorative plants. At one point, the flowering body of what we today most commonly see as a foodstuff, lined all of the riverbank of el Guadalquivir not for nourishment but for vibes. The absurdity of it all made me laugh then, it still does. It is one of my favorite potato-related memories and, until this past June it was my number one potato-related memory. Then, I ate the salt roasted sweet potatoes from Chef Leah Branch’s kitchen.
This dish tenderly kissed my brain and would not let my neurons go. Peanut curry, red rice, tahini, and fried greens were woven throughout the dish alongside the potatoes. An arrangement which made for a visually engaging dish that delivered on its promise of being texturally engaging in mouthfeel as well. I do not know what kind of salt was used, but it was something special because I am still wondering about it. The salt actually opened the dish in just the right way, it acted like a sensorial invitation to the rest of the plate and accented the potatoes just right. The SWEET POTATOES! The.Sweet.Potatoes. They were hearty, smoky, tender and beautiful. The flavor profile of the sweet potatoes popped on the tongue in combination with the spice of the peanut curry. It was all a joy to eat.
For dessert, Carrington enjoyed the Cheerwine cake while I slowly drank a glass of Channing Daughters Vervino’s Vermouth. It was my first time trying this Vermouth and I felt like a nymph in Pan’s garden of delights with every sip. The memory of fragrant honeysuckle notes in that drink will forever do to me what Proust’s madeleine did to him.
The Descent
My first visit to Richmond this summer was a bright spot sandwiched between an otherwise challenging time. Earlier, as May became June, my days increasingly took on a haziness and heaviness that I had not experienced in almost three years.
Everywhere I went, I felt like I was wearing a mask and pretending to be someone called “Ivana.” Being me felt constricting, like I was trying to sit in a burlap dress three sizes too small. Initially, I chalked this sensation up to early birthday blues and assumed it would pass. But when July 1st came and went, I still was not feeling like myself. My routines were off. My to-do list grew. I was ruminating over whether or not to cancel two vacations that had been locked in since last year. I was telling myself that if I stopped talking to friends they probably wouldn’t care anyways. I was wondering if my dog would be fine with another family. I began to lament having ever met anyone because it would be easier to slip away if no one knew me to begin with.
Approaching mid-July, I could no longer stand myself. A lot of effort was being expended into staying present with everyday tasks. I was showing up with zero capacity to everything I had once enjoyed. Having a good time with myself is one of my favorite things about being alive and an intrapersonal skill that I am proud of. Particularly because I have invested a lot of psychosocial labor over the years into learning how to cultivate contentment in solitude. Time in therapy and then graduating therapy. All the books, all the research, all the practice, all the unpacking, all the un-learning in order to rewire myself and understand that the parts of my earlier life experiences colored by dysthymia did not need to be the end-all-be-all of my self concept moving forward. So when I saw all of this darkness accumulating within that I had (perhaps naively) once assumed was banished, what first arose was denial. I was doing all the right things! Materially everything was fine! Why was I feeling like this? Why was my mind turning on me? Why was my negative self-talk slinking itself back-in and why was it so loud? Why was I so ungrateful? I should be more grateful. On and on and on, a cycle of shame and self-disregard. I was growing tired of it but could not find the escape hatch. So I just ignored myself and kept muddling along.
Eventually, I snapped out of denial on Thursday, July 17th at 8:30am. That morning, I had rolled out of bed and made my way to my scheduled 7:30am session with a pilates instructor that I have been seeing almost every Thursday morning for the past two years. We had not seen each other for a bit due to her summer travels and when we reunited she could tell something was off. At the end of the session, she asked me what was going on, following up with “the light in your eyes is gone.” That cracked me open, someone who cared saw me and said something, I could not hide anymore.
I went home, admitted to myself that I was experiencing a depressive episode. I asked myself: Instead of fighting this which is just making me feel contracted, can I allow myself to sink deeper into this? Do I trust that I am resourced enough to make it to the other side alive? Yes and yes? Ok babe let’s go.
I started researching a new therapist. I told my mom, I told my sisters, I told some friends. I re-read old morning pages and remembered that yes, the sickness is within me but so too is the medicine.
The Date
My work week starts on a Wednesday and runs through Sunday, with Monday being the start of my weekend. So that same Thursday of finally feeling all the sad girl vibes (instead of trying to think them away) I was looking at my calendar and noticed that a version of me months ago had been looking out for me in the present. Around March of this year, I requested Wednesday, July 23 off in order to have a long weekend at the end of July for some chill belated birthday travel precisely because I do not like traveling during my actual birthday weekend which always falls on July 4 (yikes). So mentally well Ivana months prior had planned a final birthday month hurrah with a day trip back down to Richmond to enjoy Frida: Beyond the Myth at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts (VMFA). Was I still going to go? What if I just spent my extra day off spiraling away under my weighted blanket? NO. I would put on my favorite cheetah print top, my curls would be deep conditioned, I would get a fresh manicure, and most importantly, I would get out of my own way!
My mom was originally supposed to join me but she too had forgotten all about our plans and had double booked herself. I then invited my crush but they were occupied. And all along, I was also supposed to have met another friend down there but life was life-ing them and they had to stay home. I saw all of this as the Universe conspiring to get me alone with myself once again, persistent sad girl energy be damned. Besides, it was about time I experienced something grand by myself again because for months I had been phoning it in on my weekly solo dates and by June I wasn’t even wooing myself weekly anymore. Precisely because I wanted to make it through to the other side of a depressive episode, it was time for me to double down on everything I once enjoyed and start collecting as many small surges of dopamine and serotonin as possible, bit by bit. Good food and gazing at iconic art was the perfect place to start.
Wednesday, July 23, 2025. The second day of Leo season. Lunchtime.
I arrived to the museum at around noon and after some light wandering in the main halls I found my way to Amuse, a farm to table restaurant housed on the museum’s third floor overlooking a lush arboretum. When I walked up to the host stand and inquired about a table for one with a preference for being near the balcony (best view of the garden) the hostess - a dashing Ms. Frizzle doppelgänger - looked around and then beamed back at me as she let me know that it looked like I had arrived just in time to an otherwise crowded dining room. So perfect was the view from my table that I was able to see the sky reflected in detail through my water glass.
The waitress whose section I had been assigned to reminded me of Audrey Hepburn. If Audrey had been a sun-kissed southern belle turned punk-rock adult with purple hair and full tattoo sleeves on each arm. She was courteous, observant, generous with her recommendations, and adept at small talk (in other words, a consummate hospitality professional) even making an unprompted comment to me about how “I just love that it looks like you’re here on a solo date, vibing with yourself, I’m so inspired.” and I was like “😃☺️🤠.”
Later, she ended up giving me the member discount on my check, and dear reader, I did not ask for that as I AM NOT A MEMBER OF THE VMFA! This lunchtime blessing was the affirmation I needed that independent of my summer moodiness, I had chosen a very good day to be out and about as a single sapphic gworl in the world. God is good, all the time.
Now, I had not said anything to “punk-rock Audrey Hepburn” about my being there for a solo date, but between sitting there alone and having visibly done the I-am-so-happy-this-food-is-SO-GEWD-dance several times, I think that was indicator enough that I was having a ball. New dishes had recently been added to the restaurant’s menu inspired by the Frida exhibit. It was fun to taste the flare of her life translated into a culinary experience. It served as a kind of sensorial primer for the visual experience of her work that followed. Let’s get into the food.
Every time I go into a meal with the intent to center plants I am always blown away and this meal just kept the streak going. Never had I ever done the happy food dance over cucumbers until that day. I gleefully ate up a whole bowl of thickly cut cucumbers dressed in chimichurri, goat feta, saffron labneh, and urfa biber peppers. Those cucumbers were mighty crisp and cooling, their accompaniments added an excitingly robust flavor profile to something deceptively simple.
For my entree, I went with the picadillo. MY OH MY. I actually started tearing up at how delicious it was and that is saying something. I grew-up in a Venezuelan/Panamanian household and was raised deep in a local Hispanic church community. I have eaten plenty of picadillo at countless after service meals and in countless church-member homes. However, from the way my body reacted to the taste and feel of this dish, it was as though I had never eaten picadillo before! A crispy rice cake rested underneath a mound of roasted flavorful mushrooms, soft n’smooth potatoes, and yummy stewed tomatoes. Everything was tied together with an accenting layer of green onion vinaigrette laid underneath. I had certainly never had this picadillo before. There was no meat, it was not missed.
Punk-Rock Audrey recommended I try “The Love Embrace”, a blend of Cirrus Vodka, prickly pear, Absinthe, and tonic. What a treat! It was like drinking a romance: smooth, sweet, airy, and medicinal with a hint of bitterness for the plot that gets mellowed out at the end. I forgot to ask what kind of flower garnished the drink but it was reminiscent of the many-varied blooms that became a part of Kahlo’s most used accessories.
There was too much going on with the coconut lime flan. The coconut overpowered the lime. In fact, I could not detect any lime. Worse still, the candied ginger pieces gave the top layer of the flan a quality that felt too reminiscent of crème brûlée and I detest crème brûlée. It only began to feel like I was eating flan once I scooped off most of the embellishments but by that point I was eating it just to eat it because I asked for it. Condolences to me. But none of that mattered because I was taking home leftovers that I did enjoy and my check had the member discount on it anyways! Blessings all around.
Walking out of the restaurant on my way to the exhibit, I happened upon White Iris (1930) by Georgia O’Keefe, old school baddie of the American Southwest. The painting caught my attention in periphery at first, like a rainbow one is about to speed by on a drive. I swerved and swayed, my breath gone. I was mesmerized. It was as though the I could hear the flower blooming and rustling. Georgia did all that with oil. I did not know it yet, but over an hour later, at the tail end of the Frida exhibit, I would see Magnolias (1945) by Frida Kahlo. Before even reading the museum label, I would be instantly transported back to White Iris. Then, upon reading the label I would nod in recognition at the power of friendship.
Wednesday, July 23, 2025. The second day of Leo season. Frida.
So many of the clients I collaborate with inside the treatment room are well read, well traveled, well styled, and all around well rounded individuals. This summer, one such client was researching Frida Kahlo’s painting The Suicide of Dorothy Hale (1939), specifically looking into the history of its commission by Clare Booth Luce who hired Frida to paint a memorial portrait to gift Dorothy’s mother’s.
My client shared additional noteworthy details about her research during a facial after I mentioned my plans to go see the Frida exhibit. Turns out that upon seeing the finished work, Clare was met with a depiction of Dorothy’s death. Absolutely not what she had commissioned and Clare’s friends had to convince her to not destroy the work.
I had never seen or heard of the piece prior to our appointment. Plus, having decided to go into the exhibit sans prior research, I had no idea if it would be on display. Additionally, between my appointment with the aforementioned client, life happening in-between, and arriving at the exhibit, I had forgotten all about the painting because remember, I had initially forgotten all about my own plans to go to the VMFA. So as I was la-dee-daing through the exhibit, me encontré con Dorothy. She was looking very much alive in the depiction of her own death.
Throughout the exhibit’s walkthrough, The Suicide of Dorothy Hale (1939) is set up on its own, along a wall in direct line of sight for anyone walking through the exhibit. It is spotlighted via positioning and the literal lighting choices made around it. Before arriving to that painting during my walkthrough, I had been struck by how little I actually knew about Frida beyond the details of her bus accident, her later public persona, and the haunting of Diego Rivera in her life. Three new details for me that day are also similarities between us: we share a birthday week, she was a sister, she was not impressed by New York City. These new bits were swirling through my head when I happened upon Dorothy’s death. That’s just what it felt like to walk into the world of that painting, casually happening upon someone falling from a skyscraper and being stopped in one’s tracks, unable to look away, at a loss for what to do.
Given available public records, it seems as though Frida never met Dorothy, which makes her attention to the details of her death all the more noteworthy and perhaps telling of Frida’s depth of capacity for feeling. After all, would it not have been easier to paint a static one-quarter shot gaze from a family reference photo, collect the money and call it a day? Instead, there is a kineticism in the flow of vertical action throughout the piece that must have been quite laborious to draft out and then render in oil. She took the time to contend with the end of someone she never knew. Frida painted beyond the frame, breaking the “fourth wall” of the painting, and in doing so, broke open the memory of Dorothy for anyone gazing at the painting then and now.
I saw Dorothy leaving and it made me want to stay. What power! The ability to materialize creativity in such a way that it reaches through time and space and wills someone to stay in their own life a little longer. That is power.
If art can do that for one person, what more can it do for the many?
The Ascent
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Venus of the Mind to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.