October's Letter

10.26.24

Hello Again,

Happy Autumn! As many of you know, Fall is my favorite season. Before the incurable SADs of Winter roll in with their shorter days and difficult nights, we have this beautiful, colorful, temperate—if not a little chilly— gift of a season. It’s never long enough and with climate change, we’re experiencing it with less and less predictability, but today, right now, it’s here. Are you enjoying it? Are you lucky enough to live somewhere that’s allowed you to comfortably wear a jacket, a scarf even? I hope that as you receive this letter you are warm and satisfied.

I didn’t write to you in September because all I wanted to write about was my complicated relationship to birthdays. Then I realized I’d written about some of those complications last year. Upon further revisiting, I noted that I never really got to tell you about my time in London, about driving my Substack Bestie’s house boat down the River Lee or, on the day of Carnival, getting stranded at the café with my friend Roy because the Ubers kept canceling. I never got to tell you about lunches with Nahwand, Sheyi, and Elijah, or coffee dates with Kalpesh, Nat, or Holly. And don’t even get me started on all the books that I read at Healthy Stuff and purchased from The Photographer’s Gallery.

It was a wonderful trip, and all in all, I had a magnificent summer, albeit one dampened by the state of the world. On so many occasions this year I’ve marveled at our capacity to experience joy, laughter, and love, while the very world we inhabit is set on fire. For better or worse, this is one of my favorite parts of being human.

As the anniversary of October 7^th rolled around, along with the anniversary of the start of so much senseless retaliatory violence, I have been sick to my stomach thinking about the trajectory of this Islamophobic genocide and how it’s spreading throughout the Middle East. Israel MUST be stopped, but witnessing the extent to which so many aspects of society, media, journalism, etc, is being infiltrated and run by Zionists, I’m feeling far less hopeful than I was a year ago. I know that hopelessness is not “useful.” I know that the deeply embedded nature of so much of this nation’s commitment to Zionism should not have come as a surprise. But here we are, in shock and awe.

And where I’ve been able to laugh with my friends and find joy in community, there hasn’t been a single day that I haven’t been knocked over by the toll of this ongoing evil. The hurricanes, this election, the great unmasking of nearly all of our journalistic institutions as Zionist, it's all too much.

We are a few days away from such a significant election, but people fail to realize that its significance has far less to do with the fate of our country and far more to do with the continued erosion of our collective morality and humanity.

October 7th marks another one year anniversary as well, the day that I moved from New York to Philadelphia. My time here over the past year has been complicated. I once described moving to Philadelphia as a pause in a video game. In another conversation, I described it as an interlude. I don’t plan to live here for very long, and because I unknowingly moved into such a white neighborhood, I haven’t really enjoyed living here very much, if I’m honest. What I have loved is the house.

I fell in love with this house in 2022 after discovering it on the Listing Project. I had only ever been to Philadelphia twice before, and one of those times was just to pass through on my way to Camden. But this house was so beautiful. I kept fantasizing about what it would be like to finally have space, to finally have my own studio, a guest bedroom, more than one bathroom. I didn’t know a thing about the neighborhood, but I fell in love with the possibilities of expansion that the house represented. Film Archivist Maya Cade deemed it “The House of Dreams” when I first moved in, and it really has been.

I was so tired of living in New York. I’ve had a love/ hate relationship with that city for the past six years because of the dystopian nature of the beast. The gentrification, the displacement, the apathy, the corruption, the lack of accountability, the filth–it was so overwhelming and so complicated. Moreover, there’s this thing about New York–for natives and transplants the same–where people really stop being able to envision a life for themselves outside of the city. The world for them ends where the city ends and thus it restricts their imaginations. They can’t imagine what it would look like to live at a slower pace or what it would be like to have affordable rents. It’s sad and it’s hard. The lure of New York can be overpowering if you allow it to be. I needed out.

I lost out on the house in 2022 because I was traveling too much and couldn’t come down to see it in person. But I don’t think it was the right time. Everything happens when it’s supposed to. However, I told the landlord that I would check in on the house every quarter and I did. In August of 2023, during my summer check in, the landlord mentioned that the current tenants were moving out in October. I came down to see the place and the rest, as they say, is history (however short that history may be).

While living in a clean and quiet neighborhood, replete with grocery stores, restaurants, and cafes has been splendid; living outside the bubble of community that I created in New York has been excruciating. The loneliness in Philadelphia can feel impossible. Being this alone in such a big space amplifies my depression in ways that can be scary at times. But living alone feels necessary, and living a bit off the grid feels necessary too. I’m a complicated person. I feel big feelings very deeply. One of the friends that I’ve made in Philly, the brilliant artist and filmmaker Tshay, sent this cat meme to me last night. She fucking tried it, but there is some truth to this.

From the onset, my dream for this house was that it would become a sanctuary/community space, a space to engage with other artists, to mentor younger artists, hold salons, and create a space of beauty and safety for my friends from all over the world to come and rest. Sometimes the house feels this way, cooking in my beautiful kitchen with my mother last year for Thanksgiving, reading quietly on the couch with Zeshawn, watching documentaries with Drew, having lattes with Marc, having girls nights with Malcolm or Elliott, and having dinner at North 3^rd with literally everybody who visits. Moments like that have made this space feel like home. But when they leave, all the warm air of love leaves right along with them and I feel like a deflated balloon, limp, listless, and lifeless. I haven’t discovered the right balance yet. Though I have a few good friends nearby, I haven’t really found my people here, and certainly nowhere near enough of them to make a sizable dent in all of this lonely. I guess in many ways, this is single adult life no matter where you are, but that’s a conversation for another day.

Anyway, it’s an adjustment. I’m grateful. As a person who grew up sleeping on floors and couches and staying in shelters and alternative housing programs, having somewhere truly beautiful to call home is great gift, and although sometimes I take it for granted, being lured to the “greener grass” of places like Los Angeles and London, I am trying my best to be present in my gratefulness. All of that said, I will absolutely be moving from Philadelphia come next Fall, so catch me while you can Philly friends and editors.

Speaking of gratefulness, as many of you have heard there has been another short film made about me and my work. This film, Gioncarlo Valentine: Exposures will have its world premiere at DOCNYC in a few weeks. One of the greatest privileges I’ve known as an artist has been having peers who have been so moved by me and the way that I see the world, that they’ve attempted to immortalize me on film. The first person to do this was my dear friend, Luis Santos.

Luis was so passionate about making a film about me–a film that interrogated my ideas and my practice–that he funded it himself. I remember the rigor of his process, how exacting he was, how intentional. It was an overwhelming kindness and the ultimate affirmation. That film is so important to me; so many people have come to my Instagram page or to my website and been deeply moved by what Luis created.

Zeshawn’s film follows suit, attempting to take an even deeper look at my process, my inner workings, and my community. Working with Zeshawn, our captain, heart, and director, Sarah Ema Friedland, our greatest champion and producer, and Zac Manuel, the sensitive visionary behind the cinematography of our film, felt like a once in a lifetime kind of world-building. It was difficult at times. Allowing folks into my personal space this much was a pain in my ass, often. But we created a family around this project. I couldn’t thank this team (along with my baby Joel) enough if I tried. It was a labor of love. Watching Zeshawn work, watching his mind, his collaborative nature, and that beautiful heart that I’ve come to know and love, changed my life. I’m so grateful. The screening will happen on November 19th and there will be a panel discussion with Zeshawn and me (as well as another pair of artists) on November 20th. Tickets sold out immediately, but I believe there are virtual tickets still available. We will hopefully be showing the film at some festivals, so other screenings will be happening. We are also considering a tiny, Baltimore based friends and family screening as well. More on all that soon.

My photographs of Coco Jones and Ayra Starr for the Musicians on Musicians issue of Rolling Stone came out this week. Any opportunity that I get to work with my love, Joe Rodriguez, is one that I relish. He is such a supportive and kindhearted collaborator, even in situations that can feel a little high-strung. And as always, shout out to my darlings Cesar and Amadu, my 1st and 2nd assistants on this shoot. I always have the best time when we get the team back together.

I photographed Lin-Manuel Miranda for the cover of Fast Company, and Ja’Tovia Gary for the Cover of Seen Journal. Such an honor to photograph such brilliant minds. I enjoyed my time with these two, genuinely, as witnessed here and here.

Earlier this year I wrote a piece about the great Renee Cox for The New Yorker which came out the day after my birthday. To call it a long and arduous process wouldn’t even do it justice. In any case, thank you to the absolutely excellent Noelle Flores Théard for supporting me every step of the way, and to the Icon Renee Cox for the many, many phone calls and the many years of love, generosity, and kindness.

The Fall issue of The Hopkins Review will be on shelves very soon. This issue, my last as the cover artist for the year, is my favorite, not just because the cover features one of my all time favorite photographs but because it features a lovely conversation with my friend Casey Gerald, someone who I adore so much. I usually hate reading my conversations in print. My thoughts move and evolve so rapidly, and sometimes when I read my words I imagine what a stranger would feel reading the thoughts of such a profane pessimist. But that’s white supremacy talking. Ideas of self doubt, imposter syndrome, and not being enough. Fuck that. This conversation is fabulous, and I’m honored to have Casey as an interlocutor, on the page and in life. It also features a portfolio of my work and a QR code linking to an essay that I wrote during the pandemic about the green parakeets in Hawaii (so nice to have found that very special piece of writing a loving home). On December 7th, THR will be having an event in Baltimore to celebrate the year’s issues and all of the wonderful contributors. I will be in attendance and reading a bit as well. Updates on those details soon to come.

Here are a few other moments of pleasure and gratitude from the last few months:

• Earlier this month I had the honor of watching Ravyn Lenae and Arima Edera perform in Philly with my best friend Malcolm. This was my first real concert experience. It was…. as nightmarish for my lower back and misanthropic qualities as I had always imagined, but being there with my bestie, a true fan of Ravyn and of music in general, was very special. I’ll never forget it because I’ll never go to another concert again.

• My birthday was perfect this year. All I wanted was to spend a couple of nights with my best friends. They came down to the house and we had great food and big laughs. I took my annual birthday self portrait, featuring the girls. Then we traveled down to Baltimore where we ate crabs and saw family. There were some imperfect elements, especially around the going home portion, but in retrospect, it was wonderful. Again, so loved.

• When I was in London, my kid sister stayed at my house in Philly and when I came back she had left all these really beautiful, simple, and encouraging sticky notes above my desk. Messages like, “You are loved and worthy of love” and “You have the power to make your dreams come true.” When I noticed them–her floral penmanship a vast departure from my chaotic scribbles–I ugly cried. My baby girl. There was so much in that gesture and I’ll always carry it with me.

• Joel and I traveled back to LA in September to continue work on a personal project. The very first thing I did, fresh off the plane, was travel to see Dart and his parents, my LA family. These three have become so important to my life and, honestly, they are my favorite thing about LA. It’s such a privilege to have a real home away from home, home cooked meals (the fucking oxtail MY LORDDDD), deep conversations on the couch, the stories and the histories. It’s all very special to me. And as always, sitting with Joel in coffee shops and reading, driving to the beach in Malibu, and having dinner at my favorite restaurant is always a balm of platonic romance, routine, and restoration.

All in all, I’m feeling a great deal of gratitude this month. I am so loved, and although it can be hard for that truth to penetrate the substantial, often insurmountable grief that I’m wading through at any given moment, I can feel it today.

And before I forget, there’s one more anniversary that I have to acknowledge, the two year anniversary of this newsletter. Two years ago this week, as I was flying from Los Angeles to New York, I started Something Personal. The original idea for this space was to create something new, something that could strengthen my writing and allow me to speak directly to those who are interested in my practice and my ideas. I wanted to create a safe space for me to step away from the unforgiving hamster wheel that is social media. So much has changed over the past two years and I am so proud of my little letter. If I’m being honest, I sense the conclusion of this letter approaching, likely sometime in 2025. Substack started off as this alternative space, but it is no different than the other platforms, and the things that I hate about social media, like the over commodification of literally everything, or the obsession with videos, engagement, and celebrity, have really turned me off. But, for now, I’m happy to still be writing to you, and I can’t thank you enough for reading! 

Lastly, as we are less than a week away from this godawful election, I’m praying for your safety and the safety of us all. No matter the outcome of this election, remember your humanity. Protect it at all costs. 

Talk soon (and Happy Halloween)!