Good Grief

“Good Grief, #24” Mixed media, collage, wood panel. 8”x10”

How well do you know grief? Not how it feels- but how it shapes you? Not in its sadness and shades of gray- but the way it can shine?

I’ve found myself on many occasions grappling and fighting grief, at war with it. It is exhausting to compete with its globby mess that swallows everything it touches. It is here to take. It is here to wreck you.

Then there was this nagging feeling I had it all wrong. What would it look like if I let it in knowing full well it never truly leaves? It’s much like an unwanted house guest showing up at the most inopportune time. So instead of darting away when I feel it creeping towards me- what if I welcomed it, like an old friend? Gave it a hug and asked “my love, how have you been?” What would this thing look like if I cherished it unconditionally?

Grief strips away the facades of individual strength and invincibility. It reinforces the importance of compassion, empathy, and mutual aid in navigating life’s challenges. It underscores the beauty and strength that emerge from our shared humanity- IF you let it.

Love and grief are two sides of the same coin- and I argue that grief comes first. We are all entangled in this mortal life, knowing full and well that everything inevitably comes to an end. And yet- we choose to do it anyway. We choose the pursuit of long, fulfilling lives in spite of knowing that what is had will be lost.

The cost of admission to being human is not the ability to love and care. Rather- it is the capacity to feel the full range of emotional experience and willingly grieve with each other that grants us a soul. The sooner we reconcile that, the greater chance we have at a collective peace that can propel us all forward.

Knowing grief is hard. It takes patience. It takes work. It takes courage. It takes a willingness to not just feel- but BE vulnerable. Vulnerable to a point that you can sit with the pain of others as if it were your own. Vulnerable to a point that you would let it change you. It is with this knowing that the truest form of love and genuine appreciation of joy can emerge. Unlocking the door to grief and allowing it in only amplifies the beauty of this one wild and precious life.

In this season of work I explore the transformative power of grief, how it serves as a catalyst for connection, and provokes curiosity. Through my art, I delve into the resilience and memory that emerge from the process of mourning. Each piece embodies complexities and layers of grief- tinged with nostalgia and a desire make equal sense of the good and bad. By embracing the inherent vulnerability of grief, I aim to inspire viewers to find breaths of joy in the midst of sorrows.

If only we could recognize and cherish the profound beauty of what binds us, could we reach far beyond empathy for moments of emotional turmoil that we perceive being separate from ourselves. I hope those who engage with this body of work dig deeper into exploring their capacity to be vulnerable, their own relationship to grief, and the willingness to be moved.

This is Good Grief. What will you make of it?

Tall Tales and Bearing Witness

“If you know how to play it, you’ll have a better understanding of the relationship between chance and necessity. There’s philosophy in mahjong.”

— Mao Zedong

For better or worse, mahjong was synonymous with the life of Carmencita. It was not just a game- to her it was a ritual (bad habit?) and a livelihood.

She was a shark amongst the tiles- and every win was a blessing from God. As we walked out of mass on Sundays, she would be sure to say “don’t worry, Lauren… I pray to win por you.” As if she’d had a direct line to the heavens and all that was holy, she’d inevitably sweep the table.

While living on her couch those last long years of college she kept me fed and my gas tank filled- in no small part to the weekly mahjong games that would run a cool 10 hours every Monday night. Our arrangement was simple- cash for game labor. I’d clear the room, set up the game, snacks on tv tables for every player. Drive her to Costco, stock up on Red Bull, vodka, and the perfectly sized cardboard liners between paper towel stacks that she would make me snatch while she caused an aversion. I’d haul it all in while she’d cook up a storm. I was then banished to the kitchen to do all my art school homework from the tiny table, enveloped by pungent aromas of vinegars and fried fish as they played and summoned me for more of everything while yelling at each other over the rustling of tiles until 2am. I’d drive some of the ladies home, and get back to find grandma chugging Coke cans, buzzing about for at least another hour, translating all the gossip and splitting the house money with me to cover scrappy lunches between classes for the week. I never questioned it, because I never knew her in any other way.

I have fond memories of running around her Glendale apartment, when I was shorter than the counter. On game days, there were 3 tables in play squeezed between the living room, dining room, and patio- not to mention all the chairs along the wall for others waiting their turn. It was wall to wall Filipinos- which means it was LOUD, I would get lost in the crowd, and poked and prodded for being too skinny. I would have to stay in the kitchen with her, like a little bridge troll handing out drinks from the fridge (in hindsight, training for my college years). To keep me content (or to show I was being fed), I had a bottomless bowl of wonton wrappers as chips that she would fry off in between batches of her infamous lumpia.

On the contrary- it’s understandably a sore subject for her kids. For them it carried all the trappings of an addict parent. The gambling, the booze, the cigarettes and late nights always held priority. During one game day, a player became enraged because he had been cut off. She was no longer accepting his advanced dated checks until he started to pay off his losses. It did not end well, and as it was told they both got cocky. She deposited all said checks at once- so to get even he called the cops on her humble operation (nay, illegal gambling ring). When I think of the top 3 moments of witnessing my own mom’s anger- this is one of them. It was my dad who picked her up after getting hauled away in handcuffs (he would still tell the story as a humorous anecdote despite the severity). After all this time with her, she refused to teach me how to play and I was always shooed away from the table- I’d like to think it was from knowing I could probably beat her, but if I am being honest it was likely in fear of her daughter’s wrath for bringing me to the dark side.

It was a complex component of her character. She obviously had a gambling problem… but it was hard to challenge when she usually came out on top. She loved to host- but that usually led to some…questionable practices and financial fallacies. And for the love of the hustle, she was shady AF behind her well crafted old, unassuming Tita persona (“It’s Pine”). You could either challenge and question her (she would inevitably get her way) or accept it for what it was.

She needed the game- to hold court, harvest social intel, maintain some semblance of power. She was cunning and hungry to maximize her access to what she deemed the finer things in life- all of which she believed could be derived from siphoning money off through an analog tile game. It was a series of chances and choices to show up and show out. There was a necessity to it that was central to her existence- mahjong was her constant companion… mahjong was life.