
… Just so you know there’s no one
for whom all is well. ?Just so you know
the lotus is married to the mud. ?Just so
you know to listen deeply is to love.
Just so you know, everything is an inside job.
What the River Said, Wendy Videlock

… Just so you know there’s no one
for whom all is well. ?Just so you know
the lotus is married to the mud. ?Just so
you know to listen deeply is to love.
Just so you know, everything is an inside job.
What the River Said, Wendy Videlock

“… let us dream towards
what we want
beyond survival
Amir Rabiyah, Our Dangerous Sweetness


If you find yourself half naked
and barefoot in the frosty grass, hearing,
again, the earth’s great, sonorous moan that says
you are the air of the now and gone, that says
all you love will turn to dust,
and will meet you there, do not
raise your fist. Do not raise
your small voice against it. And do not
take cover. Instead, curl your toes
into the grass, watch the cloud
ascending from your lips. Walk
through the garden’s dormant splendor.
Say only, thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you, Ross Gay

Attend to these found and delicate marks; distinct sentiments may arise; small oscillations
remains all supple hands and gesture
skin of language
fusing its finest seam
in fluent light
with a raised finger
dance of lips
each sentence complete
he speaks to the shadow
of leaves
strung tissue paper
snipped into delicate flags
on which side of the conversation
did anyone begin?
wearing two skins
the brilliant question mark of Mexico
stands on its head
like an answer
The Man Whose Voice Has Been Taken From His Throat, Naomi Shihab Nye

No one really dies in the myths.
No world is lost in the stories.
Everything is lost in the retelling,
in being wondered at. We grow up
and grow old in our land of grass
and blood moons, births and goneness.
We live our myth in the recurrence,
pretending we will return another day.
Like the morning coming every morning.
The truth is we come back as a choir.
Otherwise Eurydice would be forever
in the dark. Our singing brings her
back. Our dying keeps her alive.
The Singers Change, the Music Goes On, Linda Gregg

David Castillo announced Jillian Mayer: Placeholder Future, Adler Guerrier: Small Oscillations Among Everyday Forms. September 3 – October 1, 2026.
David Castillo presents Adler Guerrier: Small Oscillations Among Everyday Forms, the artist’s fourth solo exhibition with the gallery.
A weedy bundle of leaves and burrs emerges from the shadows, picked out by sunlight in stark chiaroscuro—the name of Guerrier’s photograph “Untitled (What must be valued–spaces where … thought, sunshine, flowers, intangibles, necessities, time, freedom … are held.) ii”, 2026, reveals the magnitude of the small, the seemingly inconsequential, the objects on the periphery. Guerrier is a flâneur, observing on long walks through Miami the edges of the landscape, particularly domestic spaces: backyards, front yards, wild plants growing atop stucco and spiritual offerings left at the foot of a tree. “At this scale of observation, one can parse the many hierarchies from the flow of social life, that may allow reflection and evaluation of these abstractions that form and shape the possibility of living meaningfully,” Guerrier writes, the abstractions being the stuff of life, which demand we make meaning of them: the structures imposed upon us, the languages we speak, the spaces we construct and then lovingly tend to.
For Small Oscillations Among Everyday Forms, photographs of flora (including the aforementioned “Untitled”), both made in Miami backyards, are transformed into paper collages dotted with rectangular swatches in grey, white, black, and an earthy olive. Guerrier’s collages are often like palimpsests or diagrams, containing a photograph flanked by spheres and patches of color drawn from the original image. Here, the wildflowers are also transferred onto paper, rendered in graphite, acrylic, and gouache, sunset-pink and green, their colors renewed. Flowers made into photos, made into paintings, repeated, repeated again: these are the small oscillations of the exhibition’s title. Guerrier turns the world’s edges into its center, refocusing the eye toward the periphery; the significance of the everyday is newly profound. A small flower tells the story of the home it grows alongside, its neighborhood, the community’s demographics, the soil that holds its root. It reveals the people who’ve stepped on it, noticed it, loved it.
Adler Guerrier is a Haitian-born artist whose multidisciplinary practice explores place, identity, urban space, politics, and the poetics of everyday geography. Working across photography, drawing, collage, printmaking, sculpture, and installation, Guerrier examines the social and psychological dimensions of landscape through assemblage, walking, recurring forms, and the recomposition of text and image. His work often engages diaspora, migration, architecture, and the built environment, using photographs, prints, sculptural interventions, and collaged works on paper to consider how race, class, and culture are embedded in cities and in the ways people move through them. Miami is a central site in his practice, functioning both as a lived geography and as a broader framework for thinking about belonging, urban change, and memory. His work has been exhibited at Palais de Tokyo, Paris; Pérez Art Museum Miami; the California African American Museum; the Whitney Biennial, and David Castillo, among other venues. His work is held in collections including Pérez Art Museum Miami, ICA Miami, the Studio Museum in Harlem, and the Walker Art Center
Nersessian on Ode to Psyche:
“It suggests that the only kind of world in which real love is possible is a world in which people are liberated by their own fragility, where they can approach the condition of trees, flowers, stars, and sounds and abandon the lamentable fantasy of leaving their mark on the world or each other.”

I have just realized that the stakes are myself
I have no other
ransom money, nothing to break or barter but my life
my spirit measured out, in bits, spread over
the roulette table, I recoup what I can
nothing else to shove under the nose of the maitre de jeu
nothing to thrust out the window, no white flag
this flesh all I have to offer, to make the play with
this immediate head, what it comes up with, my move
as we slither over this go board, stepping always
(we hope) between the lines
Revolutionary Letter #1, Diane di Prima
Dans la nuit du 23 au 24 août 2026, Kenscoff a une nouvelle fois été frappée par les gangs : au moins 47 morts, dont cinq enfants, plus de 50 personnes enlevées et 25 maisons incendiées. (Haiti Inter)
Man on the street via FB (Medya Laria )