Randall Szott

For many years, when it came to the art world, I felt a lot like the “man who wasn’t there” as in the opening of this William Hughes Mearns poem: 

Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
I wish, I wish he’d go away…

And it definitely seemed like plenty of folks shared the sentiment of wishing I’d go away. I had a bit of a habit of being like the kid that very ostentatiously tells his parents that he is running away, and the parents, understanding the ruse, ignore the declaration. It is actually much more complicated than that, but time and space are limited. 

I have been the B@S social practice gadfly on and off for a long time, mostly as part of their Open Engagement coverage. And a decade ago, we sat down with Stephen Wright, someone that has a propensity for thinking about art that isn’t art and artists that aren’t artists. However, he has used different terms to describe this – “spy art,” “off road conceptualism,” and “stealth art.” I have used other nomenclature – “escape artistry,” “the art of refusal,” and “lebenskünstler.” 

Again, though, it is so much more complicated, as laid out by Wright in a published piece that year:

“…They seem to be seeking to escape performative and ontological capture as art altogether. It is certainly possible to describe them as having a double ontology; but it seems more closely in keeping with their self-understanding to argue that this is not an ontological issue at all, but rather a question of the extent to which they are informed by a certain coefficient of art. Informed by artistic self-understanding, not framed as art.” 

The conversation on this topic at Open Engagement eventually turned toward me specifically and the notion of artists leaving the art world:

Sal Randolph: I think we have one sitting to the left of me. You haven’t left the art world Randall?

Me: I was never in it.

Sal: Yeah but you went through art school never being in it. So to me you’re like one of the premier escape artists in this frame.

Duncan Mackenzie: So your three degrees in the art world don’t constitute involvement?

Stephen: Randall, that’s not going to do. That’s not going to do as an explanation…

I should clarify something, I’m technically a “Writer in Residence” for B@S, and, as you can see, I’m not much of a writer, more of a “quoter.” So in addition to having the temerity to be an artist that isn’t an artist and doesn’t make art, I’m often a writer that isn’t a writer and doesn’t write. So I’m full of explanations that “are not going to do.” I was/am in the art world in a technical sense, I even have a CV to prove it. But that CV is more like an art object than anything I’ve ever made. 

One of the only things I remember from art history is the term “trompe l’oeil” which is kind of how my CV functions, as a seemingly real thing that upon closer inspection, is an illusion. In fact, aside from some time in the early 90s I’ve never actually claimed to have made anything called art. And having an MFA and an MA from art programs in the late 90s made that a particularly challenging situation. How exactly do you get into, and get degrees from, art programs without being an artist or making art? That is also too complicated and time consuming to explain here. But suffice to say, there was a lot of “quoting” going on. My “project” as it were was to explore the tension between two ideas. The first, from Allan Kaprow, was one I took quite literally: “Once, the task of the artist was to make good art; now it is to avoid making art of any kind.” The second, I also took literally, but secretly, lest I make everything too easy for my art school folks to digest. It was from Raoul Vaneigem: “The work of art of the future will be the construction of a passionate life.” You can see how making that an open motivation would make everyone conclude in the artiest of arty ways that my not making art, was in fact the art. Eyerolls all around.

Flashing forward a couple of years after the Stephen Wright interview, a major turning point occurred. Rather than hang out at the margins of Open Engagement, I was going to be a legitimate participant. I had “presented” at the 2010 conference but it was a presentation that wasn’t a presentation with Ted Purves inspired by Sarah Palin’s book Going Rogue. For the 2014 conference I was scheduled to present “Escaping the Art World,” but then A Great Big World and Christina Aguielra released “Say Something” and all kidding aside, it was as influential on whatever my so-called practice is, as just about anything:

Say something, I’m giving up on you
I’m sorry that I couldn’t get to you
Anywhere, I would’ve followed you
Say something, I’m giving up on you

And I will swallow my pride
You’re the one that I love
And I’m saying goodbye

The song pushed me from the notion of escaping the art world to breaking up with the art world. Something about that made more sense. At that time, my participation and withdrawal felt more like the often painful see-saw of an on again/off again relationship than a game of hide and seek. And that perspective gave me the resolve to finally cut all ties and I held strong for all of 2014.

However, as Allan Kaprow notes in The Education of the Un-Artist, Part I, “…the idea of art cannot easily be gotten rid of (even if one wisely never utter the word). But it is possible to slyly shift the whole un-artistic operation away from where the arts customarily congregate, to become, for instance, an account executive, an ecologist, a stunt rider, a politician, a beach bum. In these different capacities…[art] would operate indirectly as a stored code that, instead of programming a specific course of behavior, would facilitate an attitude of deliberate playfulness toward all professionalizing activities well beyond art.” You may recall that Wright mentioned a “coefficient of art” and I think that is clearly aligned with Kaprow’s “stored code.” But what happens if you shift away from where the arts congregate as Kaprow suggests, and give up artistic self-understanding as Wright mentions? Can the code be jettisoned? Can you really become an off road conceptualist? Does that require driving off the map? Or off the territory? And what happens if the line between them becomes blurred? I have been answering this in the way one answers a beckoning, more so than the way one answers questions, as I don’t think there is finality beyond the paradox of art that isn’t art. It may be as simple as doing without art as Steven Connor suggests:

“Doing without something like drink, religion or art, would mean that there was no longer any without about it. [emphasis mine]. One would have relinquished not only the thing itself, but also the relinquishing of it. This sounds like a harder thing to do than it is…The trick, no trick really, is precisely to start doing other things instead, to find other forms of destructive appropriation, which will enable other kinds of world-making, the making of other kinds of world.”

I have been trying to relinquish the relinquishing for a long time now and have still more to say, but I’ve said a lot without saying very much already and have some stairs to climb.

The state’s stay-at-home order closed the doors of the MCA to visitors and to the collaboration with institutions and artists that makes exhibitions possible. In response, MCA created a show using artworks from the collection. Just Connect, which opened in mid-July, features artworks that explore how we connect—with ourselves and others, as well as with the world around us. With thematic sections including “the space around us,” “alone together,” and “longing and loss,” the exhibition illustrates the ways context influences the way we interpret art. All the works in the show date before the onset of COVID-19, so none of the artists were intentionally addressing the pandemic, yet all of the works can be interpreted in its light.

Sharon Lockhart, Maja and Elodie (2003) Photo: Nathan Keay, © MCA Chicago

Sharon Lockhart takes photographs of everyday life that she elaborately stages, questioning the truthfulness of photographic representation.  She typically presents her photographs in series, asking us to detect subtle differences between the images.  That’s the artist’s intent.

When you see Maja and Elodie (2003) it’s easy to assume, “They are doing a jigsaw puzzle!”  Puzzling was a natural pastime during stay-at-home orders.  So many puzzles were purchased, completed, photographed, and shared that newspapers reported shortages; manufacturers couldn’t keep up with the demand.

The photographs depict a woman, Elodie, interacting with Duane Hanson’s hyper-real sculpture Child with Puzzle (1978) that features his daughter, Maja, as the model.  The two images are identical except that in the right panel, Elodie has lifted her hand to move a puzzle piece which casts a slight shadow and suggests the passage of time.

Andreas Gursky, Avenue of the Americas (2001) Photo: Nathan Keay, © MCA Chicago

Like Lockhart, Andreas Gursky questions the truthfulness of representational photography.  He creates large-scale images whose subjects are equally significant.  Gursky manufactures his images by digitally combining multiple photographs of the same subject shot from different angles, a technique that results in a view that can’t be seen naturally by the human eye.  Because they are manipulated, his photographs don’t document society, but represent it.

The work’s title, Avenue of the Americas (2001), gives us a clue as to the subject:  the Hilton Hotel and Towers at Rockefeller Center on Sixth Avenue in New York, taken at night from 53^rd Street.  By stretching the image horizontality and flattening the depth of the picture plane, Gursky’s photograph looks like a grid.  Devoid of humanity, but showing signs of its existence in the lit rooms, the photograph resembles the empty streets of New York shown on the news when the city was eerily empty.

Hollis Sigler, She Wants To Belong To The Sky, Again (1981) Photo: Nathan Keay, © MCA Chicago

As with Gursky’s photograph, people are nowhere to be seen in Hollis Sigler’s She Wants To Belong To The Sky, Again (1981).  There are signs of recent human presence:  an abandoned lawn chair, sunglasses, gym shoes, and book; a table with colorful bowls and napkins.  While the painting suggests loneliness, the bright colors and festive lights, along with the outdoor scene, hint at activities newly available this summer.  The red dress floating above could represent the desire to escape today’s restrictions or more sadly, those who have lost their lives to the virus, as the title and writing suggest.

While the scene has a unique interpretation in the context of COVID, Sigler created the red dress as a stand-in for a part autobiographical, part fictitious, character named “The Lady,” who longed to escape from the constraints of everyday life.  The domestic objects and fancy attire all hint at women’s work and appearance, with a nod to feminism.  Sigler intentionally painted in a naïve style, saying: “I want the content to be more important.  I didn’t want people getting caught up in the technique of drawing or seeing.  I wanted them to know it was psychological space and I was tired of people being caught up in how well I could draw.  I wanted them to see beyond that.”

Nicholas Africano, I Get Hurt (1980) Photo: © MCA Chicago

Nicholas Africano’s I Get Hurt (1980) is as emotionally-charged as Sigler’s painting but he includes humans while removing any type of recognizable environment.  Interpreted in the context of COVID, with quarantine circles and isolation orders in place, the emptiness is palpable.  People are likely feeling or saying “I get hurt” from time to time.

Africano’s self-portrait is on the right; his friend Rodney Ripps is on the left.  The scene exposes the vulnerability emotional honesty can trigger.  Africano says the painting is about the absurd importance we place on intimacy: “…moments when you are called upon to feel a certain thing and you find yourself incapable of feeling what you ought to.”  However, numerous other interpretations are equally valid, based on contextual cues and personal experiences.

The artworks in Just Connect at the MCA remind us to connect with art, with ourselves, and with others, especially now.  The exhibition demonstrates how responses to art arise from the varied contexts in its making and reception.  Artists working today continue to create, both in response to and independent of, COVID-19.  Certain works will mark this historic moment in time; all will have changing interpretations that cause us to ponder “What does it mean?”

Susan J. Musich spent twenty years as an educator at the Museum of Contemporary Art Chicago communicating fresh perspectives to non-specialist audiences.  This perspective infuses her writing about art.

Even before seeing the work I wanted to write about Best of the Worst, the recent exhibition at the Practice Gallery in Philadelphia. The title is amusing and the concept clever– a gallery full of artists who’d previously been rejected from a Philadelphia summer juried show. For ten bucks, a rejection letter, a hope and a prayer an artist can join fellow castaways in a salon style showcase. How could I not be intrigued to see a collection of pieces which, when hung together, personify the agony of rejection and the victory of inclusion?

Practice has a small, brightly lit gallery that normally hosts solo exhibitions that focus on experimentation, video and performance. Best of the Worst deviates from Practice’s normal programming by completely covering it’s walls with predominantly two dimensional work. The show also contains sculptures, videos and mixed media pieces that line the floors, walls and the ceiling. The presentation is chaotic, lacking cohesiveness and leaving the viewer overwhelmed with visual choices. For any other show concept those remarks would seem scathing, but in a show trying to maintain inclusiveness it feels appropriate to not have a clear direction. The lack of relationships between pieces and the variety of concepts highlight the subjectivity of a curator choosing between work that was curiously rejected from other juried exhibitions in the first place.

Work by Amy Cousins.

There are many glowing pieces in the show. A large, playfully spinning fur covered disco ball both contemporary and dada inspired by Amy Cousins. Coffee Table with Things by Annson Conway stands out for its comic inspired aesthetic mixed with functional form. However, my favorite object in the space did not come from an artist, it came from the gallery– A green binder that includes rejection letters received by the artists. When skimming through the pages a pattern emerges. Most of the letters are rejections from other galleries that reside at the 319 N. 11th St. building. Repetition of the names Vox Populi, Napoleon, Automat and others provide a tongue and cheek gesture to kin galleries while also creating a sobering reminder of the unwritten contract artists make between the Arts and capitalism.

Rejection letters on display at Practice Gallery.

Acceptance equals Success. Rejection equals Failure:
The common narrative of a successful artist is usually a fictional tale of solo stardom that is randomly granted to only a few truly unique individuals. Working as an artist, that narrative quickly dissolves into a reality that has as much to do with talent as it does hustle and finances. The price of visibility is normally high. Application fees, travel, networking, UNPAID internships, volunteering, higher education and many other costly or time consuming practices that might yield success. To be accepted into a juried show someone needs to have the access to technology, a CV that proves others took chance on the work, and an application fee. The applicant also has to hope the work conforms to the jurors desired medium and interests. These barriers, though sometimes appropriate, create inaccessibility. The structure to success is often exclusionary, which seems counterintuitive to how most art wants to function.

Of course there are exceptions to the rule but highlighting those few who have “made it” not helpful to everyone else. In reality the Art World operates like any other business, with the artists being the workers. The value of an artist or artwork is still closely tied to popularity, production and wealth. As artists try to maintain the idea that we work outside of capitalism’s dictation that value is determined by financial worth, it’s easy to think of not succeeding financially as a personal failure. When an artist is subjectively accepted into a show, gallery, school or residency, the time and money seem like a worthwhile exchange. Conversely, since the production of art is viewed as an individual pursuit when that time and money yields rejection it feels more like a confirmation that an artist is failing at being themselves.

Doing the Best while Feeling the Worst
The capitalist relationship that artists have with art spaces is an open secret, often complained about and rarely challenged. It is difficult to think of ways for Art to disassociate itself from this skewed value proposition, especially when the feeling of being accepted into something exclusive is euphoric. The rejection on the other hand can feel like a personal hell. No matter how many times someone says, “the process is subjective” or a letter received reads, “this years pool of applicants was competitive” it is hard to stomach the idea that hard work does not mean acceptance. That is one of the lies of capitalism that artists accept, work hard and be rewarded. It is impressive that many artists keep persevering when each missed opportunity feels like one step away from actualizing a dream.

Best of the Worst as a show has its pitfalls. As a gallery known for experimentation, Practice Gallery didn’t take many risks in the curation, choices or display of the work. However it does successfully remind artists that we are not alone in this struggle for visibility and value. What is important about this exhibition is the conversation it contains about a system that is not always fair and feels convoluted. The only way we change the way artists and art are valued is to discuss our participation and what we lose through our desire to be accepted.

The Kingdom of Kitai at Ulterior Gallery in New York’s Lower East Side opens the tiny gallery like a tunnel to narrative artist Gaku Tsutaja’s world. Though the kingdom is fictional, Tsutaja uses her father’s experience as a civil engineer in Tokyo, and later Fukushima, to create an allegory for Westernization and catastrophe.

In the first room nine wooden organ pipes hang roughly two feet apart from each other, and in the center of the room an oversize kettle sits on a small, simple table. To the right appears to be a slender wall cabinet with a green roof hanging over the sliding windows. Displayed inside are circular tags each with a ink drawing depicting a beaver, mole, or groundhog. The dignified portraits of the humorous characters wear construction caps and goggles.

Nyukou-Shimeihyou (Tunnel Entrance Log: Worker’s Tokens), 2017. Mixed Media, 24” x 46” x 8”. ©Gaku Tsutaja; Courtesy of Ulterior Gallery, New York

From the organ pipes a 48-minute sound installation tells the story of these construction workers in The Kingdom of Kitai. Each of the nine pipes represent a character and one by one they tell us their role in the operation. Some of them express an anxiety over the fast pace of new tools; others are optimistic. Midway through the narrative an explosion occurs, and the characters search for the missing. Emanating from the belly of the pipes, it sounds as though they are located somewhere underneath the gallery, as though in the network of MTA tunnels below.

In the back room a series of 12 ink drawings grouped on one wall depict events during the construction of the tunnel. In Workers for the Future, the workers gather for a group photo in front of the tunnel’s entrance with such a presence it is hard not to imagine the real workers in the source image from which Tsutaja drew.

The kettle’s central position in the gallery perverts its traditional, communal symbolism. Instead, the pot appears to command the workers, participating in the implementation of this new Westernized method of construction. These gestures in Tsutaja’s Kingdom of Kitai deliver a wry and witty translation of a global struggle against greedy corporations and labor exploitation, a story which Americans must find more imperative to confront. The Kingdom of Kitai is on view at Ulterior Gallery in NY through October 22nd.

I hate baseball. To be a fan of it requires patience, an appreciation for subtlety, and an abundance of attention that I simply can’t muster. Not valuing baseball is just one of many of my character flaws that Ted Purves characteristically saw past to find my redeeming qualities. Magnanimity is an awkward, moderately obscure word, but it always comes to mind when thinking of him. Ted appreciated many awkward, moderately obscure things – like baseball, fantasy role-playing, and even some of my blog writings from a decade ago.

That is how we met. He had found his way to some things I had to say about social practice and its critics and took the time to comment. It took me a while to believe that it was actually him commenting – After all, “On the Internet, nobody knows you’re a dog.” Even harder to believe was that he was taking me seriously, so seriously that he invited me out to California to give a talk and lead a field trip to Reno, NV. Other opportunities and invitations followed as they did with so many others. Ted’s curiosity rivaled his generosity and both overshadowed his skepticism. That, in itself, is a gift to all of us in this hyper-cynical (art) world.

We once had a conversation using the title Let’s Talk About Love: How to Succeed in Art Without Really Trying. Of course, even though I added that lame snarky subtitle, Ted was able to rise above it and in his wise way, push me away from such “more heat than light” kinds of gestures. I am still struggling with this, his death has me struggling with much more.

I heard the news while on a cruise ship off the coast of Poland. I went out to the balcony to sit down and the wooden railing perfectly concealed the horizon dividing sea from sky. I wrote in my notebook, “I can peer over the rail to break the illusion, but I would have no appreciation were it not for you. What we want is free. What we want is free.” This was a reference to the last conversation we had where he wrote to me from the hospital in reference to his struggle, “…like everything, there sometimes are layered moments of bigger vision. Every now and then you feel like you’re seeing over the top of the wall.” I sat and stared at this symbolic wall, marvelling at Ted’s bigger vision. My tears. The ocean. A friend’s last words.

I would love to talk about love with Ted again, but at least I was able to tell him directly that I was jealous of his grace and warmth and deeply thankful to have had the good fortune of having him in my life. In the conversation about peering over the wall I tried my best to say something worthy of the moment. Ted’s last words to me were: “Well said my friend.” His approval was another gift. My tears. The ocean. A friend’s last words.

Ted Purves Bad at Sports Interview:

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Editors Note: We love you Ted, all of us are different thanks to you. We will never forget. What we want is here, together, if only we have the sense to see it.

Tornado Alley by Victoria Fuller

MICHIGAN CITY, Ind.– Seeking Location: Mapping & Borders in Art is a 12-artist exhibition at the Lubeznik Center for the Arts showcasing the arbitrariness of borders and boundaries and how they connect with geo-political influences and cultural spheres that extend past geography alone. Curated by Suzanne Cohan-Lange and Jane Cooperman, Seeking Location features artists Tom Brand, Michele Corazzo, Hector Duarte, Gary Duehr, Ruth Esserman, Victoria Fuller, Deidre Lewin, Priscilla Lynch, Dan Mills, Michael x. Ryan, Joel Sheesley, and Mel Watkin. The exhibition will run until June 3, 2017.

Borders of countries often delineate the edges of conflict, and maps, tools for understanding and navigating the planet, help us locate those borders. In Victoria Fuller’s piece Water Supply is a bathymetric map of the Sea of Galilee with a target and a hose with a jewel, symbolizing a drop of water. The piece explores the War over Water, a series of confrontations between Israel and its Arab neighbors from 1964 to 1967 over control of water sources in the Jordan River drainage basin. Lebanon and Syria diverted 35% of Israel’s water supply, however this plan was not feasible as it was costly and technically difficult. In addition to Water Supply, Fuller constructed a large, suspended sculpture of a map of the United States that uses various colors displaying tornado activity titled Tornado Alley. Fuller’s creations merge art, science, and politics, and bring attention to historical events that are not commonly known.

Water Supply by Victoria Fuller

Dan Mills uses maps to create a visualization of data that is constantly changing in his series Wars and Conflicts. His piece Asylum Seekers, Internally Displaced People, Refugees, and Stateless (A.I.R.S.) uses ink on book pages to show fragile populations. Mills’ work creates representation for victims of war who are, unfortunately, the least counted populations in the world.

Asylum Seekers, Internally Displaced People, Refugees, and Stateless (A.I.R.S.) by Dan Mills

Mel Watkins’ Mississippi River Charts move the viewer through playful patterns and abstract shapes within the channel of the Mississippi river, creating a poetic depiction of the lives and patterns of movement that must have flowed throughout the ages along its riverbanks. Watkins draws on maps of the Mississippi River to represent the economic importance of the river as well as the environmental problems caused by the use of the river. She displays the beauty and struggles of the Mississippi River that have been in place from the beginning of our country to present day.

The Mississippi River #90 by Mel Watkins

Lastly, Desenredando Fronteras /Unraveling Borders by Hector Duarte is a piece that is especially relevant to the changing political climate in America. This painting features monarch butterflies and their shapes morphing out of the barbed wire on the top of a fence. The bright colors and his use of line are bold and command attention. Duarte is from Mexico, and his message is especially powerful in Trump’s America – butterflies can freely cross the border, but Mexican citizens cannot.

Desenredando Fronteras /Unraveling Borders by Hector Duarte

Seeking Location: Mapping & Borders in Art displays the intersection of art, politics, and history with the work of twelve insightful artists. Exhibitions like this one in Michigan City, IN are important in the current turbulent political climate in our country and the rest of the world.

Thursday, Feb 9th’s line-up at the Metro Chicago demonstrated the vibrancy of the Black millennial talent blossoming in Chicago’s artistic Renaissance. The main headliner of the soulful R&B concert featured breakout artist Noname, as well as the young, magnetic vocal talents of Akenya Seymour and Ravyn Lenae.

Akenya Seymour, Photos © Brigid Gallagher (flickr).

Poet, singer, and song-writer Akenya Seymour opened the show with jazzy renditions of R&B classics like No Diggity by Blackstreet and Lost Ones by Lauryn Hill. While adding a refreshing flare to some of Hip Hop’s crowd favorites, she also showcased some of her own captivating original music. Her animated gestures and facial expressions had the affect of filling the packed concert hall with the creative wonders of black girl magic. Akenya’s eclectic vocal range gracefully moved from high-pitched tones to deep sultry sounds, reminiscent of a nascent Amy Winehouse.

Ravyn Lenae, a 16 year-old artist from the South Side of Chicago, dominated the stage with her petite frame, as her soothing voice captivated the audience. Claiming to be inspired by vocal legends like Erykah Badu and Indie.Arie, Lenae elegantly sang refreshing covers of well-known R&B hits like Solange’s Cranes in the Sky and Badu’s On and On. She was not shy in inviting the audience to sing along with her as she crouched down to meet viewers at eye-level.

Ravyn Lenae, Photos © Brigid Gallagher (flickr).

While both artists had a plethora of their own music to perform, Seymour and Lenae were gracious in dutifully paying respect to the influential R&B legends that came before them. This pretense to the headlining performer for the night warmed audience members up for Noname’s enchanting performance. Once Noname hit the stage to perform songs off her latest album Telefone, the audience was ready to appreciate the rigor of her craft even further.

The completeness of Noname’s performance, from the visuals to the live band and back-up vocals, demonstrated the innovativeness of her artistic practice as a musician. Her laid back energy paired with the rapid speed of her lyricism kept the audience comfortable, yet engaged. The candidness of her delivery, almost as if she were excitedly telling a story to a close friend, made her lyrics come to life. This tone fit well with the theme of her album Telefone, meant to simulate sincerity of learning about a love interest through phone conversations.

The complexity of her emotional expression through music was communicated through the dynamism of her vocabulary. A verse like, “Contemporary overzealous think I really like you//Sing with me, sing with me paranoia light blue,” allowed her beginnings as a poet shine through. Her word choices were the most playful in the song “Diddy-Bop”

Run, run, run, mama say come home before the streetlights do
Ice cream on my front porch in my new FUBU and my A1’s too
Watching my happy block my whole neighborhood hit the diddy bop

Like the lyrics above, her songs discuss a wide range of topics, from fame, summer love, loss, to the sorrows Chicago violence.

Noname, Photos © Brigid Gallagher (flickr).

At the tail end of her performance she had to pause as she tearfully revealed to the audience that she was dealing with the death of friend and Chicago rapper John Walt, also known as dinnerwithjohn. At this moment, a powerful visual of Walt was projected behind her as she courageously stated, “I’m not going to act like I’m not human.” While this moment was sad, it gave her performance an even more gripping importance.

Noname’s honest execution of her songs, full of optimism and sorrow, made it clear that music and expressive lyricism serves as more than creative outlet that inspires her. Her debut album Telefone is meant as an expression of self-care and self-love for both her and her fans.