Opening September 10th at Pioneer Works, artist LJ Roberts’s first solo exhibition in New York City, Carry You With Me: Ten Years of Portraits, is the result of a long-term, ongoing project, consisting of twenty-six six-by-four-inch embroidered portraits of the artist’s friends, collaborators, and lovers within New York City’s queer and trans communities. Stitched entirely by hand and typically completed during transit on subway trains, these embroideries illustrate how politics, culture, and identity manifest in both visible and subtle ways through encounters in daily life.

To coincide with the exhibition, an accompanying publication, titled after the show, pairs Roberts’s textile works with anecdotal passages, wherein the artist reflects on the deeply personal companionships and shared moments with the depicted subjects. Text contributions by Carmen Hermo, Tirza Latimer, Theodore (ted) Kerr, and TT Takemoto further contextualize the works within Roberts’s practice. There will be a book launch at Pioneer Works during September Second Sundays, from 4-5pm.

In anticipation of the book’s release, Broadcast is publishing selected works from the publication and their related texts, viewable below.

Stitched in Brooklyn (NY).

After the Trans March we all head to Tompkins Square Park. We conduct a quick change of apparel and apply flamboyant makeup for the Drag March. Milling queens and kings smear glitter and adjust wigs. Regally and royally, they throw cheeky compliments and sweet shade. Ariel’s look is a stripped-down version of her everyday dandyism where suspenders clipped to blushing short shorts are fierce over a bare torso. Chicago, also known as Princess Tiny and the Meats, rocks Docs and a dress. A newer wave of new wave, they arrive in a ratty black minivan that complements their black eyeliner and midnight hued electric guitar. In tow, a cat with fur like soft obsidian. Names chosen and powerfully adorned by ourselves and each other, we face the sunset and travel to Stonewall. Upon reaching Sheridan Square, the mass sings “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” The clouds are far behind us in a land that we heard of once in a new wave lullaby.

Stitched in Brooklyn (NY), Maynard (MA), San Diego (CA), Santa Fe (NM).

Once, Hadley gave me a Ziploc bag with their nickname for me, “Frush,” a portmanteau of “friend-crush,” written on it. I do not remember what the bag contained, but I repurposed it to hold needles and thread. I carry this toolkit in my tote bag where it bumps companionably against the embroideries I am in the process of stitching. Poked one too many times by scissors, the Ziploc turns opaque and gradually disintegrates. I call Hadley to tell them that too many sharp objects have spilled from the bag. Promptly, a new Ziploc with “Frush,” distinctively scrawled, in capital letters, written in thick black permanent marker, arrives in the mail. It is a strange and beloved ritual, this empty baggie that appears in my mailbox. And when Frush—entirely content sleeping on an air mattress in the middle room with all three dogs—flies in, they bring a new Ziploc. The baggie appears empty, but that is an illusion. My name is written on the plastic and the bag is full of devotion.

Stitched in Brooklyn (NY), Cherry Grove, Fire Island (NY), Riverside (CA), Pittsburgh (PA) & on a cross-country road trip to Smithville (TN) in Hadassah Damien’s van.

Among alphabet avenues, the shuttered stores and The Pyramid, the archive and the art, the choreography of Ailey, I land in the East Village between Sur’s apartment on 9th Street and Jack and Peter’s place on 1st. Another country welcomes the wide-eyed runaways of the Midwest and fosters stoop chats on the streets of the gridded neighborhood. Le Petit Versailles, the lovingly tended public garden, is full of food on the table to share, greetings, first meetings, sometimes hesitant how-are-yous. I walk through open iron gates and under a canopy of green, to join them in watching a night of spandex-clad performance, electronic gay disco sounds, and purple light. What to say? This is what you made, what you gave, and what we hold: the pedagogy of the possible.

Stitched in New York (NY), Glover (VT), Philadelphia (PA), Dalton (PA), Wevertown (NY) Provincetown (MA), Bearsville (NY), New Orleans (LA), Fort Lauderdale (FL), Key West (FL), & on a ship in the Caribbean Sea.

Sarah’s studio is a box inside of a box. Negative space underneath a loft supports the charming chaos of faded furniture, which belongs to the restoration shop that surrounds it. Weavings depicting worlds meeting encircle multiple looms and an industrial sewing machine. Extension cords hang from walls and the ceiling, mirroring the gravity of hanging threads. The radiator-less studio is warmed by a space heater, yet we are dressed in winter coats and gloves. Sarah’s workshop in a workshop—her shelves with books, notes, and sketches—display an unceasing Capricorn work ethic. Just two blocks away from my home, the distance I travel to Sarah’s studio is the exact length of tolerable walks in bitter winter cold. I stay until warmed up, both in temperature and morale. On days too cold, Sarah and I meet on the corner where our streets collide. The long bar where we first met is also at this intersection, and is shuttered now, but there are always new ways to keep warm.

Stitched in Montreal, Quebec (Canada), Anza-Borrego (CA), & on a road trip through West Texas.

On a queer land project in the wilds of Tennessee is the womxn-led chainsaw crew–hard hats heavy, gloves rough with grime. Somehow, Jenny learning how to wield a chainsaw from Kubby Bear seems congruent with the Yiddish theater she peppers with wisdom and buoyancy. Jenny’s nickname for me is Cool Cool LJ. When she gets me on the dance floor I almost feel like I can live up to this moniker. Kubby Bear, handsome with a wide warm smile and a soft button-down shirt, transforms a chainsaw into something gentle. In the calloused hands of the crew, forest care is loving and life-sustaining. Some days I fantasize about walking in the steel and rubble of Manhattan, and the chainsaw crew appearing, showing us that if you hold a tool a certain way, it builds and tends, instead of destroys. ♦