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JUST JEAN

April 27, 2022

Stepping foot back in New York today feels like a warp-speed implosion back into the girl I was, and in some ways will always be. Even though I am officially a child of the midwest, The City, and the 1980s, hold the nucleus of my deepest truths, the integration of all of the disparate pieces of who I am. And dotted throughout the grid of concrete and cobblestone are the morsels of memories, and the souls of those who still inhabit me, rent-free.

One of those souls is the cute boy with the mischievous smile and soulful eyes that danced across me on my first trip into the kaleidoscope hub of our night-world — The Mudd Club. He was an artist. I was a girl escaping the midwest, just learning and discovering Art, capital A. In that way that happens when you are young and free and open to the world, our crossing paths night after night set the stage for the start of a friendship that would last until he left this life.

“Just Jean,” he said, as we finally exchanged names one night. I introduced myself as Cyd, a moniker cemented by his idol and then friend, Andy Warhol, when he was amused by my precocious use of my favorite screen idol to explain my (then) unusual given name…“Charise, like Cyd Charisse.” He soon invited me to see his work.

Over the next few years, Just Jean would change my world, though I didn’t know that then. When I eventually went to his studio, I was mesmerized by the freedom with which he moved. His shoes kicked off, music blaring, he was there, present in a way that felt calming and exhilarating all at once — painting what his soul and mind’s eye saw, and his ears heard. On one of my visits, I noted that he used a lot of primary colors.

He looked around at the canvases leaning against the walls and asked, “What should there be? What would you add?”

“Pink,” I answered. “But just the right shade. Sort of a blue-ish pink–”

“Like a sunset!” we both said, laughing at the vibing going on over a color.

And so we mixed hues of pink, side by side. He then directed me to add it to this canvas, and then another. At first, I was nervous, afraid I’d ruin what he’d already done. But he told me that wasn’t possible.

“Just fucking paint,” he said, nodding towards the canvas.

With that, I felt freed to simply follow my own inner muse, with this loaned sense of abandon that he granted me. And then he added more of his own colors on top of and around what I’d done. When he was done, he turned to me.

“Is that better? Do you like it now? Are you finally pleased?” he asked, feigning exasperation, before cracking that same grin as when we’d first met. That same grin that melted my heart a bit each time he shined it upon me.

“Much better,” I answered, giggling.

In between travels and our love affairs with others, we were simply a boy and a girl who held deep affection for one another. There were funny stories we shared. Some sad ones, too. Our scars on our bodies, his from a missing spleen, mine from a curved spine, were our matching metaphors that bonded us by what could be seen, and what stayed encased within. For each of us, it was the parts that stayed within that served as a shorthand in bonding us and our love and understanding of one another as fellow humans.

Now, nearly four decades later, I went to see the exhibit his family curated in his honor. Upon stepping into the first room, tears filled my eyes. It was instantly clear the overflow of love that went into this show. One of the things that we often spoke about was the frustration of being “othered” usually based upon race and/or being of multi-ethnic heritage. Since he died, I have often been angered by the way the [art] world has spoken of him and his work. Primitive…only a street artist…un-learned…accidental wunderkind of the art world. Missed with these errant broad strokes was his unique brilliance, keen intelligence, and mastery as an artist and scholar. Overlooked was his all-encompassing beauty, ironic humor, sweetness, and depth as a human and as a man. But now, standing in the @BasquiatKingPleasure exhibit, all of that was smoothed away. And in its place was installed a truer and fuller version of both artist and man.

@BasquiatKingPleasure

When I stepped into the re-creation of his studio, it took my breath away. It was the place I came to know him best. The place where he first demanded I put brush to canvas, and name myself an artist. The place where he painted my body as his canvas. Where he memorialized something dear to me that I lost. And when I saw his shoes and an empty pack of cigarettes on the floor, while a celluloid version of him painted off in the corner, I wept. For just a few moments, I was back there. Everything else around me receded. And he was still within reach, firmly in this world.

“Ma’am, please don’t lean against the fencing.” — Reality was back. My friend who I loved was gone again.

He died on my birthday as I was embarking on my senior year of university studies. I didn’t ever get to say goodbye. But as my homage to him the day I heard the news, I walked to the store across the street from my apartment and bought several flavors of ice cream. Back home, I sat on my kitchen counter as he and I had once done. I brought a spoon of frozen goodness to my lips, and closed my eyes to taste the colors of each flavor, just as he’d urged me to do. The tears streaming down my cheeks were salty, as the memories of him remained forever sweet.

This time, standing amidst the crowd of art enthusiasts, it finally felt as though I could say goodbye. I’m not convinced closure ever really happens when people we love die.

I’ve often joked that the painting he made for me (destroyed by my boyfriend who didn’t appreciate being cast as the devil to my angel in its imagery—like I said, Just Jean had an ironic sense of humor), would have been worth a bit more these days than the cost of free he charged me.

“Take the money,” I said to him, holding out the wad of hundreds.

“I won’t take your money,” he said, standing firm.

I went to put it on top of the television set.

“I’ll throw it out the window,” he said, looking me in the eyes.

We stood there in an eye to eye stand-off…1…2…3… And then we both laughed. He had won.

I was a year too late on being able to take him up on his offer to paint another one for me once I had my own first grown-up apartment. Each place I’ve lived in since then has held one empty wall. Without realizing it, I’ve instinctively left a place for him in my world for all of these years. But being back in The City, surrounded by his work, some of his favorite music, and so much of his energy, has gifted me with a feeling as close to closure as I can imagine. Perhaps it is time for me to paint something myself to fill the space. The love forever remains. The gratitude only grows. Viva Just Jean. Siempre.

@BasquiatKingPleasure

(Basquiat King Pleasure exhibition, 601 W 26th St., New York, NY 10001, USA)

Category: Uncategorized  •  Tags: 1980s, art, artist, artists, basquiat, BLACK ARTISTS, black women artists, BLACK WRITERS, club kids, jean michel basquiat, king pleasure, life, love, mudd clubb, new york city, nyc, survivor, truth, truths, warhol, writers, young love  •  Have a Comment?

CHARISE M STUDESVILLE INTERVIEW WITH THE STAN BRAVO PODCAST

February 7, 2022

Author, filmmaker, and artist Charise M Studesville talks with Stan Bravo about HWood, humbling yourself for your art, Basquiat, and her contribution to the paranormal women’s fiction collection Aged To Perfection.




Category: Uncategorized  •  Tags: bipoc authors, bipoc characters, bipoc heroines, bipoc stories, bipoc writers, biracial, BLACK ARTISTS, Black Girl Magic, Black women writers, paranormal, PARANORMAL ROMANCE, paranormal women's fiction, PWF, romance, ROMANCE NOVELS, women, women over 40, WOMEN OVER 50, WOMEN WRITERS, women’s fiction, writers, zero fucks given  •  Have a Comment?

Revelations of A MadCity Black/Mixed Girl

August 22, 2020

Follow the link here for an article I wrote that shines a spotlight, magnifying glass, and TRUTH screen on my time growing up in America’s Heartland.

34.134071-118.3217454

Category: Uncategorized  •  Tags: America, artists, biracial, black, black lives matter, education, it happened to me, Kamala Harris, Obama, politics, race, society, truth, white fragility, writer, writers  •  Have a Comment?

My Homage to a Beautiful Soul

September 12, 2018

In honor of World Suicide Prevention Day, I share this from the heart, something I wrote in 2015 out of love for an old friend…

Someone I love once told me, I am the Collector Of Broken Birds. She meant that I tend to bond with people who are in ownership of their pain, who have seen things in life that would leave others lost amidst the rubble. I knew what she meant. But I never looked at it that way. Instead, I saw it as an outgrowth of my understanding of pain, and my willingness to see it in others without shrinking away from it. Looking into the eyes of pain does not scare me, as it does so many other people. I don’t see it as contagious, or a sign of weakness. I see it for what it is, the remnant of survival. So, when some are fooled into believing that beautiful woman who is always smiling, is also the beholder of a perfect, pain and sorrow free existence, I am not so quick to be taken in by the smile worn across the battle scars. And for those of us who can see both the smile and the scars, without flinching, and also share a glimpse of our own scarring under the smile with that brave soul across from us, who also doesn’t flinch, that is a miraculous moment when it feels as though the universe, or god, is saying that it sees you, and loves you, no matter your imperfections and complications.

I met a woman who proved to be one of these rare souls, while I was in the throes of mommying my little trio of girls, and she was mommying her trio of one boy and two girls. She offered humor and irreverence and a kind welcome that doesn’t always come from a lifelong resident of a small community, towards a newbie interloper. But she never thought twice in making me feel welcomed and at home, without any of the once-over that can be used even by adult women in their leftover from middle school dynamics. After awhile of knowing one another, we chatted one day about a film I was blown away by, Searching For Angela Shelton, where 70% of the filmmaker’s namesakes she discovers in her travels across the US, share the same unfortunate background of being survivors of rape, sexual abuse, or domestic violence. But before I could get the name of the film out, she finished my sentence for me, sharing that she’d been blown away by the honesty and rawness and bravery of the film, as well. We each shared our connection to the film from our respective personal lives, and joked that we would forever be “Angela Shelton Sisters.” After that, we kept in contact with each other, and relished the honesty we could put forth with each other, facts we wouldn’t share freely with many others, not because of shame, but because not everyone could be expected to look into the eyes of broken birds, and still be able to see the bird, without only focusing upon the broken bits. This woman became my friend. And in doing so, she fortified my vision of myself as a member of an army of women who were strong enough to buck family secrets, and societal victim blaming, without crumbling under the burden of The Past, in order to build our lives with depth and love and humor and strength.

This week, she drove to a quiet spot, one she’d probably driven past a million times, on her way to take kids to activities, or running errands in surrounding communities, or even as a teenager, while looking for the perfect, secret drinking and make-out spot. But last Saturday, she navigated her way there for her own private reasons. Some of those, I know from our conversations, were most-likely the remnants of the shadows of what made her a beautiful, broken bird. She acted in the here and now, but the reasoning was put into play during those early years, when carefree, sun-dappled moments were darkened with unthinkable violation and betrayals of the highest order. When someone loses a limb, there can be excruciating moments of phantom pain, even though there is nothing there, to the naked eye. Today, as I think of my friend, I’m reminded that the scars we carry bring their own phantom pain. And, sometimes, that phantom pain is enough to move us to cut it off at its source, and life has to end in order to bring us the relief that living could not grant us. I pray that wherever she might be, she finds the laughter and love and kindness and beauty that she shared with the rest of us while she was here, along with finally reaching her own little patch of sun where what made her broken is forever vanished with the first shimmer of her ever after.

Category: Uncategorized  •  Tags: angel, Angela Shelton, AngelaSheltonSisterhood, battle scars, beauty, friendship, girls, heaven, hell, joy, LoveLikeAlicia, metoo, pain, rape culture, secrets, suicide, survivor, survivors, timesup, truth, TRUTH And The Eye Of The Beholder, truths, women, world suicide prevention day  •  Have a Comment?

Check back often……for all things TRUTH.

November 1, 2017

xoxo,

Cyd

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The Countdown Is On!

February 1, 2022

The Perks of Being A Hoodoo Rose

The Perks of Being A Hoodoo Rose is my novelette in the upcoming paranormal women’s fiction romance collection, Aged to Perfection. The story takes place in a small Midwestern town, where one sister takes over the family hoodoo business and must break a centuries-old hex that threatens to prevent the women in their family from finding lasting love. It is the launch of a series, and a celebration of family, romance, and magic. Can’t wait to share!

Preorder here: https://agedtoperfectionset.com/aged-to-perfection

Category: Uncategorized  •  Tags: bipoc mail characters, Black women writers, hoodoo, paranormal, paranormal women's fiction, romance, women over 40  •  Have a Comment?

Charise M. Studesville: The Perks of Being A Hoodoo Rose | Mandy M. Roth

January 14, 2022

Aged to Perfection Author Spotlight: Charise M. Studesville The Perks of Being A Hoodoo Rose About Charise M. Studesville Charise wrote her first story on a chalkboard at 5 years old. Since then, she’s expanded to writing books, films, and tv shows, mostly on paper. She’s also the …
— Read on mandyroth.com/charise-m-studesville-the-perks-of-being-a-hoodoo-rose/

Author Q&A

Q: What’s a misconception about midlife that you’d like to clear up?

A: We are not obsolete or past our prime. We are the precise opposite of that, smarter, wiser, focused, practiced, resolute, innovative, seasoned. The idea that beauty and desirability are traits that belong solely to women under 40 is the most preposterous and damaging offshoot of Madison Avenue modern advertising tropes there has ever been. I look around at my friends who are over 40, and I am awestruck at the everything-ness that they encompass. One friend just turned 70 this year, and she is the most vibrant, brilliant, beautiful human I know…still writing, editing, dating, and falling in love. We didn’t grow up knowing that was a possibility. But now we are creating a new paradigm for ourselves, and the women who will come along after us. Also, sex after 40 is way hotter and more fun than anyone ever told us. We know ourselves, our likes and dislikes, our bodies. It’s honestly the best kept secret of midlife.

Q: What was your favorite part of writing Paranormal Women’s Fiction? 

A: The relationship between the sisters. While the main story revolves around two sisters in their forties, there are three generations of sisters in this story. While I was writing it, I was missing my own sister. She lives in Louisville, KY, while I live in Los Angeles. My heart has ached all through the pandemic that I couldn’t just hug her. Writing this story brought the spirit of our being reunited back to my mind and heart. We have had to work at our relationship. But no matter the bumps in the road, we are one another’s fiercest allies and protectors. And there is no one who can make us laugh like we do with each other. Our kids always know when we are talking, because we sound like we are 16-years-old, giggling as we tell our secrets. Writing this story brought all of that into play for me.

Q: Tell us a bit about your story.

A: The story is ultimately about family, the sacred bond that sisters can have with one another, and the ancestral traditions and ties that bind us to each other. But it is also about the possibility that romantic love is out there for each of us, simply waiting for the right time to make its arrival into our lives.

Category: Uncategorized  •  Tags: angel, bipoc authors, bipoc heroines, bipoc stories, bipoc writers, biracial authors, biracial writers, Black Girl Magic, Black Love, Black women writers, conjure, family, folk magic, girls, hoodoo, love, magic, Midwest, New Orleans, over 40, paranormal, PWF, romance, sisters, soulmate, truth, women, women’s fiction, writer, writers  •  Have a Comment?

My Favorite Book

August 4, 2019

For years, I believed I was the only one who loved reading the dictionary. The gigantic one that required its own special stand, and lived in my hometown library of Madison, Wisconsin , was my gateway drug to a lifelong addiction. But I’ve now discovered that there are many of us Dictionary Freaks, lovers of words and the alphabet labyrinth held within the bound pages of our brain excursions.

https://austinkleon.com/2017/08/17/why-i-love-my-paper-dictionary/

Category: Uncategorized  •   • 

Next Gen

September 21, 2018

Category: Uncategorized  •  Tags: feminism, girls, heaven-is-my-hell, hope, life, metoo, rape culture, survivors, truth, truths, women, writer, writers, zeitgeist  •  Have a Comment?

The Givers

July 3, 2018

I’ve lost a couple of friends to suicide. One was a middle and high school friend who I teen party made out with a few times, but whose importance as a friend in my heart in those days, and for always, was far greater than I ever got the chance to tell him. My other friend was a fellow mom, a TRUTH speaker, and 80s girl, who shared heart and soul with me. She called me brave; I named her braver. Then there were the friends from my NYC days who were lost to passive suicide, via heroin addiction. I see now that each of them was an Empath—absorbing the energy of those around them. Each one was entertaining as hell to be around. Each one felt deeply. Each one left a soul imprint on so many they crossed paths with. I’ve often wondered why so many wondrous souls leave us “too soon.” Then it occurred to me this morning…maybe all the energy takers depleted their energy supply in order to live their lives, leaving the energy givers with no more to sustain themselves. And if that is true, if we consciously helped the givers to protect and preserve just a little bit more, maybe they’d be able to give those extra morsels of energy to their own weary souls. Just a thought.

Category: Uncategorized  •   •  Have a Comment?

TRUTH is…

May 6, 2018

As a writer of TRUTH, I’ve discovered that it is harder to give raw truth, that feels surreal and unbelievable and sometimes doesn’t paint me in the best light or might cause someone to look at me with that look of pity I detest, than to give a sanitized version that may be more palatable to The Judgers. But I’ve learned to get familiar with the discomfort that TRUTH brings. That’s a triumph in this life filled with duplicity and faux respectability. It has become my homebase. And my feet feel solidly planted for the first time ever.

Category: Uncategorized  •   •  Have a Comment?

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