Still, Here

an art show years in the making and a golden glow

One evening in 2021, I attended an art opening in a little ground floor gallery on a pretty street in Algiers that seemed to be always be dripping in bougevvilla no matter the season. It was a show for a young artist named Billel Decherani who comes from a town called Medea. I was first drawn to the color of his oil pastels but also the somewhat whimsical yet serious characters in his work. There was a rootedness I noticed then, stationary subjects, but even a vase seemed to be lost in contemplation. My then-husband and I bought three pieces from that show.

One evening in 2023 I sat sadly in my attic apartment in Washington DC. It was to be “our” attic apartment, as in the husband’s and mine, but soon after we moved in to the top level of a creaky old home on a leafy suburban street, back from a 12 year adventure abroad, the husband announced he wanted a separation and he left me alone in a small, dated apartment that I’d hung floor-to-ceiling with artwork. It was an evening of epiphanies. One was inspired by a tree blowing in the attic skylight that told me I can root down at the same time I branch out. Another came to me as I looked at all that art and said: I guess all this is over for me. There goes that exciting life abroad. No more meeting artists in foreign countries. Then, wait. Isn’t everything I’m looking at here me? Didn’t I find all this and bring it here and arrange it just so? And if it’s me then it stands to reason that I can create this again. And maybe even again. And again after that.

It was in that moment that I decided I’d resist my first impulse to up and move to Paris. But if I was to make a life again in Washington DC, I wanted it to be more artistic and more creative that it was that last go-round. I was just starting to “come into my powers” as I like to joke, which means I was only beginning to tap into the intuition that has become my most trusted companion these past few years. I shut my eyes and tried to envision a life in DC. I actually do this a lot to decide if something is right. And I must admit, although ex-husband and I “knew” of our upcoming assignment in Istanbul for a long time, I could never see us living there. And we wouldn’t. Anyways, I shut my eyes and pictured a future life in DC and there I was, in a long, colorful dress, opening the door to let in a guest as a warm, glowy, golden-hued party was taking place behind me.

One evening in 2024, I sat in my new (but very old) apartment in Washington DC, a dream apartment, or at least my dream apartment: Charming old-fashioned details, creaky pine floors, large windows looking out to the prettiest Upper West Side-esque streets, art covering all the walls. I tried to read a book on the most beautiful sofa in the world but I was so restless then and prone to spontaneously darting out the door to see a concert alone. I considered the Billel Decherani paintings I had and thought I should see about ordering a few more of his artworks. The following year, less restless and more settled, yet feeling on the cusp of some nebulous thing, I realized I should have bought up the rest of his pieces from the same collection and I embarked on my first international art deal that led to me ultimately owning 22 of Billel’s brilliant oil pastels.

One evening in 2025 - last Sunday evening to be exact - I prepared to host an art show featuring the 22 Billel Decherani paintings, which I’d peppered through my apartment.

Outside, the street was an unbelievable golden hue, six-story tall ginkgo trees canopying, and the fallen yellow leaves yellow brick roading the upward slope to my turn-of-the-century apartment building. A golden interior too, the Algerian lamp aglow, a flickering candle in every room.

Just before the arty party, the apartment was in pristine shape owing to two things: I’d hired a chef for the first time ever to cater the party, and my incredibly attentive boyfriend had been doing things like vacuuming my window sills, rearranging all the chairs into optimal party configurations, and taking a scooter to Trader Joe’s for flowers to fill vases. I went to get dressed with plenty of time to spare. I knew just what to wear: A long, floral dress, lots of the same colors as in Billel’s work, but also it was the closest thing I had to what I was wearing in my vision. And then, I opened the door in a colorful dress, golden light behind me, and the party started.

I called Billel Decherani’s show “Still, Here” and wrote of it:

His subjects — birds, a horse, a guitar, vases, men and women in quiet contemplation — appear rooted in place, yet alive with color and tension. Through these contrasts, Decherani captures the strange beauty of being bound and blooming all at once.

One goal for this show was to demonstrate that one can and should live with art (and lots of it, if you ask me) and to create a warmer vibe in which to appreciate art than a concrete-floored, white walled gallery space. I also wanted to highlight the narrative qualities of a piece of art - that is, the story of its creation and its movement around the world - as a thing to focus on maybe more so than the aesthetics of the piece.

I have to say, it was one of the best parties I’ve ever hosted and I’ve hosted my share! It was warm and convivial and there were a few wonderful connections made, like the friend-of-a-friend art collector who showed up, bought a painting (!), and then mentioned he was just in Nigeria for a big art opening for Victor Ehikhamenor, the same Victor who came into my life recently when boyfriend and I found his work at an antique store and returned his Elijah painting to him.

If you’d like to peruse the Still, Here catalogue, see what’s still available, and consider purchasing a Billel Decherani work for yourself or for a loved one, please do.

Days later, I remain aglow. The ginkgos out my window are so yellow its nearly obscene. I am still. (As still as I can be anyways). I am here.

What’s Inspiring Me:

• A recent trip to New Orleans where we stayed in Maison Metier, a chic and eclectic boutique hotel had me snapping photos of so many details: Hieroglyphic artwork, snake shower handles, serpentine hooks. New Orleans itself is so eclectic it almost defines characterization.

• The two-part play The Inheritance, which I recently saw on back-to-back nights at the Roundhouse Theater in Bethesda. It’s about several generations of gay men, friendships, what we owe to those who’ve paved the way, storytelling, and more. I don’t think I’ve ever sobbed in public like I (along with half the people in the theater) did at the end of Part I.

• Clearly the color yellow as I’m practically engulfed in it. Fall in the northeast of America is not overhyped. It as every bit as good as everyone says. Also yellow is reminding me of just how much light exists, even when it feels like the darkness is winning out. (It’s not).

So much more I could say but alas my wrists are sore from typing, my ass has been in this chair for too long and I need to get myself outside for a golden hour walk before it gets pitch dark at 5pm.