there's love here.
Olivia Dean's The Art of Loving, being soft, and building a home
I took a dive into Olivia Dean this year. pun intended.
though her debut album Messy released in 2023, it accompanied me this past June on my first real intentional solo trip — New Orleans. it was a dream weekend where all I did was write, eat, drink wine, and embrace art, people and culture. I was hugging myself throughout and Messy also wrapped its arms around me setting the tone as soon as I took off on that plane.
but this isn’t exactly about that. neither is it a review or interpretation of Dean’s sophomore album The Art of Loving. the lyrics from the album will serve as an overall guide to this piece and point of reference for my thoughts.
something lost and something gained in the art of loving
Olivia Dean mentioned reading the famous All About Love by bell hooks before the creation of her album. the iconic red book that sits on many people’s shelves, collecting dust or having one too many unfolded dog ears. I remember reading it the first time as a teenager, bracing for the day I fall in love that I will be prepared with answers.
more than several years later, this past month I decided to pick up the book for the second time in my life — very self aware at this point that I do not have all the answers. that though there are many things I do know, I realized just as Olivia’s title indicates love as an art. when I think of it in such a way, I understand it is truly a practice. one that you may be practicing until death.
when I think of my craft, I’m not one who is ten toes down sure every single time. my craft is one where I always wanted to grow in and be a student of. my craft uses much of my intuition. I’m just realizing love can be viewed in a similar sense. I may have all the tools here within me, but if I’m not actively picking it up and tending to it can I feel out of touch. a bit imbalanced.
just show it. water, sunlight, talking all night. just enough to grow it.
in November, I went back home and being surrounded by friends and family gave me the exact fuel that I needed. I don’t think any of them are aware of what they did for me. it’ll be a comment that will usually start like, “you’re the type…”, “you do…”, “you are someone who…”. and the several weeks before that I guess I was starting to forget. and how lovely is it to be tended to so positively, seen so confidently, in their eyes. that I came back here and rewired my speech. I’ve been feeling like, “I am not…”
but the thing is “I am…”
I am loveable.
even when it’s not tied to some end goal or purpose for another.
I’m acutely aware of how people feel about me based on how they treat me despise their words. but being aware about something isn’t an action. that’s when the hurt pours in because why am I still here?
cause you don't make it easy, now I'm all close up
I can't tell if you need me or want me all that much
did I misread completely every single touch?
do you even see mе
some people will make you feel unloveable.
that you’re too much. too emotional. yet not soft enough. too rough. too tough. not fulfilling a certain role. but because of conditioning from growing up with transactional love will you feel the need to stay. fix them. their perception of you. I beckon the question of do you like how you see yourself from their point of view? if the answer is no, it’s probably because they don’t see you.
yet you’re worried on repairing their eyesight instead of acknowledging it just isn’t a truth you need to carry.
you react like I'm crossing a line
I'm too much to handle, and, "just dial it back a bit"
well, well, I'm not having it, babe
if you knew me at all
you wouldn't try to keep me small
mm, who would do that to a friend, let alone the one you love?
I realized I was waiting for sentences like, “you’re stubborn/so opinionated/andallthethingsdescribedinanotsopositivemanner” to end with “and I like that about you.” it usually never did. waiting for a poem to see myself in never came.
so, I did it for myself. not in a way where it’s like “no one else would so I have to” but more in a way like “I love the way I see myself.” I truly adore myself. and that’s the sole reason why I can see your lens and think of it as untrue.
'cause I make it so easy to fall in love
so, come give me a call, and we'll fall into us
I'm the perfect mix of saturday night and the rest of your life
anyone with a heart would agree
I yearn for myself and the beauty I create.
my edges are sharp when needed and also soft. I don’t think any man I’ve encountered could call me that. but I look at my femininity as this wild thing. and this softness I possess is not synonymous to weak. it is deep.
it is not an aesthetic. it’s not dressed up all the time, and it might not be pink. and I could never understand why my sensitivity can’t be handle with care. a question I already know posed by many black women before me. why couldn’t they see the softness in me? whatever picture is painted of my being and my heart to hell with it.
what it is, is the peeled back layers and it is the honesty I possess. the full assurance of what I am as I sway my hips on this earth. mine is full of whimsy. mine is not hidden behind a mysterious allure. mine has preferences and will let you know, mine is observant, mine is quite bold, mine has brown eyes and thick locs. and just because the touch of that is unfamiliar to you. does not mean it’s not soft.
the removal of my softness is an erasure. the narrative of who gets to be loved is tired. clay is soft until it’s hardened. by bitterness, nihilism and hatred. until those things have filled my heart beyond compare, I am soft.
my passionate self is not a thing that is too much or not worth the kisses and the hugs and love. do not tell mine we are not romantic. I am the most romantic of them all.
not hiding behind ignorant bliss and temporary fulfillment. my love is lasting. my love is spiritual. it is deep. my love is all encompassing. and it is here.
she’s always changing me without a word, and I was just getting used to her
watching myself change has come with many feelings that were unfamiliar. watching my external world change even more so. and now I can admit my desires despite how much shame lingers or how much shame is imposed. desiring forms of gentleness and intimacy and knowing you are deserving of it is peak! being honest about where it could exist for you and what it could look like is immaculate!
letting go of shame is the ideal. it’s like a cover. it’s so heavy for no reason.
Is it thinking too high of myself to not want to be sad. It’s too much to belong to anyone. I’m too scared to be changed.
of course, I still care. love’s never wasted when it’s shared.
love does not beg for you to choose it. because it’s a simple choice. it’s easier than most argue about. I’m not just referring to rejection of a relationship but in other ways this may appear. the constant asking for someone to show up. to understand.
or to be kind. love is kind.
and love can sometimes fade away over time. there are people out there who may regret a situation or two because of the emotions spared. but just like dean’s line references — it’s never wasted when it’s shared.
I understand if you changed your mind about me, but all you had to do was say.
if we’re more honest to each other and ourselves will we not let resentment build and suck all that we known was good. I often question what you’re asking of someone are you willing to give?
I am my dream lover.
I kinda like it when you call me wonderful. baby, let’s get on the same page, stop making me read between the lines.
my love is expansive because I seek it in all relationships and not something revered for special ones. I not a human free from error. yet I love the way I care. I love the way I give. I love the way I love. but love is far removed from me when I operate from fear. I turn to everyone and everything but myself.
what’s meant for me, will be for me. things will fall in place as they’ve always done.
I don’t want a love that is sinking. but one where the sun knows to shine upon.
I’ve heard it laced in every song, and still the words all come out wrong… I know it’s somewhere in my chest, I guess it’s been inside me all along.
writing about love is such a finicky thing. it’s a subject matter most people don’t agree on. it’s a conversation some people will shame others for whereas others are adorned as yearners. but it’s a conversation constantly talked about. knowing what it means for yourself will dictate how it appears in every facet of your life.
so be free and let love in.
there’ll be roses on the shelf, cause this house gon love itself.
it’s cold outside. but i swear it is warm in my heart.
i wrap myself in blankets. i light my candle every night and i make myself tea. i am not going anywhere because i want to build a home here. a home in my body, in my community, in the place where i lay my head. there will be a scent of sweetness, spice, richness of the earth — i will be like roots of a tree. recognizable. thick and still growing. i can’t believe i almost took an axe to cut it down because i wasn’t sure. but sometimes it’s just a matter of opening the windows.