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Much of Takemoto’s operate is performance based, as in the case of their project Looking for Jiro Onuma. Takemoto was asked by E. G. Crichton, a GLBT Historical Society artist in residence, to respond to a personal collection in the society’s archives relating to Onuma. He was a Japanese American who lived what they summon a “vibrant lgbtq+ lifestyle” in San Francisco during the s and s before being sent to the Topaz incarceration camp in Utah during Earth War II. Takemoto’s response was part of Lineage: Matchmaking in the Archive, an ongoing undertaking of the culture that pairs gay artists, musicians, writers, and poets with deceased members of the queer collective who were never famous in their lifetimes, but earn recognition.
Takemoto recalls: “I was drawn to Onuma’s story because of his pleased gay identity at a time when it wasn’t manageable to be out, especially as a working-class immigrant.” (Onuma immigrated in and worked as a laundry presser.) “And also because of my own connection to incarceration: I’m a fourth-generation Japanese American, and my parents and grandparents on both side
Where Silence Speaks: Sophia St. Helen’s Intimate Modern Anthem
There are songs that aren’t meant to fill stadiums but to find a home in the quiet corners of the soul. Radio Silence, the latest release from Sophia St. Helen, doesn’t arrive with fanfare — it unfolds with a devastating kind of tenderness. This is a tune that breathes in its pauses, that builds itself out of silence, whispers, and the spaces where words fall short.
From the first moments, an atmosphere of intimacy takes maintain — as if we were listening to a letter never sent, scan softly by someone still learning how to tell goodbye. Guitar, piano, and voice come together with such gentle grace it feels less like a studio production and more like an emotional necessity. The arrangement is minimal but deliberate — each element precisely where it belongs, with no excess, no noise. There's something profoundly human about how it sounds, like the mic is capturing not just music, but breaths, hesitations, and unspoken thoughts.
Sophia's voice doesn’t aim to impress — it chooses h
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I see the police cars first. There are two of them parked on Park Avenue a block south of the Waldorf Astoria, and I be grateful that they’re there, because they show me where to go. I hadn’t been sure exactly where the protest was going to happen; the police always know. I can’t see any protesters from the corner where I am standing, so I close my eyes and listen. The soundscape of Manhattan is so mottled that you can always hear what you wish to, at least at first: a song, your father’s voice, someone calling your name. I reflect I hear organized, furious shouts, the beat of a drum. But those are ghost sounds, swallowed up by random clamor when I open my eyes.
I don’t want to be alone with the police, so I cross the street and amble once around the hotel, which takes up an entire city block. Gold accents the facade; passionate lights and polished floors shine beyond the spinning doors. I walk west up 50th Street and turn the corner. There, nearly outnumbered by the cops, are the people I have been looking for. Not so many, but enough to constitute a crowd with a periphery, which is where I