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leaf cutter ants from costa rica - june 15, 2024

Beneath my feet lies a vast underground network larger than my one bedroom apartment. The only above ground evidence of this network is enormous piles of excavated soil, and the winding road of workers. They carry fragments of leaves, berries, caterpillar droppings, and other plant materials in a mostly single file line as long as 500 meters (2000 feet). Once they reach an opening, they disappear into expertly constructed tunnels (with air vents built in because of how deep in the ground they go) leading to a large body of fungus at which they drop off the plant material. It can only be compared to a pilgrimage, a divine duty to sustain an entity that quite literally feeds them. These workers are Atta cephalotes, leaf cutter ants native to Central and South America. They construct intricate nests that sometimes required scientists up to 10 tons of cement to cast and several months to remove from the ground. But their complex societies and roles rival these nests in intricacy. The population of the colony is divided into four castes, each with specialized jobs that aid in the farming of the fungus and the prosperity of the colony. 

Among these jobs is the humble forager, an ant who cuts leaves and brings them back to the nest. These ants come into direct contact with the fungus inside of the nest, as well as a host of all kinds of pathogens along the way. A war rages on everyday with a particular parasitic fungus that greatly alters ant behavior, ultimately leading to fatality. 

Last week, in Pejibaye, Costa Rica, I saw a forager ant afflicted with the cordyceps (or zombie) fungus. It was exhibiting all of the usual behavior - she kept dropping her leaf, she was sluggish and disoriented (I say she because all worker ants are female - the males are used for mating and then discarded). It all culminated to the final death walk. She wandered off the path, heading towards nowhere in particular. Normally, ants let the injured or diseased go - in fact, the garbage workers usher the bodies themselves to the graveyard. But for the first time observed, a fellow (clearly lucid) forager ant followed the diseased one. Quickly, she caught up to the ant and crossed her path multiple times. She’d get the zombie ant to follow her back towards the path, but the ant would once again become void of the self determination it once possessed and wander off. The lucid ant tried over and over again, seemingly pleading with the sick ant to return to the colony, but her efforts were fruitless. I thought about trying to reroute the ant myself. But ultimately I continued my hike, wondering somewhat anthropomorphically why even the most instinctive creatures will occasionally show allegiance to the pitiful. 

Kenny diary - October 2025-ongoing, excerpts below

2/24

11:43am My buddy. He flys to my shoulder, not as frequently as my head, but I prefer it this way. Makes me feel like a pirate 

2/26 

12:27am Grooms my fingers, grooms my face from his spot on my shoulder. 
9:33pm He stood by while I did flowers. Insisted on being right where the action was, on the table instead of the perch. It’s increasingly harder to get him to stay on the perch or in his spots - unsure what to do about this. Cannot do flowers with him again, he 
keeps trying to eat things. He is my little misbehaving helper 

2/28 

3:49pm We have the flying on command pretty down. He will do it now not just in the mornings, but any time - maybe because he is still trying to court me 

3/1 

11:46am I tour a new house in Laurel canyon. It is stunning, perfect size and all I can think about is how perfect it would be for kenny - although the door to my room leads outside, which could be problematic and would require extra care. 
4:37pm Going through sophies closet for some of my things and others she offered me. He likes his new white chair - i placed it by the window.
11:03pm Spending extra time with him lately, knowing i am going to germany in a few days. We do laptop work together 

3/4

12:02am I send directions of his set up and needs to Cyanne for while I’m away. As terrible as it is, I am happy for the space from each other. I don’t know how to communicate to him that I am not his mate - I leave the room now every time he tries to court me. It’s every single day now - he will fly to the floor even while I am looking for what to wear that day and will do the butthole thing. It’s unsettling and it makes me feel like a terrible mother. I cannot get another dove for him right now - i am moving, moving again in a few months and increasingly importing a dove is becoming more difficult. There is a terrible flu at the museum, doves have died. He cannot go there. I am hoping this time will be constructive, but it also breaks my heart because I know he is extra hormonal and needs me now, and I am leaving. I try to tell him as i leave that I will be coming back. 

3/6 

6:04pm Cyanne sends me a photo of kenny on her head. I am grateful for her taking care of him 

3/9 

3:39pm Paris time I am in paris now. The pigeons gathering for their important meeting at lycee condorset reminds me of him - he would lead the meeting for sure 

3/15 

2:37pm I have returned and he is the same, bathing in the light and excited to see me. Many laughing coos, every step, incredibly vocal, I think this is the most excited i have seen him. I keep throwing him up and he flys to me again. He still has the flying on 
command down, but perhaps because he doesn’t want to be away from me at all 

3/18 

12:10pm We are back to the butthole thing. Internet says to just walk out of the room every time - i am hardly spending any time in my room. Sorry kenny 

3/21 

1:57am Meets oliver, flys to his back while he sings a song on the floor. No buttole things Now he sleeps in his cage with it covered - I cannot take the waking me up at sunrise anymore 

3/28 

5:40pm The room has been getting emptier these days, i know he knows something is up. His toys and set up has vanished one by one. Can he sense my stress as well? Fiona and rich came over to film - as I was taking in some of the last sunsets at this house, watching my the sun dapple my room from the outside, I wanted to get a photo of him this way. He posed so well next to the bougillianvellia bush. Little giy 

3/30 

He has spent the last day in the cage. I let him out to fly a few tmes but the moving requires it. 

3/31 

Moving day. He is stressed, pacing around the bottom of the cage while we move from room to room. The sound is amplified from the lack of items in the room - i know it scares him as well. So soon we will be in our new house, I wish he could understand 
me. Eliza drove him to the new place, she says he was non stop cooing. Very funny that he assumed he was being kidnapped and decided not to stay quiet. 

4/1 

12:11pm New house. He inspects the boxes  It will be difficult to set his perch spots - the room is so much tinier than my last, and there will be a cat which means he cannot exist in the common space. Upon letting him out, he immediately goes to the fan. It will be difficult to clean 

4/2 

8:40am Filming him for my short film, a poop study on him. He behaves so well as usual. I need to clean the poop 

4/4 

8:22pm What a blessing it is to be loved by kenny. I thought this as i watched him frantically try to get out of his cage when I laid in the bed after a day out. I let him out and he sat with me for a bit. Need to unpack his perches 

4/30 
5:10am I think he had a dream. Making sound


Alonzo Davis - for issue 0 of WALLACE (2026)

Rolled in a tattered reused cardboard tube were two mangy, dog-eared and fox-bitten inkjet printed posters. There was no name associated with the written return address, no note explaining their origin, not even leafing between the posters and the tube. A letter requesting more information was sent to the anonymous donor; it bounced back almost immediately, with the familiar authoritative type of the post office stating there was no forwarding address. 

The posters were battered, appearing to have been stored in a garage or a forgotten outdoor bin. The condition report I was instructed to write states heavy discoloration, snags, tears and yellowing along the outer perimeter. The second poster, in even worse condition, was in two pieces after suffering a break along the center fold; significant liquid staining throughout, loss, tears, brittleness, active disintegration and flaking along the broken edges, tape and tape residue throughout, heavy soiling along the bottom half of the poster. Overall poor condition, I wrote in bold. Despite the weathered nature of the poster, the faces of the 1976 iteration of the L.A. Street Graphics Committee shone bright, relaxed, and younger than ever. The ease of the portrait felt timeless; as my eyes traced each detail of the photo, every heeled boot, flared hem, graphic tee, and statement necklace, I imagined the split second that it was captured and the few following it. Each member was comfortably arranged in front of the group mural, exuding an inviting California relaxation that lived and died in the ‘70s Black art scene of Los Angeles. Little is written about the L.A. Street Graphics Committee

The mysterious package arrived on the exact closing day of the 1984 Olympic Games held in Los Angeles, 41 years later, only blocks away from where the Olympic murals graced the 110 freeway. Instrumental in the organization of these murals was Alonzo Davis, who smiled squarely at the camera in each poster. By 1984, Davis and his brother Dale, cofounder of Brockman Gallery, had long established themselves as community institution builders within the city. Brockman Gallery was a household name, showcasing some of the most prominent Black artists of the time in more intimate settings, in ways that championed community interaction and engagement far more than institutional validation. Davis’s self-described landmark project was the mural Eye on ‘84, a recreation of which is currently on view at the Hammer Museum as part of Made In L.A. 2025. The triptych features classic symbols present across many of Davis’ visual works - sacred hearts, open eyes, arrows pointing towards a metaphorical path. Encountering the mural, I felt the familiar warmth and collective spirit that I felt when examining the portraits on the L.A. Street Graphics Committee posters. The Committee was a more intimate effort to engage the community with art via public channels, untouched by the government bureaucracy and doubt that came with the commission bestowed upon Brockman Gallery Productions for the Olympic mural series Art in the Fast Lane - the largest commission of its kind bestowed upon a Black organization. After all, in the first arts press release of the 1984 Olympics, the murals were omitted. 

When the viewer closely examines the recreation of Eye on ‘84, not a brush stroke is out of line. The formal and technical nature of its reproduction sets a tone for what follows in the rest of Made in L.A.; a presentation without wear. The mural is forced into a perfection and isolation that is unfaithful to the essence of Davis’s art and life’s work. The impermanence of the original murals spoke to the legacy of community art collectives in L.A. like the Committee.

The physical condition of the posters left an indelible mark on my impression of Davis’s legacy. I imagine the organic and haphazard care that brought them to my desk. Could they have passed through the hands of many, until they found a home in the right person’s garage for forty-plus years? Did they belong to a scene-adjacent, an observer whose participation in the legacy was its preservation? Were they in a Committee member's care, sent to the museums as a way of closing that chapter of their life? Did one person take the poster from the event and decide it was so emblematic of the time that it needed to be held? I imagine renewed contemplations, from a singular person or from a collection of many - “Who did this belong to again? How did it come to me? Is it worth keeping? Is it finally time to toss it?” Only conditions pertinent to Davis’s personal practice and philosophy around the community could have brought the poster to us. 

Aside from the digitization of media like exhibition flyers and event commemorations, we seem to be moving away from the more mundane acts of community building. Last year I encountered a collection of exhibition flyers addressed to one person, a prominent Black L.A. artist, sent to her between 1971 and 1984. All 60 or so pieces were in perfect condition, kept in an envelope and stowed away under a desk for over 40 years. Names like Ulysses Jenkins, Robert Colescott, and Alonzo Davis himself appeared in bold type, while her name and address were handwritten with messages like “Hope you can make it!” and “Sending love to the children.” I long for the community familiarity that came from the deeply personal, despite maybe inconsequential act of writing each person's address on each exhibition invitation mailer. These kinds of rituals were ever-present in Davis’s community legacy, particularly during the years he taught art class at Crenshaw High School. Six years after leaving Crenshaw High, the L.A. Street Graphics Committee would finish the illustrious Crenshaw Wall, running a batch of posters commemorating the celebration. 

The poetry of the physical will always be undeniable. However, the ephemera left behind by Davis and his collaborators have a particular, animated altruism. In 40 years, will there be an underpaid employee processing our ephemera? Will we pass down physical media that instills the same sensations of warmth and collectivity-despite-the-circumstances?