KNACK Magazine #10 by KNACK Magazine

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knack magazine / issue ten

KNACK is dedicated to showcasing the work of new artists of all mediums and to discussing trends and ideas within art communities. KNACKâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ultimate aim is to connect and inspire emerging artists. We strive to create a place for artists, writers, designers, thinkers, and innovators to collaborate and produce a unique, informative, and unprecedented web-based magazine each month.

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WILL SMITH Co-Founder, Photo Editor ANDREA VACA Co-Founder, Art Director, Production Manager ARIANA LOMBARDI Executive Editor ARIANNA SULLIVAN Editor JONATHON DUARTE Creative Director, Design Cover design by BEN SMITH Spreads by FERNANDO GAVERD

KNACK ARTMAGA ZINE.COM K N ACK M AGA ZINE1@ GM A IL .C OM

knack magazine / issue ten

IS SU E TEN

Artist Biographies . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4-6 Charlene Seward . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Peter Kowalski . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Rose Ademulegun. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Submission Guidelines . . . . . . . . . . . 38

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CHARLENE SEWARD Charlene Seward lives in North Vancouver, BC. She studied english and geography at Langara College and Simon Fraser University. Her interests include writing, travelling and cooking.

charlene.seward@hotmail.com

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PETER KOWALSKI

ROSE ADEMULEGUN

Peter Kowalski, is a photographer based in Kraków, Poland, Europe, Earth.

Rose Ademulegun is a Nigerian/ American who strongly believes in the equal rights for all of earth’s citizens which is reflected in her writing. Toni Morrison, Chimamanda Adichie Ngozi, Margaret Atwood, Wilkie Collins are just a few of her most admired writers. Rose is a student of Creative Writing and Literature at the Santa Fe University of Art and Design.

http://kowalskivision.com

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knack magazine / issue ten

CHARLENE SEWARD C R E AT I V E W R I T I N G

I wish I had the words to properly articulate where my writing comes from, or why it comes at all. Writing has been a continuous process for me, with ideas materializing from the mundane of everyday life, and in and through the city that has raised me. It has offered itself as an outlet, and as a reprieve. ...

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knack magazine / issue ten

T H EY A R R I V ED AT T H E BUS STAT ION E A R LY. The street was empty,

save the occasional car slowly drifting by. When she opened the car door and stepped out she felt the rain falling softly against her skin. She pulled her sweater close around her. Looking up at a streetlight, she could see the rain coming down at a slow and steady pace. The station was located in an old part of the city, only a few blocks from downtown. Large brick buildings stood across the street from new condominiums. The bricks had greyed, and the windows were boarded with mismatched plywood. The area had recently become a real estate haven. Large glass buildings shot up into the sky with green tinted windows and tidy balconies, across the street from decay. They stood outside the station, her left arm wrapped around her midsection, and her body angled away from him. Her light brown hair curled in all the wrong ways, but her large brown doe eyes and long curled lashes attracted men. He stood a little ways away from her, but faced her directly. She knew this was it—she’d been waiting for it. Three years ago they met at some diner, she couldn’t even remember the name. There was no excitement, there never had been. They fell into a comfortable fondness. He remembered the diner and the way her hair smelled, the heartiness of her laugh and the coolness of her self-assured smile. He thought that she was too good for him, and so did she. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, lingering on the smoke. Her hair slowly flattened across her head, frizzing and wilting. He tried to give her his jacket. Don’t.

She inhaled again. He wasn’t even sure that she had exhaled the last

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drag. Her bag sat on the ground beside her, worn out. It was her brother’s hockey bag that she had taken with her when she left. She could feel his gaze on her, but couldn’t look him in the eye. She shivered in the cold, threw the cigarette to the ground and stepped on it to make sure it had gone out. His car sat across the street, small and beaten into old age. It had rust stains around the wheels, and at the bottom of the doors. She bent down to pick up her bag, lobbed it over her right shoulder, and opened the door. Walking up the ticket booth she was aware of his presence behind her, but couldn’t bring herself to look back. He sank four steps behind her, hands jammed in his coat pockets. The station was almost empty. No one caught the late night on a Wednesday. Ticket in hand she picked up her bag, acutely aware of its weight, and again slung it over her shoulder. Her heart stopped when she realized he was no longer standing behind her—a sinking feeling, nauseating panic. She turned to head towards the coffee shop, and saw him seated with two black coffees at a little table.

Get your ticket? he said.

Yeah. They sat, staring into their coffee cups, at the ceiling, and at the white tiles on the floor.

You don’t have to leave, he said.

She looked at her watch, unable to remember why she had been in such a hurry to leave. Their apartment ... his apartment, strangled her with its egg yolk yellow walls, and peeling linoleum tiles. That apartment had represented freedom two years ago. Now all she could see were its faults, its dingy furniture and ill-lit rooms. Neither of them had been willing to get rid of the remnants of their old lives so they jammed it all into a 500

knack magazine / issue ten

square foot studio. The bath tub leaked, the fridge smelled like anchovies and she was sure she could hear mice late at night. Jesus. He couldn’t think of anything to reply, so he sat still. It was impossible to get comfortable on the hard brown plastic and steel chairs, the kind that force you to sit upright.

Please don’t go, he said, almost a whisper, still not looking at her.

She looked him in the eye for the first time since they had gotten into the car, not understanding why he had to go through this again. You don’t have to wait with me, she said. She pretended to pick lint off her sweater, and when she tired of that she stared into the coffee cup.

I love you. You don’t need to do this. We can work it out.

She hated him, blamed him for this whole mess. Wasn’t it bad enough that she’d have to move back home? Get it taken care of... he couldn’t come, and wasn’t welcome. She ran a finger through her hair, and then looked at her watch. I don’t need this right now, she thought. She looked down at the ground to make sure she still had her bag, and then over to the couple sitting a couple of feet away. They held hands, laughing quietly. They were both middle aged, with greying hair and well fitted pant suits. They murmured to each other, they smiled… they… enjoyed each other’s company. She felt herself sneer, but regretted it instantly. The white walls beside the tables were covered in scuff marks, and the tiles were yellowing with old age. She thought of the bus ride home, and regretted not taking his offer to drive. Whatever silence she would have to endure with him in the car would be infinitely worse alone. Seventeen hours on the bus, the gentle hum of the engine and the smell of fuel would surely antagonize her already ill-tempered stomach.

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It’s not just yours, you know, he said. His nostrils flared up a little, and his forehead wrinkled the way it always did when he got angry.

You’ve got to be kidding me, she said.

There’s still time.

Not for me. Her reply was curt.

She tried to remember all the things she loved about him, his boyish smile and dark wavy hair. She hoped that she wouldn’t have to see him again. That she could start anew. At 10:20pm an announcement came on. The 10:30pm bus to Burns Lake has been cancelled. We apologize for the inconvenience and will be refunding tickets at the ticket booth. We are taking reservations for the 2:30 bus tomorrow afternoon. His heart lurched. The palms of his hands began to sweat, and his shoulders tensed. His eyes began to burn, and his fingers began to tremble.

I love you. She said it delicately.

He reached down to grab her bag. He stood and lifted it up, feeling its enormous weight in his shoulders. His arms tensed under its pressure and he wasn’t sure if his knees could hold his weight any longer. He silently walked towards the door... and she followed behind him.

knack magazine / issue ten

they were both middle aged, with greying hair and well fitted pant suits. They murmured to each other, they smiled… they… enjoyed each other’s company

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knack magazine / issue ten

PETER KOWALSKI P H OT O G R A P H Y

“The reality - at least the reality as we see it - is fueled by dualism of the things. Everything has its counterpart: sometimes equal, sometimes identical, sometimes at most different, but those two forces are always complimentary and always make a whole. They react to each other in true yin-yang fashion and by contrast, make each other work, which wouldn’t be possible if they were standing alone.” I like architecture much better than people and, to contrary belief, architecture is much harder to photograph than people. You can’t direct it; you can’t influence or manipulate it they way you do with people you shoot. But that’s the challenge, and that’s the excitement. I’m ambivalently bipolar. I enjoy classic, black and white photography, and then I get fed up and create something so abstract, it’s impossible to tell what it was before. Sometimes, the editing process pushes us to create truly unique pieces. I love chaos, and then I love order. Two completely different things, but could chaos exist without the notion of order, or vice versa? Of course it couldn’t. To understand one, you have to understand both. Even the most organized order can be supremely chaotic, and sometimes there’s calming order within what’s seems to be a chaos. That’s the thing. That’s how the universe works. Everything works in contrast.

...

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knack magazine / issue ten

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knack magazine / issue ten

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knack magazine / issue ten

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knack magazine / issue ten

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knack magazine / issue ten

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knack magazine / issue ten

ROSE ADEMULEGUN C R E AT I V E W R I T I N G

One cannot pick up a news journal, listen to the radio, or surf social media outlets, without being touched by the injustice we human beings inflict upon one another. My stories reflect those discriminations through the artistry of literature. I aim to mix hard hitting subjects with humor, insight, thought provocation and entertainment. Many writers, from around the world and down though the ages, have used their creative writing talents to spread the word of manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s disparities. Human Resources is continuing with that tradition. ...

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Human Resources

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“I am not a slave I am a human being…I am not a slave I am a human being.” It is my mantra, the words that differentiate me from the men who cry like babies all around me. I am not like them, the captives and the real slaves. I shouldn’t be here, this shouldn’t be happening to me. I must stay alive so that I can air my grievance at this error that has been done to me. Thud, thud. Thud, thud. The constant sound echoes though the large hot and humid chamber. I squeeze my eyes even tighter. My wrists are bound together in bloodied shackles. From these shackles, a length of heavy chain connects to my ankles, which are also bound in restraints. The chain continues and is attached to the metal grill that I have laid upon for what seems like an eternity I try to force myself into a fetal position, to give myself some level of comfort and to relieve the constant steady pulsating pain from the open pressure sores that have formed down both of my thighs and hips but I cannot. There is not enough slack in the chains. My neck is in a brace that allows me only enough movement to turn and lie either on my right or left side or of course on my back. Thud, thud. Thud, thud. I open my eyes. Reality floods all over my naked body. I lay flat on the grill that is slowly moving in a circle just like a Ferris wheel. I have heard men choke themselves to death by squeezing down on their neck braces. I shall not be one of those men, for I am not a slave. The air is heavy with the stench of body odor, defecation, and vomit. Around me the darkness intensifies the

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cries of men. This is the twenty-first century. People don’t buy men like me! My face is caked in nutrient splatters, cold sticky droplets of vomit that slap down on my skin. The man above me is part of a chain reaction. Conditioning makes my lips withdraw into the dry halitosis of my mouth, just like a frightened tortoise would retreat into the safety of his shell. The slime slowly creeps down my cheek to find the crack left by the disappearance of my thin lips. The vomit pools into the space and the little substance that remains in my shrunken stomach is propelled up my esophagus and explodes down onto the man below me. So the cycle continues. I begin to cry in my mind’s eye, as the tears fill the space where the vomit resides, it cleanses the last man’s puke from the crack. When I am satisfied my tears have done their job, I allow my lips to return and I take in a deep lungful of putrid mechanical air. Over time I have grown accustomed to the rhythm of the spikes that will shoot up on the right side of my metal sleeping space. This is done to force me to turn to my left. Shuffling my weight from side to side, making sure to move my head first, I reach my goal just in time. I can hear the feeder whirling below me like an enlarged, demented mosquito. My anticipation of it coming makes me salivate; I have become Pavlov’s dog. I open my mouth as wide as I can get it. Experience has taught me that if I don’t I will be in for an excruciating 15 seconds.

I lift my eyes up and peer into the darkness and now the giant mosquito-like creature is at my eye level.

knack magazine / issue ten

Without any wings it hovers in front of me. It eyes, the size of car tires, glow intermittently and I begin to shake as the buzzing noise intensifies and it extends its feeding tube towards my awaiting hole. I brace myself for the violent retraction of the feeding tube. If I move it will scrape the sides of my throat. The tube vibrates as it tickles its way down my throat and I fight the natural urge to heave as it empties its warm liquid of nutrients into me. The demented parasite buzzes off to the next man taking with it my salvia mixed in with all the others before me. I salivate so that I too can check out of my own personal hell. The sustenance has two purposes, the first is obvious: to keep me alive until we arrive at our final destination; and the second is to send me to sleep until the next feeding time is due. My eye lids close like heavy shutters. A warm sensation consumes my thin body and my chapped lips form into a smile.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;I am not a slave I am a human beingâ&#x20AC;ŚI am not a slave I am a human being.â&#x20AC;?

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Lloyd stood erect in the cream slacks his mother had ironed that very morning. His crisp white shirt lay smoothly underneath his black polyester jacket. He pulled out the handkerchief she had given him for Christmas from the breast pocket, and wiped the name on the brass that was screwed to the wooden door. Lloyd Webber - Human Resources. “Are the files that I requested on my desk, Nadine?” “I have them right here Mr. Webber.” Lloyd followed Nadine’s outstretched brown hand to a pile of manila folders on her clutter free desk. He frowned. He had specifically asked her to leave the files on his desk. “You have a key, Nadine. Well? Don’t just stand there, bring them in.” The wrinkles around his mouth gathered into points as he unlocked his office and entered the room that contained a desk with a framed picture of his mother, a chair for him and one for a single visitor. Behind his chair hung a large wall chart that had every employee’s name on it. He had tagged each employee with either a red, green or blue pin. Lloyd placed himself behind his desk and waited for Nadine to walk in. “Here are your files Mr. Webber.”

He looked up and let out a silent sigh as he allowed his eyes to feast over every aspect of Nadine’s hidden slender mahogany body. In less than two weeks, Nadine had moved from the low-cut blouse and high-raised skirt that he had hired her for, to buttoned down, frumpy blouses, and oversized grey slacks that did nothing for her figure. Still it didn’t stop Lloyd from imagining what she would be like undressed and laid out on a banquet table covered in fruit for him to dine upon. Lloyd’s beady blue eyes came to rest on Nadine’s brown ones. He thought he detected a slight sneer of distain. He couldn’t have cared less. With the country in a recession Lloyd knew that

knack magazine / issue ten

Nadine was forced to tolerate his behavior, and would be too afraid to complain to anyone. She was his eye candy, and he was, after all, Head of Human Resources. Who could she complain to? Nadine held out the pile of files in front of her, but Lloyd did not move a muscle. He wanted her to lean forward so that he could smell her hair. African Americans had nicesmelling hair. He watched her as she scurried out of his office, closing the door behind her. Lloyd pulled open the top drawer of his desk. 2 red pens, 2 green pens and 2 blue pens lay side by side in the tray organizer. An eraser lay next to a small white container that was filled with pins of three colors and beside these sat a another container filled with tooth picks that his mother had brought back from a vacation to Australia. They were made from eucalyptus trees. He took one pick, pushed the draw closed, and jabbed the pick in-between his molars. Using his motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s picture as a mirror he began to pry the lodged piece of chicken from its wedged place of rest. When it fell onto his thick tongue he sucked on it before he swallowed. Dropping the eucalyptus stick into the waste basket that sat underneath his desk, Lloyd pulled in a large wad of phlegm from the back of this throat which he also swallowed, before he opened the first file from the top of the pile on his desk. The simple questionnaire, which he had every member of staff complete, was placed on top, just like he had instructed.

What is your marital status? Do you live alone? A re your family or family members in the state of new mexico?â&#x20AC;&#x2122; Who do we contact in case of an emergency?

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Lloyd went through each one and made three piles: Those who were single, lived alone and were from another state formed the first green pile; the second for married, the red pile; and the third pile for the single, but family close by, the blue pile. Once he had gone through every single folder, Lloyd rose from behind his desk and walked over to the single office window and looked out to the world beyond. He clenched his teeth at the sight of Miguel Sanchez returning from lunch. The time on Lloyd’s wrist watch said 1:55pm, Miguel Sanchez went to lunch at noon. He watched Miguel as he flirted with the Head of Marketing, Sonia Rawlings, against the backdrop of the Sandia Mountains. Sonia was a good looking woman, who tossed her long dark mane back over her shoulders as she laughed at something Miguel had said. Lloyd’s teeth began to hurt. He had once asked Sonia out for a drink, but she had been “busy” that day and every day for a month. She had never once thrown her head back like that for him.

Lloyd had worked for the law offices of Patterson, James and Monroe, for over 15 years. He had hired every single member of staff, eighty-five to be exact. Patterson, James and Monroe were the fifteenth largest private employer in Albuquerque. He had grown weary of his position as Head of Human Resources, and when the new role opened up for a Chief Operations Officer, Lloyd believed he was the perfect and only candidate. Yet, Mr. Monroe had decided that it was better to hire a new-comer: the young Miguel Sanchez. Lloyd’s jaw ached as he continued to watch the pair. He thought he heard them laughing at him.

knack magazine / issue ten

I AM NOT A SLAVE I AM A HUMAN BEING… I AM NOT A SLAVE I AM A HUMAN BEING.

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knack magazine / issue ten

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PHOTOGRAPHERS, GRAPHIC DESIGNERS & STUDIO ARTISTS Up to 10 high resolution images of your work. All must include pertinent caption information (name, date, medium, year). If there are specifications or preferences concerning the way in which an image is displayed please include them.

WRITERS K NAC K se e ks writing of all kinds . We will eve n conside r re cipes , reviews , and essays (although we do not prefe r any thing that is ac ade mic). We se e k write rs whose work has a distinc t voice , is charac te r drive n , and is subve rsive b ut tastef ul . We are not inte reste d in fantasy or ge nre f ic tion . Yo u may submit up to 2 5 ,0 0 0 words and as lit tle as on e . We acce pt simultan e ous submissions . N o cove r let te r n e cessar y. All submissions must be 12pt, Tim es N ew Roman , do uble -space d with page numbe rs and include your nam e , e - mail , phon e numbe r, and ge nre .

ALL SUBMISSIONS: KNACK encourages all submitters to include an artist statement with their submission. We believe that your perspective of your work and process is as lucrative as the work itself. This may range from your upbringing and/or education as an artist, what type of work you produce, inspirations, etc. If there are specifications or preferences concerning the way in which an image is displayed please include them. A brief biography including your name, age, current location, and portrait of the artist is also encouraged (no more than 700 words).

*Please title f iles for submission with the name of the piece. This applies for both writing and visual submissions.

ACCEPTABLE FORMATS IMAGES: PDF, TIFF, or JPEG WRITTEN WORKS: .doc, .docx, and RTF

EMAIL: knackmagazine1@gmail.com SUBJECT: SUBMISSION (PHOTOGRAPHY, STUDIO ART, CREATIVE WRITING, GRAPHIC DESIGN)

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Missed a submission deadline? Do not fear! K N ACK oper ates on a rolling submission s ystem. This means that we w ill consider wor k from any ar tist at any time. Our â&#x20AC;&#x153; deadlinesâ&#x20AC;? merely ser ve as a cutof f for each issue of the magazine. A ny and all wor k sent to knackmagazine1@ gmail.com w ill be considered for submission as long as it follow s submission guidelines. The day wor k is sent merely reflec t s the issue it w ill be considered for. Have questions or suggestions? E-mail us. We w ant to hear your thought s, comment s, and concer ns. Sincerely, A r iana Lombardi, Editor

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ISSUE 11 Editor’s Issue out soon!

knack magazine / issue ten

KNACK is requesting material to be reviewed. Reviews extend to any culture-related event that may be happening in the community in which you live. Do you know of an exciting show or exhibition opening? Is there an art collective in your city that deserves some press? Are you a musician, have a band, or are a filmmaker? Send us your CD, movie, or titles of upcoming releases which youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d like to see reviewed in KNACK. We believe that reviews are essential to creating a dialogue about the arts. If something thrills you, we want to know about it and share it with the KNACK communityâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;no matter if you live in the New York or Los Angeles, Montreal or Mexico. All review material can be sent to knackmagazine1@gmail. com. Please send a copy of CDs and films to 1720 West Alameda Street Santa Fe, NM 87501. If you would like review material returned to you include return postage and packaging. Entries should contain pertinent details such as name, year, release date, websites and links (if applicable). For community events we ask that information be sent up to two months in advance to allow proper time for assignment and review. We look forward to seeing and hearing your work.

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