KNACK Magazine #22 by KNACK Magazine

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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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andrea vaca co-founder, photo editor, production manager, marketing will smith co-founder, digital operations ariana lombardi executive editor jonathon duarte design director miljen aljinovic editor fernando gaverd designer, digital operations, marketing jake goodman designer, photographer tim kassiotis photographer k n a c k m a g a z i n e1

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knack 22 artist biographies 4 achraf baznani 9

matt panfil 25

knack yack 40

submission guidelines 64

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achraf baznani Moroccan photographer and filmmaker Achraf Baznani carries on the traditions of Surrealism with his wild, imaginative , and wholly impractical imagery. Among his inventive scenarios, small human figures—often the artist himself— appear trapped within glass jars or the size of a camera lens; in other works, Baznani dissects his body, as for example, in one, he cleanly removes his brain from his cranium, or in another, twists off his hand, as if it were a light bulb. Imparted throughout such works are strong senses of humor and wonder, and as such, Baznani’s art offers a Surrealistic take on life experience in the digital age. A self-taught artist, Baznani has no formal photography education. He lives and works in Morocco. www.baznani.com achraf@baznani.com www.fb.com/abphotographe

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matt panfil Matt Panfil a multimedia artist, writer, and filmmaker living in Indianapolis.

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the image is not an explicit example of the concept, but a general expression of the idea

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achraf baznani PH OTO G RAPH Y

Conceptual photography is, first and foremost, about the concept of the photo. A conceptual photographer is trying to call the viewerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s attention to a message, be it a political advert, a social commentary or an emotional outcry. Thus, there is some level of abstraction in my works: the image is not an explicit example of the concept, but a general expression of the idea. Conceptual photography makes healthy use of graphic symbols to represent ideas, movements, moods, anything and everything that the photographer might want to include in the message of their photograph. In my work, there are a variety of ways a concept falls into place. Most often it starts with a spark of inspiration and grows from thereâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;whether it is a person, design, a story that needs to be told, regardless, it all starts with a single point. From there it becomes simple problem-solving. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t spend very much time looking at what other people are doing. I like to stay aware and connected to what others are doing by following sites such as Flickr. but beyond that, I spend the rest of my time meeting people, creating, and just living life. I think the best way to be inspired is not to emulate others, but to find what inspires you in life, to capture it and share it. I use Lightroom to correct and change the colorimetry pictures and do the most important retouching in Photoshop. To learn how to master these tools, I spent hours in front of my computer to study the tutorials available on the Internet.

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caged

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alone

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my small world

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crane coming from away

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cleaning the lens

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capturing reality

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coin

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confusion

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money is power

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the underwater world

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noisiness

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storms

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checking my brain

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a sensory overload resulting inâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;hopefullyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;a positive or transformative emotional change

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mat t panfil S T U D I O A RT & C R E AT I V E W R I T I N G

I love exploring the boundaries of creative communication; my artistic passion is for anything that communicates a message, a narrative, or elicits a sincere emotion from the viewer. Via poetry, photo-collage, and film, I try to employ active representations of the dream state, the Occult and metaphysical esoterica. I especially enjoy combining various media into unified works (through collage, video editing, and automatic writing) that seek to connect with the viewer on an archetypal level, transporting them to what Aldous Huxley dubbed â&#x20AC;&#x153;the mindâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s antipodesâ&#x20AC;?: subconscious realms of raw primordial being, states of nonlingual, pre-cultural awareness. I yearn to overstimulate the viewer, thereby inducing a psychedelic experience; a sensory overload resulting in - hopefully - a positive or transformative emotional change.

ADAM THE GYPSY

We pulled into Adam’s place on a sweltering, muggy Houston afternoon. I had never met the guy, nor seen a picture of him– no clues as to his existence save a few brief phone calls. He lived in a small ranch house sitting on two overgrown acres, with a burn pit and a bee-infested shack in the backyard. Adam came out to help Amber and me with our luggage and my film gear, leading us into the typical “musician’s flat,” full of recording equipment and guitars, tapestries and Buddha statues, kitchen shelves bulging with tea and probiotic supplements - a general disarray despite his obvious attempt at control. Adam’s girlfriend, Kimi, a pretty, twenty-year-old singer/ songwriter with sardonic, demurely lidded eyes, sat reading a psychology manual on a couch beside his puppy, Rayland, an energetic Australian shepherd who jumped up rambunctiously to give us furious little kissing jabs with rampant canine enthusiasm – the same boundless energy that was present in his owner, it soon became clear. Adam pulled up a swivel chair and took a glass jar full of weed out of his desk drawer as we plopped down on the couch beside Kimi, packing a bowl on a tiny pipe, duct-taped around the edges of its broken mouthpiece. Adam S----: a dark-hearted tempest of a man, evidenced by his darting eagle eyes and a shock of white-tipped, black demon’s hair, the Irish bohemian gypsy visage of the restless and the wily and the damned. One of his shoulders was pitch black, tattooed to mark the abyssal plummets of his six-year crack addiction and the turmoil it bred, the other covered in a winding orange-plumed phoenix to mark his rise, or his attempt at rising He explained how he was fine overdosing at thirty-five, spiraling into the Nether – but only after having made something of himself; something of which he can be proud. The darkness in Adam, the incipient urge to decay, stems from a central lack of faith. “I don’t believe in Jesus, man,” he told me the night before we left. “History itself is questionable – they just made it up.” I asked if he believed in the Trojan War, since there’s as little proof of that as there is for Jesus. “Proof… Proof… Carefully,” I told him; it’s a slippery slope to solipsism – much too easy to get caught up asking if anything can truly be measured as “real” or not; to pry apart fact from fiction. Adam started out a proud believer in Christ, The Redeemer, and split from the church after a love affair with a girl, who was then taken from him and impregnated by his best friend. “My lack of faith will always be there, inside me,” he told me on the drive into downtown Houston. He drove like a man possessed, reigning in the road with daredevil ferocity, never using turn signals as he barreled into the heart of the city. There is something to admire - to respect - in Adam’s determination to

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succeed. Some months ago he stopped drinking, started eating healthy (he cooked us delicious breakfasts and dinners our whole stay, though he partly attributes his diet to combating a mystery illness he picked up in Thailand), gave up all but the weed, which he inhales like oxygen. When he’s real stoned, he lunges for his studio, mixing and tweaking and obsessively re-cutting his songs, one of which catches my ear in particular: a slowbuilding, swampy Bayou Rock ballad with a tremulous rise and pleading entreaty: “Oh Lord have mercy…meeeeee-ercy….” “I’m looking for mercy, brother,” Adam told me one night as we darted down dark city streets filming flashes of steaming Houston nightlife. “I’ve done so many bad things. What kind of a person am I?” Two years ago, Adam quit a five-year recruiting job he’d held at Morgan & Stanley. “I was about to turn thirty,” he said, “and I needed to just get out.” But where to go, what to do after five years making beaucoup bucks at one of the top investment firms in the world? Thailand, of course. “When I left Morgan & Stanley I had $180,000 saved up,” he confides. “I dropped twelve grand in Bangkok my first week there, not counting food and my hotel; just drugs and hookers.” Adam keeps his relics from Thailand strewn about his house, on necklaces he wears and drapes over the dashboard in his Mini-Cooper. “One night I am in the redlight district in Bangkok, and this woman drags me into a club called Pussy Mirror. I order a drink, start to watch some girl dancing and there, on the ground – all mirrors, the girl’s pussy just spread wide open reflected for my pleasure a thousand times, like this wacky carnival wall of pussy, just for me. ‘Pussy mirror, pussy mirror!’ chants the woman who dragged me in, ‘You like?’ I end up going home with a girl from the Mirror, but when we get to the hotel, the clerk demands to see her ID – turns out she’s underage. The clerk sighs and gets out a heavy threering binder full of pictures of men shoved handcuffed against a brick wall. ‘See?’ ‘Okay, okay,’ I tell him, ‘Look, I didn’t know…’ But then all of a sudden the girl starts talking mile-a-minute Thai to the clerk, and he nods slowly in agreement - they have some secret understanding between them and the clerk shoves us both into the elevator up to my room even though I’m yelling, ‘Hey, man, no way!’ and I gotta force the girl to leave, ‘cause who knows what she’s up to at this point.” “Another time, I went to this whorehouse where they have you lie down on these hard tables divided by thin sheets, so you can see the silhouettes of everyone around you…so my bored-looking middle-age hooker comes in and starts just tugging on my dick like it’s a piece of gum stuck to a desk; just hard senseless tugging, again and again and again, and I’m so strung out on various substances I can’t get hard, and she starts commanding in

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this dull monotone: ‘Cum…cum…cum…cum’ ‘Man, I can’t when you keep saying it like that!’ Suddenly there’s a commotion in the booth behind me. ‘You pay me now!’ a hooker is shouting at her John. ‘I just paid you,’ insists the John; some proper English chap by the sound of it. ‘No, you pay me, you pay me now!’ ‘I just DID!’ The hooker’s tone changes suddenly: ‘Oh okay, okay, is no problem – my boyfriend, he Thai mafia, is no problem, you go home now.’ The John starts freaking out, of course: ‘Okay look, here, look I’ll pay you double the money - !’ But the hooker just waves him off, refusing to take the cash. ‘No no, my boyfriend Thai mafia, is okay…’ And the john begs, ‘No! Please, please – ‘ And I’m just sitting there listening to this thinking man how am I going to get off like this?” “And another time I went on a quest for the purest opium in the world. I met up with a photographer friend of mine from Australia and we hiked through this Cambodian jungle – this is after a night spent in a dingy hostel, where I dropped acid with some old man I met in a bar bathroom, and we ended up watching bloody backstreet Thai wrestling until dawn… Anyway, I asked an interpreter about tracking down opium, which was outlawed in Thailand about a decade ago. We’re assigned a guide and spend the next three days trekking up a mountain to a little hut inhabited by a shaman who invites us to share his opium with him in a little ceremony. So we sit cross-legged on his carpet and smoke his pure black sticky tar opium, breathing deep the sweet, sleepy, nourishing smoke…. Some unknown amount of time later I’m on lying on my back, paralyzed, unable to twitch even a finger, and my photographer friend is just crawling in pitiful, caveman slow-motion, scraping the wooden floor with his claws, moaning and pulling himself out the door to the snow to projectile vomit. ‘We took too much, man…we took too much…’” Excess and abidance is Adam S---- – his lifeblood pumped hotly through veins that would otherwise wither and decay, from ambivalence. “Man, I’m thirty-two years old,” he says in a desultory fashion, the night before we leave. “The older you get, the faster time moves.” “Well, yeah, but how old do you feel inside?” Amber asks, hopefully. “I mean, I don’t feel twenty-five. How old do you feel? That’s what matters!” Adam sighs, dragging his fingers down his face. “Man, I feel fifty.” And then he laughs, and lies down on a plastic tarp while we drip chocolate sauce on his face for the video, and he screams and rages and flashes those

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WE TOOK TOO MUCH, MAN…

eyes of faithless, passionate, searching fervor – because he is Adam S----, because he is crazed, wild, perpetually mad with the chaos from which he derives his sustenance.

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excavation

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prophecy 31

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the ocean of time

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THERE’S FAST FOOD ...

As the hovercraft glided into the industrial innards of the meatpacking district, Glorlak caught his first glimpse of the factory. From this distance, it looked like any other corporate plant: a steel behemoth adorned with smokestacks, gushing noxious black plumes into the waiting smog. The factory was owned and operated by SimiBurgers, Inc., as were most meatpacking plants; the global fast food chain had long maintained dominance of the simian flesh market. ‘Nothing Beats a SimiBurger!’ ran the company’s slogan, which was certainly true in terms of price and delectability. Glorlak clenched his claws in nervous iterations, trying without success to slake his growing anxiety. This was to be his first official inspection. He’d heard reports, of course; offhand anecdotes both revolting and gruesome, but this was the real deal - a truly visceral experience. The inspection came at a controversial time for SimiBurgers. Simian rights demonstrations were at an all-time high, with activist groups demonstrating outside franchises and organizing marches in cities worldwide. Some competing businesses were beginning to offer ‘cruelty-free’ meat, supposedly obtained from well-treated simians. More absurd were the ‘meat-free’ simulated burgers, made from wax and insect larvae and Trovdor knows what else. Glorlak didn’t understand what the fuss was all about. “We’ve arrived, Inspector,” announced Glorlak’s Robo-Chauffer. The hovercraft slid to a halt directly in front of the towering twin metal gates of the factory. No one but government inspectors and factory workers was allowed this close. Trespassers and investigative journalists were to be atomized on sight by surveillance drones. As soon as Glorlak disembarked his craft, a squat, bronze-scaled Reptoid with beady, black eyes stepped up to shake his claw. “Inspector Glorlak,” the Reptoid announced, congenially, “I’m Overseer Drojo. I’ll serve as your guide for this inspection.” Glorlak said nothing, hoping his outward coldness would mask his inner anxiety. He mentally initiated his Inspection Thoughtstream. “Right this way!” Drojo said cheerfully, curling his thin lips into a serpentine grin. The factory gates opened with a creaking groan, shafts of sunlight reflecting off the gleaming steel. Glorlak felt his tail tighten in anticipation as Drojo led him into the factory, passing through a door that led into the packaging room; a factory floor filled with churning, cacophonous machinery. Long rows of assembly workers dressed in pink smocks were dutifully inspecting plastic flesh containers before sending them along snaking conveyor belts for inter-planetary shipping. “The factory’s layout was designed in reverse order of processing,“ Drojo explained. “The chambers are separated, for sanitation.” Glorlak nodded absently, distracted by the endless procession of containers. There were thousands of them, seeming to stretch into infinity. “This

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factory has been ranked cleanest in the Lodvos region for six consecutive Redsuns,” Drojo hissed proudly. “As you are no doubt aware, Inspector, simians are abducted from a traditionally pastoral planet, which in recent millennia has become primitively industrialized. Of course, this is merely the result of basic animalistic tinkering, and nothing to be concerned about.” Drojo glanced expectantly at Glorlak, who failed to provide an indulgent smile. “SimiBurgers abducts meat from only the purest, most unpolluted areas of the simians’ planet,” Drojo continued, “thereby selecting only the finest quality simians for processing.” Glorlak rolled his eyes. “I came here to inspect a factory, not to hear an advertisement for SimiBurgers,” he told Drojo drolly, “You might remember I am a government employee.” Drojo’s snake-grin vanished, leaving his lower fangs jutting stupidly over his bottom lip. “Right this way, please, Inspector.” They ascended a steel stairwell onto an observation deck overlooking the heart of the central processing plant. The smell hit Glorlak like a punch in the face; an acrid chemical scent that burned his nasal slits. “We keep the oxygen sanitized in order to prevent cross-species contamination,” Drojo explained. Glorlak peered over the railing. Dozens of workers wearing goggles were tending to simian carcasses tethered on a line of hooks. The carcasses had all been stripped of their outer skin, red-veined tissue glistening wetly in the dull glow of the factory lights. The creatures’ heads had been severed as well (customers didn’t care for the head). Glorlak watched the workers turn the carcasses with their claws, searching for disease and other abnormalities. A foreman watched over them before granting his approval, sending the carcasses along the line to be sprayed with preservatives and other chemicals. Drojo nodded, satisfied, and turned to Glorlak. “Shall we proceed to the housing facility?” The ‘housing facility’ was an enormous chamber filled with cages packed full of naked simians. They were predominantly brown-skinned (dark meat was preferred in regards to flavor and tenderness), though there were lightskinned simians as well. Most were lean, full-grown specimens, although there was one cage containing simian young; a specialty item, selected not for the fast food chains, but off-brand markets aimed at Reptoids with more eclectic tastes. The simian young’s tiny pink bodies squirmed in mindless, frantic fear against the metal bars of the cage, packed in so tightly they appeared a single mass of plump, undulating skin. All of the creatures had been shaved of their body hair and branded with the SimiBurgers mascot: a caricature of a smiling, silly-looking sim-

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ian called “Simi the Simian,” whose naked, pink body was contorted in a joyous, moronic dance. The simians’ living conditions were deplorable, Glorlak noted; their cages were placed so close together as to allow little room to move about. Their feed, a crude protein meal, was pumped in via tubes outfitted in each cage. Glorlak recoiled from the stench rising from the cages below; even through the chemical fog of the sanitizers, you could smell the simians’ excrement. After examining them more closely, he saw, to his disgust, that the creatures were in fact wallowing in their own feces. The simians didn’t seem to mind, for the most part; they appeared resigned to their fate, determinedly pacing about or staring hollow-eyed from between the bars. Some of the creatures, however (whom Glorlak assumed were new arrivals) clung frantically to the bars, crying out in a kind of delirious agony. Others had collapsed from exhaustion or disease, their bodies half-buried in the collective fecal sludge. To his surprise, Glorlak noticed a small group of simians making noises amongst each other, in what seemed a sort of language. “It almost looks as if they’re speaking with one another,” Glorlak observed. When he saw where Glorlak was pointing, Drojo hissed with laughter. “Please, Inspector! Simians are incapable of complex speech. They’re simple creatures constricted by primal instincts: reproduction, competition, excretion, et cetera. They make silly noise, but that’s all that it is: noise.” Glorlak said nothing, making another note in his Thoughtlog. There was one last chamber left to inspect. The killing floor housed a winding metal ramp, constructed so that the simians were unable to see where they were headed. The ramp culminated in the chamber’s namesake: a rigged elevator which, when occupied, would free-fall immediately, resulting in instantaneous death. Drojo motioned to a group of foremen near the elevator entrance. One of them lifted an unseen lever, and the ramp whirred suddenly to life. A door opened simultaneously at the rear of the chamber as a group of sedated simians were ushered in. They ambled along the ramp in single file, motivated by mobile A.I. bots hoisting electro-prods to intermittently deliver shocks to slow-moving simians. From his vantage point in the observation deck, Glorlak watched the line grow steadily longer. He noted how filthy the simians were; most of their bodies were caked in dried excrement. Glorlak frowned inwardly. None of this would fare well for SimiBurgers, Inc. Despite their sedation, many of the simians began to scream as they approached the elevator, perhaps sensing their imminent demise. Cries of terror echoed through the chamber, bouncing off steel walls to reverberate horrifically in Glorlak’s ears. He shuddered as he saw the door close over

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the elevator, and felt the ensuing heavy thud of instant death. The ghastly vibrations of the killing floor set his fangs rattling in their sockets, the chorus of simian screams dying instantly with each proceeding thud as they met their life’s release. “Our method of execution is sanitary, cost-effective, and ensures that no meat is damaged,” Drojo proclaimed happily. “Efficiency is a Simi- Burgers staple.” Glorlak said nothing. He felt suddenly very queasy, unnerved by the lingering echoes of the simians’ screams. There was a disturbing quality to those screams, he thought; they contained more than just primal terror. There was an unmasked intelligence in outbursts of existential horror that implied complex thought, implied intelligent despair… He doubted suddenly the veracity of media reports on simians, and their supposedly ‘primitive’ existence. He wondered if in fact the activists were correct in their claim that the simian species was more than just a simple life form, mindlessly populating their planet. Perhaps they had developed languages, even real cultures of their own; perhaps they even felt, on some level… But how could Glorlak, or any consumer, know for sure? Even the government had turned a blind eye to the simians’ fate; the corporate harvesters alone oversaw abductions. Glorlak turned away from the killing floor and placed a shaking claw to his aching temples, feeling the hot blood pumping there beneath viridian, squamous skin, as the screams continued to swim through his brain. He prayed to Trovdor that the pressure would soon abate. “This concludes the tour, Inspector,” Drojo announced cordially. He squinted his eyes curiously up at Glorlak. “Inspector…?” Glorlak forced himself to shut out the screams, turning to face Drojo with the most authoritative expression he could muster up, under the circumstances. “I’m afraid this factory is not at all up to protocol, Overseer,” Glorlak said sternly. “There are numerous code violations in plain sight – considerable amounts of contamination and simian maltreatment, to begin with…I’m afraid I’ll need to conduct a more thorough inspection with my full team. I would advise you to contact your superiors and inform them of the situation immediately.” Glorlak shut off his Thoughtstream, curtly extending his claw to Drojo, who returned the formality with an ever-maddening, ignorant grin. When Drojo released his grasp, Glorlak felt the weight of the object that had just been delivered discretely to his scales, and felt a burst of fury, wanting to scratch the Overseer’s eyes out. Yet in a moment of dreadful curiosity, his claw-nails happened to press into the plastic, registering at once its absurd monetary amount…and he knew he had to make a choice.

screams

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“I trust everything is in order, Inspector?” Drojo inquired pleasantly. Glorlak considered a moment, feeling his scales tighten in disdain…but then he considered the low-level government salary that awaited him, considering also his beautiful, pregnant mate, her eggs still waiting to release their spawn. “Yes, Overseer Drojo,” Glorlak replied, and swallowed hard. On the return flight home, he instructed his Robo-Chauffer to pull in at the nearest food stop. He hadn’t eaten since sunrise, and could feel his stomach gurgling in protest. To his dismay, the hovercraft landed at a Simi-

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Burgers franchise located right off the Flyway. Glorlak stared reproachfully at the giant, neon-green, S-shaped arch, hovering proudly over the restaurant’s roof - a logo both eternally iconic and eternally powerful. Simi the Simian smiled stupidly down at him from the restaurant’s window, blissfully ignorant as to the sufferings of his kind, forever dancing the thoughtless dance of the dead. Glorlak frowned, listening to the miserable rumbling in his belly, and then happened to catch a whiff of the SimiBurgers being grilled within. He sighed in resignation, hunger overcoming his guilt, and told his Robo-Chauffer to pull around into the fly-thru queue. Later, as he finished his last bite of the succulent, honey-roasted flesh, Glorlak felt an irrepressible smile unfolding on his greasy lips. It was true what they said, after all…Nothing really could beat a SimiBurger!

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as an ar tist, its impor tant to put your work out into t he world. And as a magazine, t he K NACK TEA M, felt it was impor tant to put our labor of love into t he world. For t he ar tists in our loca l communit y to interact w it h t he physica lit y of t he communit y which we attempt to glean from our mont hly online publications. On June 15, 2014, we held our f irst K NACK YACK, a f undraiser and event presented as a means to connect w it h ot her ar tists. The event featured live music and photography, ga ller y, f ilms, and a book of featured K NACK w riters. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a beautif u l and inspiring t hing to have a group of people come toget her even cooler to have t hat coming toget her be of people who have contributed to and read t his magazine. W hat follows is a glimpse of t he ar tists who attended t he YACK and t he overa l l energ y of what t he K NACK team wants to continue to foster in and for ar tistic communities a ll over t he globe. Thank you for reading, submitting, ma k ing ar t and expressing yourselves. We hope to continue hosting K NACK YACKS in Santa Fe, as wel l as in ot her cities, states and countries. Got an idea? Send it our way.

PHOTOGR APHS BY BR ANDON SODER

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B R A N D O N S O D E R .C O M

POL AROIDS BY CLIFF SHAPIRO

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MA NY TH AN KS TO TH OS E

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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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KNACK operates on a rolling submission system. This means that we will consider work from any artist at any time. Our â&#x20AC;&#x153;deadlinesâ&#x20AC;? merely serve as a cutoff for each issue of the magazine. Any and all work sent to knackmagazine1@gmail.com will be considered for submission as long as it follows submission guidelines. The day work is sent merely reflects the issue it will be considered for. Have questions or suggestions? E-mail us. We want to hear your thoughts, comments, and concerns. Sincerely, Ariana Lombardi, Executive Editor

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ISSUE 27 11.16.2014 ISSUE 28 12.14.2014

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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

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that reviews are essential to cre- websites and links (if applicable). ating a dialogue about the arts. If

For community events we ask

something thrills you, we want to

that information be sent up to

know about it and share it with

two months in advance to allow

the KNACK communityâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;no mat- proper time for assignment and ter if you live in the New York or Los Angeles, Montreal or Mexico.

review. We look forward to seeing and hearing your work.

KNACK

T WENT Y-T WO

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