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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. knack’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 artist biographies 4 w. jack savage 9
cyrus youngman 21 serhan sezer 29
submission guidelines 38
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w. jack savage
cyrus youngman
W. Jack Savage is a retired broadcaster and educator. He is the author of seven books including Imagination: The Art of W. Jack Savage Jack and his wife Kathy live in Monrovia, California.
Cyrus Youngman is a novelist on the path to publishing. He’s a folk-singer on the road to touring. But most importantly, Cyrus is an artist who has found his voice amidst the atonal roar of the 21st century.
www.wjacksavage.com
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serhan sezer Serhan Sezer is 22 years old. He is from Istanbul, Turkey.
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if the picture or subject i had in mind wants to be something else, i go along
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w. jack savage STUDIO ART
For most of my life I would revisit my art every few years, produce a few pieces, become frustrated and give it up. It’s hard to say where the whole thing went wrong but being identified as a talented artist as a child, I began to look at the paper or the canvas as more of an enemy to be defeated and made to bend to my will. But a few years ago I decided to collaborate with my art. That is, if the picture or subject I had in mind wants to be something else, I go along. The result has been by far the most sustained and prolific period of my life as an artist. Strangely, it began with my intention to create a cover for my first book, a short story collection entitled Bumping and Other Stories. I haven’t looked back.
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equine forming 10
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loki’s mischief
man of the year
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travel the beast
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notions that linger 13
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now at the van hoven gallery
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unstoppable
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the first bazaar
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the three judge panel
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the marsh at low tide 18
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i began writing religiously on the first day that i realized i had something important to say
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cyrus youngman C R E AT I V E W R I T I N G
I began writing the first day my guitar failed to express what I was feeling inside. However, I began writing religiously on the first day that I realized I had something important to say. Something specific. Something that a song, no matter how earnest or well-constructed, could never contain. Writing is a bodily function for me now. I see it as my duty to write, as a human being. I became a writer because I had something to say. Are you listening?
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A spiritually inclined man lets the day get deep under his skin. It’s things like the wind covertly opening and shutting the office door. Like Meg’s baby hurling “Wahs” all through my world. Like sitting down, here, where everything, all perfect tools of tranquility, are laid before me and ready to be utilized, ready to absorb all the slashing thunder in my brain. And then, someone walks in the room to tell me something, or the phone rings, or I’ve misplaced my lighter… All of these trivial interruptions, like rumors, suggestions, unintelligible whisperings—The hot breath meets those cold currents. Great anvil headed clouds begin their bulbous siege. Thunder brain is born. I can’t hear anything with all these stabs of electric shock swivel sword—connect the dots—exploding in my skull to try and break up thunder head heaps, only to be forced downward to make way for the crash and rumble of ruthless ruthless rah! I’m letting go of rage. Be Here Now? What if I don’t want to? What if the psychic sea of destiny is too dog-gone gyrating of a thing to swim out of or figure out? If you let all your
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possessions, personhood, and pals get away from you, then you can learn to be God. Baba Ram Dass—don’t ya miss being human now? Did the peace you attained ever get to be the biggest burden of them all? Is it such a great time knowing all, seeing all, being all? Ever wish for a woman? Ever wish for a change of pace? Ever lose your “god-head” and relapse into pagan desire for power? And flesh? Do you wish for the people to build temples around you? Will you die in lotus pose and become exactly what you learned to be as a human? Is that the end? Do you get a reward? Will someone else become God after you? Do you hear my prayers? Are there others? What is it that you? You. Here I am, breaking down about Federally stamped paper rectangles and creaking doors. I want heaven! Nirvana! Peace and the perfect unpredictable rhythm of the ether! I’m only trying to de-cloud my thunder brain so that I can clear up everyone else’s clouds.
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FOXES IN THE FOLDS
Yes, we are the foxes in the fold. Hiding, furrowed. And yet, our souls willingly cut themselves to bleed rainbows all across that upper landscape—ever changing, ever untold. And tucked away from a world of dour discussions, we have acquired gold! Gold galore! So many storybooks never opened before. And outside, we can hear the railroad roaring rainbow peace outside the door. And death itself has lied down with the cows in the pasture and is dreaming the dream of “happily-ever-after” cause he knows he can’t worry us no more. Yes. He can’t worry us no more. But when the time comes for the body to break, he’ll rise up from the grass awake, and the moon’ll crack and the hills will quake, and the sky will shatter and fall in flakes. And he’ll “rap-rap-rap” right on our door and we won’t ask, “What’s the reason for?” Hand in hand we’ll follow the4 plans that were writ for us the day we were born. And we’ll, one last time, leap through the corn, and the vineyard vines, and the soybeans shorn, till he leads us to that fold of land, where tunnels mouth cries, “Come on in!” And to the world, we’ll wave goodbye, and pass on through that earthen floor, and fall fast away from the sky, all the way to the molten core. And yes, it’s true, we have to die. But we don’t have to know the reason why. And why wonder about how or when, when answers lie where questions end.
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R I G H T
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He was right about the rain when he said, “Cy, you should always write about the rain.”
So here I be, cerebrating the vanishing dimples of gulleying street streams, the “invisible on its way down” droplets that create a weak strobing shrouded effect and I feel “right as rain” writing about rain, as milk, safe inside my morning’s glass residence and I’ll pour nutrients out carefully on the buttermilk page and dampen dimples of thought like rain on the plane.
And the Satori crack of clouds, enlightened in their collision of debate, is loud enough for all to hear and yet, it comes and goes misunderstood by most, for the thunder of an instant is NOT “the light” itself and rather, just the filling in of a spark created fissure.
And oh, to be struck by lightning is to be chosen by the storm, set to burning with the aether’s finger touch and smoking firework snakeskin fades before the memory of the man who’s head was a torch in the street crying, “Why not be utterly changed into fire!?” until his lights were put out, and his body to sleep, to dream of me as I sit writing about the rain.
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Ah! The sweetness of Philosopher’s struggle. The reluctance to put faith in love. Knowing that nothing’s known. Wishing for all the dripping blossoms of life. Aware that most are poisonous. Aware that you’ve been poisoned before. That you’re still poisoned by the fallen, trampled flowers of the past and that you are sick with incurable melancholia. That your bitterness, felt towards the sweetness, only attaches you to the fleeting. Knowing there is no end to the story. That a beginning is just as nonsensical. Watching the newborn, indecisive whether to weep with joy or vomit. Huddling, sick, in a secret garden, where sunlight sticks you by surprise, like a gun in your back, and startles your corpse to leap up and laugh.
You have no choice. There’s no stopping the world from spinning. There’s no getting off.
You can’t even end your life to stop the dizzying mystery of the never-ending. It would perk ears to hear of your suicide. To find your corpse and patch it up with slate, turn your switch back on. Here you are again. What on earth took you so long?
Ah! What else did you expect? To get some rest? To call off working—indefinitely?
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ing eyes to see the light of dead giants, hanging high above the hill.
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RAMA. The deity who skateth the eternal “S” over the ice pond of existence. There is no deep or shallow end to the pool. RAMA knows that you can drown in either. RAMA. Who existeth on everything only. Who cannot eat his bread without his mountains. Who cannot drink his milk without his salt water. Who cannot see the sky without his industrial smog. Who sees through it all, because of it all. Who has found endless bliss between the AK47 and the innocents. Who has found the divine white light on horizon when the sun has not fully set and the moon has not fully risen. RAMA. Who speaks no words. Yet, communicates a library’s worth of wisdom… and more. RAMA. Who tends to his flock without rod or sheep dog. Who guides without hand or thought. Simply walks. RAMA. Who has the power to move mountains… but has no desire to. For RAMA was the one who placed them, carved them into their perfect place and position. RAMA. Who’s name you can chant over again until it becomes MARA or ARMA or AMAR or LAMA or AMAL or MADA or DAMA or AMARALADANATABAGAWA and all other combinations of the integral parts of the divine one which (and who) has every name one may conjure up with his or her right mind. RAMA. Who is YOU. The one buried deep inside you. The one waiting to be dug. To be realized and cherished. The one you were meant to become. He is who you imagine when you imagine yourself as Jesus. On the earth, but certainly, not of.
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i like to capture the different things, the things you don’t see around you, magical things
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serhan sezer PH OTO G R A PH Y
University life started with Advertising. I leaned into making movies and writing lyrics. I am also really curious about technology. I strive to make movies, songs and take pictures, and do graphic design. I think these suit me because I am energetic, creative, friendly and an effective team worker. Of course all of them challenge me, but I like doing them and I’m glad to. With my art, I like to capture the different things, the things you don’t see around you, magical things. The point of my life is to create something for the world.
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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 “deadlines� 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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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
All review material can be sent
know of an exciting show or ex- to hibition opening? Is there an art
knackmagazine1@gmail.
com. Please send a copy of
collective in your city that de- CDs and films to 2732B Agua serves some press? Are you a
Fria St., Santa Fe, NM, 87507. If
musician, have a band, or are
you would like review material
a filmmaker? Send us your CD, returned to you include return movie, or titles of upcoming re- postage and packaging. Entries leases which you’d like to see
should contain pertinent details
reviewed in KNACK. We believe
such as name, year, release date,
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 community—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.
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