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KNACK’S ULTIMATE AIM IS TO CONNECT &
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we are 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 &ARTISTS INSPIRE & INSPIRE EMERGING EMERGING ARTISTS we strive to create a place for artists, writers, designers, thinkers, + innovators to collaborate and produce a unique, informative, and unprecedented web-based magazine each month
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10-12 high resolution images of your work. All should 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.
acceptable formats PDF TIFF JPG
writers You may submit up to 5,000 words and as little as one. We accept simultaneous submissions. No cover letter necessary. All submissions must be 12pt, Times New Roman, single or double-spaced with page numbers and include your name, e-mail, phone number, and genre.
.doc .docx RTF
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
photographers, graphic designers & studio artists
KNACK seeks writing of all kinds. We will even consider recipes, reviews, and essays. We seek writers whose work has a distinct voice, is character driven, and is subversive but tasteful. all submissions KNACK encourages all submitters to include a portrait, a brief biography including name, age, current location, and portrait of the artist is also encouraged (no more than 250 words). As well as an artist statement with their submission (no more than 500 words). 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 your work is to be displayed please include them. Please title files for submission with the name of the piece. This applies for both writing and visual submissions.
KNACKMAGAZINE1 @ GMAIL.COM subject: Submission Photography / Studio Art Creative Writing / Graphic Design
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KNACK is requesting material to be
@ = at
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 you’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 community—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 4319 North Greenview Ave, Chicago, IL 60613. 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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andrea catalina vaca co-founder, director, photo editor, marketing, digital operations jonathon duarte co-founder, design director ariana lombardi co-founder, executive editor, writer fernando gaverd / designer, digital operations, marketing chelsey alden / editor, writer jake goodman / designer jacob bewley / editor miljen aljinovic / editor bFrank / designer
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submission guidelines
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f e at u r e d a r t is t s 12
skylar fray
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w. jack savage
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thomas cian
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wom e n of t he wor l d t he s a l on n e w s
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spreads jonathon duarte
madi olli guzman
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madi olli guzman Madi Olli Guzman, is a Latinx, Queer artist from Rockford, IL. Their works span mediums including photography, poetry, and video art. Madi is 19-years-old and they are currently completing their Associate of Arts at Rock Valley College.
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skylar fray Skylar Fray is not afraid to test the waters. Born and raised in White Plains, New York, and the Hudson Valley area, she always knew that she had voice. Throughout her elementary and secondary years, Fray was involved in her community through the arts. Theatre, singing, visual art, public speaking, leadership-- you name it, she’s done it. Furthering herself, she went to do her schooling in Santa Fe, New Mexico at Santa Fe University of Art and Design. This coming fall she’ll be attending The American Academy of the Dramatic Arts in New York City. She is currently living, developing, and honing her crafts in White Plains, New York.
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w. jack savage W. Jack Savage is a retired broadcaster and educator. He is the author of seven books, including Imagination: The Art of W. Jack Savage. To date, more than fifty of Jack’s short stories and over eight hundred of his paintings and drawings have been published worldwide. Jack and his wife Kathy live in Monrovia, California. www.wjacksavage.com
thomas cian Born in Milan in 1989, and a graduate of Brera Academy, drawing has always been a key element in his life. In addition to his studiobased personal production (mainly portraiture), he works for various communications agencies in Milan and abroad, as well as on private commissions. Drawing every day since he can remember, and never leaving home without a surface, he has been able to put together a large collection of sketchbooks. In them he transposes, noting time and place, the people and places that surround him. In 2012 he helped create the collective magazine Lucha Libre.
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KNACK an acquired or natural skill at performing a task an adroit way of doing something a clever trick or stratagem
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M AD I O LLI GUZMAN _
Élan Vital is a series of photos taken between September 2015 and June 2016. Not originally intended to be together, the series emerged as Madi began to make connections between these photos. The series captures people in places they are experiencing fully--some for the first time, others for the hundredth. Settings for the series range from abandoned buildings, riverfront fields, friends’ basements, art exhibits, to greenhouses, and span four different cities.
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ÉLAN VITAL
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SKYLAR F R AY _
I am a force to be reckoned with; stealing my thunder will only make me hungrier for more life and creativity. “If we’re not paying attention, we’re geniuses. If we are paying attention, we’re ignorant to the reality. You need to stop saying you’re crazy, you really do. Let me be the one to tell you: you’re not crazy. Yeah, we have our imperfections and our hidden disabilities. That doesn’t make us insane; it makes us ignorant to the reality. We need to realize that we’re just living life; that’s what we do. You cannot change a person; however, each person has room for continual improvement.” -Skylar Fray
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B IFF
An array of ideas array Biff. Bathing suits a gift for mother what a thoughtful idea yes! oh my, like the rabbit we’re late but she told you stay in the mall but we’re late. Before Boyo goes to bed it’s night where he is Biff. The fox that claims he’s fast as flames is like a snail in the mail I cannot get through wireless fidelity. I’ll talk to Boyo tonight when he wakes Biff. We’re late, like the rabbit we check our computer pocket watch, train tickets in advance to work the art fair a 2nd chance putter,putter,runner the white man was mine Abbey Road strut check like Oswald tut,tut,tut too late Little Rabbit biff, biff, boom! By the German masterpiece we took a summersault to Wonderland a land of grey frozen shock that only grabs us by the clock
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quarter seconds of your life get up Little Rabbit up,put,put it’s not your time Little Rabbit the cavalry is on their way up. Wren the Guard and Mercy the Dalmatian and Temperance the Terrier taking Little Rabbit to the the station, to the fix it center to get patched up. Ricky and Nyel one takes captures the other deals with bones the pair of cats help Little Rabbit get back. Nyel says I’m not your friend at least for the while but after I pull, your little arm will be stable and agile. The fluffel, a family waits for the news the mum and pop together only for Little Rabbit and Little Ari scared for fellow his bun. Dr. Zion the Zebra says Little Rabbit was shaken a little but she’ll be alright, she’ll be just as bright she needs her fluffel close she’ll recover best with some rest Blessings! Blessings! we’ll take her back to the burrow we thank God for bringing us through this test.
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S equen ce ii
504 in my head 504 I’m not dead 504, hung over like a dead goose I run far from it but don’t cease to persist my youth. 504 has followed me all the way to a natural thing like crossing the street. Red light, green light 123 Mother may I have my drugs to sleep? 504 trailed me to the courts reminded me that I’m not that sort to get it right on the first try the judge is seated right hand I swear I it is not an eye for an eye it was the reality a car clashed with my mentality The advocate a kangaroo he will jump hurdles gloves on in the ring with the python he will win. don’t worry he will win. don’t hurry.
No, we’ll win he said we’ll win you’re not in over your head just go home now and rest rest I digress I may be bored but I mean who’s keeping score?
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drag rest drag rest
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S equen ce iii
Sequence III I rock to my favorite band and they don’t even know it I’m a Tiny Drifter. 12:00 am 12:05 am ok but alone with the cool of the night. Drag, rest, drag, rest. I scroll the personal retreat of seeing other people’s lives. I see someone that I know, they’re in town and they don’t even know it. Type, message, drag, send. So many people are in town I know them, they know me, and they don’t even know it. So I ink my thoughts into the reality of infinite realities.
I look up from my pocket computer and realize. The moonbeams that were once with me are now with their keeper. The clouds, drag, us, the little blue one. It will come into fruition. sOCIAL Effort. I make it though it never ceases to make me. I know effort, effort knows me and effort doesn’t even know it. Drag, rest, drag, done.
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W. J A C K S AVA G E _
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 in my childhood, 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 have 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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back country
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that night, he offered his daughter
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recharging but the changes in his own life remained a mystery
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carnival games
changing
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a gathering of nightmares
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THOMAS CIAN _
I’ve been drawing ever since I was born; it is just a part of my life which has continued to evolve.
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IMMAGINI VARIE
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WOMEN OF THE WORLD TRAVEL SERIES
This world is wild and mighty, and for those brave souls who chose to pack a bag, sling it on their back and explore alone - now that takes ferocity of heart. Traveling is akin to a catapult. You prep and you pack, you purge and you plan and when you are ready for take-off you nestle yourself into that little cradle. All that tension has been building and you sit still and breathe - it’s all about to begin. Then just like that, flight. You land. Where do you find yourself?
To travel alone is to take a plunge into revelry and unknown. One must trust themselves. One must listen to that chord playing loudly in their heart. To do it alone, to dance with it, to create newness and art as a result of it - this is one of life’s treasures. Traveling is the physical manifestation of self-exploration, and it takes courage. Here at KNACK, we wanted to know how travel has invited and ignited the creation of art for a handful of female artists. This series aims to highlight the experiences, thoughts, recollections of such women.
“OUR
MINDS TRAVEL WHEN
OUR
BODIES ARE
FORCED TO STAY AT HOME. WE IMITATE; AND WHAT IS IMITATION BUT THE TRAVELING OF THE MIND?… THE SOUL CREATED THE ARTS WHEREVER THEY HAVE FLOURISHED. IT WAS IN HIS OWN MIND THAT THE ARTIST SOUGHT HIS MODEL. IT WAS AN APPLIC ATION OF HIS OWN THOUGHT TO THE THING TO BE DONE AND THE CONDITIONS TO BE OBSERVED…BEAUTY, CONVENIENCE,
GRANDEUR
OF THOUGHT, AND
QUAINT EXPRESSION ARE AS NEAR TO US AS TO ANY, AND IF THE AMERIC AN ARTIST WILL STUDY WITH HOPE AND LOVE THE PRECISE THING TO BE DONE BY HIM, CONSIDERING THE CLIMATE, THE SOIL, THE
LENGTH OF THE DAY, THE WANTS OF THE PEOPLE, THE HABIT AND FORM OF THE GOVERNMENT, HE WILL CREATE A HOUSE IN WHICH ALL THESE WILL FIND THEMSELVES FITTED, AND TASTE AND SENTIMENT WILL BE SATISFIED ALSO. INSIST ON YOURSELF; NEVER IMITATE.” –RALPH WALDO EMERSON, ESSAY II, SELF-RELIANCE
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emilee lord Emilee Lord is a visual and performing artist that combines her love of language, her experiential movement practice and the seductive and absurd nature of repetition to create quiet, sparse and often odd works on paper, installations and multi media performance events. She received her ba from Bennington College, in Sculpture and Dance (2004) and her mfa in Fiber from Cranbrook Academy of Art (2007). She has been an artistin-residence at Vermont Studio Center, Santa Fe Art Institute, Jentel Artist Residency, and sim in Reykjavik, Iceland. She explores the places in between movement, image, language, material, object and abstraction.
sara malinowski Sara Malinowski is a writer situated in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. She is Editor for The Collective Sex, a monthly storytelling salon which aims to redefine sex and body education. She works with The Shakespeare Forum and has a small memoir, What Are They, Then, which she published while attending school in Santa Fe, New Mexico. www.saramalinowski.com
EMILEE LORD R E Y K J AV Í K , I C E L A N D M A Y 2 8 T H – J U L Y 3 1S T, 2 0 14
REYKJAVÍK
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jake goodman
ROC HESTER N Y– E U R E K A C A – ROC HESTER OCTOBER 3 – NY NOVEMBER 2 2 01 4 A J – BURBANK C FA I R L A W N N 5 01 2 11 OBER J U N E 19 – O C T N” N A MED “DAW
RG E PAC K AR, WITH A LA WITHOUT A C
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EMILEE LO R D _
I do not journal as such. I find it tedious, and I fail at it—I fail at most daily practice actually. But, I gather lists around me—what I want to remember, and what I see, and names of things I pass. These land in notebooks as I walk through the world. I walked through the world of Iceland in the summer of 2014 while an artist in residence at sim, Reykjavik. I walked around the city and drove into the countryside and sat in my studio making drawings of roadways and heart paths and open doors. These pieces of lists and sketchbook pages and drawings are the result.
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M AY
A F T E R A H U M M I N G B I R D L I K E F L O AT
KEX HOSTEL
SABRINA HAS BEEN GONE FOR 7 YEARS NOW
C AT H E D R A L
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C O B B L E STO N E
N O O N E RU N S F RO M R A I N H E R E
SULFUR
O R CA L LS T H E I R K I D S I N S I D E
WHISKEY
WAT C H I N G W O R K E R S P U T N E W W I N D O W S I N T H E Y E L L O W
WA L K
H O U S E O N S E L J AV E G U R
RO O F TO P C O LO RS
WAT C H I N G T O D D L E R S F I G H T OV E R A T R U C K I N T H E
R O O F T O P W AT E R
S C H O O L YA R D
S T E A M I N G S O U P F R O M A FA R M E R ’ S T R U C K
WA L K I N G I F E E L L I K E A L I N E D R AW N O N PA P E R
P O ST CA R D S
T H E B L A N K W H I T E PA G E T H I S C I T Y I D O N ’ T K N O W B U T N O W A N Y T I M E I WA L K T H I S WAY I T ’ L L B E O N A D R AW N L I N E . I S T H I S H OW W E D E C I D E D TO M A K E M A P S ? WE = HUMAN RACE DUMPSTER DIVING WITH A NEW FRIEND S E A S W I M M I N G B U T I WA S T O O A F R A I D T O G O D R I V E TO A G L AC I E R - S N E A F E L L N E S S OV E R T H E M O U N TA I N R O A D I N T O F O G L I E N E X T TO A ST R A N G E RO U N D P O N D N O T I C E YO U A R E AT S E A L E V E L W H E N T H E F O G L I F T S E N O U G H T O S E E A L A P P I N G WAV E BUTTERCUPS BIRDS WA L K WAT E R G R AV E YA R D LUPINS FIELDS LUPINS DA N C I N G L A D I E S BLACK SAND ARCTIC SEA C O L D C L E A R WAT E R
PIANO MAN P I L E S O F FA L L E N M E N AT M Y F E E T S IT T I N G A S A S H Y G I R L E V E RY W H E R E I G O U S A V S C A N A D A C A R D G A M E AT T H E H O S T E L T H E R YA N S THE HOSTEL RECEPTIONIST SHOWED ME A MAP H E S A I D “ YO U H AV E A V E R Y P E A C E F U L P R E S E N C E . I T ’ S C A L M I N G T O B E A R O U N D.” I T H O U G H T “ I H AV E N ’ T B E E N T H I S H U N G O V E R I N Y E A R S .” RYA N S A I D “ E U R O P E I S M O R E M AT E R I A L I S T I C T H A N T H E S TAT E S ” DEFENDING HOMELAND S H Y G I R L S C A N T R AV E L T O O M AY M OV E I N TO T H E ST U D I O TA I L B O N E / B A C K A C H E RED PLASTIC FROGS ON THE WINDOW SILL LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT O R G A N C O N C E R T AT T H E H A L L G R I M S K I R K J A A WA L K TO T H E L I G H T H O U S E A D R O P P I N G I N T O T H E WAT E R
G A S S TAT I O N
ARCTIC TERN
RESTROOM KEY
BIRDS
WA L K T H R O U G H T H E H A R B O R
BUTTERCUPS
P L O P I N T O YO U R H A N D A N D H A N D I T OV E R C U KO O S N E S T C A F E
WHY IS THERE A HERSHEY’S KISS WITH MY COFFEE?
SHADOWS
V I D E Y F E R RY
PA P E R A N D S M U D G E S
WA L K / W AT E R / B I R D S / WAT E R
WA L L L I N E S
S H IT / F RO G / CA F E / S C H O O L H O U S E
RED BLOCKS
RU I N S / T H O RS H E A D L A N D
PRINTS
B E A C H / W A L K / F E R R Y / H A P PY H O U R THERMAL POOL N O O T H E R C U LT U R E S O M O D E S T A S M Y O W N FELL FOSS JUNE S I T T I N G I N T H E B A C K “ YA R D ” W I N D I N G W O O L A N D L I ST E N I N G TO T H E V I O L I N I ST SINGING WOOL WISPS WOOL GRASS T I E D TO G R AS S GET THREAD T H E S P I D E R S A R E A D I F F E R E N T STO RY
A C H I L D N E E D S TO D I E
ETERNAL LIGHT
OUR HEART BREAK LINES OR HALLOWED GROUNDS
E N D L E S S D AY
JUNE
INTERCESSION
ART MUSEUM
H A N G I N G B R O W N PA P E R O N W I N D O W S
C L E A N G L A S S S H E LV I N G W I T H S H A P E S C A S T I N G
SLEEP
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TA K E A B U S PA S T T H E PA R T O F T O W N YO U K N O W
P L AY G R O U N D 2 A M F O G
WA L K B A C K
SWINGING
TA K E A B U S PA S T T H E PA R T O F T O W N YO U N O W K N O W
C L I M B I N G I N T O R O T T E N B O AT S
WA L K B A C K
PAT R I C I A W O R R I E D A N D L AU G H I N G
B O TA N I C A L G A R D E N S
WITHOUT MEANING I SKETCH
MIST J U LY L AST CA L L P O U R E D I N TO R E D S O LO C U P S H U N D R E D S S P I L L I N G I N TO ST R E E T S O N TO ST R E E T S L AU G H I N G BEGGING FOR CIGARETTES M A K I N G L O V E A G A I N S T T H E WA L L S O F T H E N AT I O N A L BANK STUMBLE RU M B L E B R I G H T A S D AY S O M E O N E STO L E M Y JAC K E T I AM AS THICK AS MY SKIN A N D T H E N T H E Y PA I N T T H E Y E L L O W H O U S E B L U E WAT C H I N G P I A N O M O V E R S I N T H E R A I N YO U A R E H E R E T O M A K E W O R K YO U R S O L I T U D E I S R E A L AT T E N D ICE AND SNOW BEANS AND RICE J U LY
MAKE ACT KYRRD C H AU L K CHARCOAL THREAD M A P S TO N OW H E R E MAPS OF NO PLACE IRREVERENCE I STO P P E D M A K I N G I S TA R T E D T O TA L K T O O M U C H G E OT H E R M A L B E AC H I PA C K E D M Y L I T T L E P I E C E S O F T H R E A D L I K E I T W A S F I N E C L O T H I N G I WENT HOME
DRIVING THROUGH A WILDERNESS L AVA C AV E H I K I N G TOWA R D S G L AC I A L L A N D S H OT S P R I N G S BLACK FLIES F L AT T I R E AT 2 A M B RO K E N D OW N CA R MOSS FOSS WAT E R FA L L SHAKE
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SARA MALINOWSKI _
No one checks their camping area more than the traveling woman. No one turns on that flashlight at the whisper of a creaking branch more than the traveling woman. No one looks in her back seat more than the traveling woman. No one pretends to text her boyfriend, or knows how to blend into the background quite like the traveling woman. Traveling women are some of the bravest women I know; they are unapologetic, question-askers and they explore their fears. But it is always in the back of our minds: that was lucky, I got lucky there. Didn’t I? The idea that women can travel alone and be okay is thought of as luck. It’s often assumed that you will not be alright and when less favourable things happen, we ought to have expected it. I am a woman and I traveled across the United States on my own. I was told by so many people I met that my “quest,” was something which they felt they were an integral part of, that my story and journey made them feel like they themselves were back on the road, adventuring - women in particular. This moved me. These people and our interactions reminded me that life is a lot larger, more grand and encompassing than my day-to-day worries. These people put forth their time and help with the faith that I could gain something exquisite on the journey. I was reminded that we all are worth investing in. The trip left an imprint on me that I am still defining through my art. All together I met and spoke to over 200 people who now live in my notebook, by name or identifier such as “Woman with great cowboy boots in blue pick-up, Kansas) My travels taught me that I can stand on my own two feet, and that I am more brave than I anticipated. More than anything, it showed me the generosity of humanity, and that for every strange thing that happened, there were always thirty more spectacular interactions to back it up. I was very lucky in that way. This is a collection of work that describes parts of my long and impromptu cross-country road trip, as well the year following my return home.
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I making the decision
I still see him laying there - my naked leg sprawled across his. We are clock hands, my foot ticking seconds, the Twin Peaks soundtrack reverberating. My feelings are always heightened when I have a soundtrack to assist my sentimentalities. I’m thinking how handsome his nose bridge is. This is the weird part of the movie where we’re confused and the soundtrack will help us remember. It’s all very Harry and Sally, Woody and Annie, Clementine and Joel. He’ll run to me with “It Had To Be You,” swelling in the background. Any minute now. I rub my leg against his, humming to the music, butterflykissing his chest. I can always sneak intimacy in when he’s laughing or when he just came. I know his spots. I can make him come so fast that, for one second, he forgets we broke up; come so fast that he will tell me to put my wedding dress back on and meet him in our favourite sculpture garden in Warwick, and then to Montauk for our honeymoon, and then comes the traveling we’d planned before we settle down with our blonde gap-toothed kids, Lily-Susannah and Oliver James. For one second. For one second he’ll remember we aren’t simply two humans who occasionally come together through touch over hipster music. We are us. I hold onto this second with clenched hands and a starved heart. I play this memory over and over in my head. This is the moment I realize that he doesn’t love me anymore. This is the moment I decide. He says, “That was great.” I say, “It’s always amazing.” He rubs his hand up the back of my neck. I had just buzzed the underside of my hair. His hand recoils, feeling the change. He says, “Yeah. It was fun.” I lead his recoiling hand to my cheek. He always liked my soft cheeks. I smile. I say, “I could fall back in love with you whenever.” He gives me a kind nod. “That’s not to pressure you into saying it back, it’s just to say, it’s amazing that when we’re apart I can be fine but then I realize I can love you again when I want to... when we’re together. It’s funny how it’s more a choice... love...than most think it is.” I remember thinking that response was cool. He says, “I’ve slept with three other people, but it’s always nice to come back to this.” He says, “Are you doing all the things you wanted to do?” I say, “I’m driving cross-country this month.” I have $500 to my name. This is a lie. I have to follow through.
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Later that night I drive to Jalapeños, where the most Jersey men in Jersey hang out and drink tequila and smoke Marlboro 100’s. I go up to Kevin, my buddy in all things unwise and ill-advised, and say, “I’m selling my grandmother’s silver on Thursday, and I’m driving to North Carolina on Friday.” Today is Tuesday. He says, “Yeah, man. Hell yeah.”
T the first tears: louisiana
The tears hit hard. They are the first tears of the four months I will spend sobbing on desert, on rock and on forest. When I hit the Gulf of Mexico, I realize that I am actually doing this. I am still driving. I have been driving. I am driving cross country. I am in a car with a girl I barely know, who was, like me, down to leave Jersey at a moment’s notice, who also had a few hundred dollars. I feel very alone. I’ve forgotten how to be alone. I can’t see through my bug-splattered windshield. The bugs are three times the size of bugs up North and they are all dying faster than I can swipe them away. The girl I barely know is pouring the leftover juice of canned peaches out her window at 80 mph. Its sweet stickiness meets the stickiness of the air which meets the side of my Honda and makes sweet, sticky, hot love on its red paint. I am horny. I am unappreciative of travel and I am tired. My sadness is filling my tank. Everything is foggy in the eighth hour of driving. Olenka, the girl I barely know, the Polish and polyamorous girl in my car, doesn’t mind my ability to never-pee. We make minimal stops on the highway and she talks about her partners. One of them is rough, dirty, and loves talking about Daniel Dennett and the illusion of consciousness. The other is soft, childish, and loves
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to talk about jazz and the malleability of gender identity. They both satisfy her needs in different ways, she says. We can’t expect everything we want from one person, she says. The roads stretch beyond us and behind us, blank and eerie. There are windmills in the distance, thousands of windmills. If there are aliens anywhere, it’s here, she says. I agree. It begins to get dark, and I pull over into a gas station. There’s no one around, and I decide to pay for a quarter-tank. I grab my debit card from the centre console. I see a flash of fur in the distance. A cat! I hear Olenka yell. She’s clipping her toenails on the dashboard and pointing into the blank and eerie distance. I am emotionally raging. My tank is almost full. I begin to cry a little when I see this peppered-with-grey kitten. No, it is a cat, not a kitten, a grown, snarly cat — but in my rusty eighth-hour, it is the smallest, youngest, freshest kitten with cartoon-sized eyelashladen eyes. I bring it a can of tuna and a can of chicken from the stash in our trunk. I am a scrappy street cat myself, I whisper to it. I lay out a piece of tupperware for it to keep. My father packed me too much anyway. Should we give it milk, you think? Do cats even like milk? I yell to Olenka. Maybe we should leave a few cans open in the lot and see if it eats from there. The kitten-cat will not come near me. The girl I barely know reminds me that if I save every crosscountry-feline we will be out of food before we hit Texas. I groan, remembering at some point we will have to drive through Texas, the colossal. I am running on fumes, and I have listened to “Like A Rolling Stone” about 700 times since leaving New York. The kitten-cat runs away when I set the food down. If you leave, maybe it will eat, Olenka yells from the Honda. I concede after making a few puckered-lip kiss sounds in the kitten-cat’s general direction. The air in Louisiana is a sticky kind of wet, and so is my face. Walking back around the car, I feel the peach muck on the side of my door. We begin to drive again. The sky is so goddamn big. It doesn’t feel okay to be so small. I miss the tall buildings that help me to focus on my block of street and forget the pulse of the universe. I am groggy. I am emotional.
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My tank is beginning to overflow. I try to top myself off but this sticky heat is saturating me. We barely drive a half-hour and I am sobbing. I am in a deep, dank place in the middle of bumfuck Louisiana thinking about a lonely-kitten-cat-life and the impermanence of love as I sit beside a girl with two boyfriends. … Ain’t it hard when you discovered that He really wasn’t where it’s at After he took from you everything he could steal How does it feel, how does it feel— “He said we’d be an old couple on a park bench, and now he looks at me like a stranger, like I’m little to him when I used to encompass his earth, y’know?” This explodes in one breath, up from my belly like volcanic air. There is no room to play it cool in this tiny car full of canned goods I can never give to kittens. My cries stick to everything like the peach juice on the door handle. I am young and I feel it in every cell and I can’t grow up or get over this feeling fast enough. I am revealing my ugliness. I am revealing too much. Olenka asks me, with all the patience she can muster, to watch the fucking road. Every time I look over at her, snot-faced and sorry-eyed, my hands subconsciously veer the wheel in her direction. To be on your own, a complete unknown, like a rolling — “YOU ARE STILL ENORMOUS AND IMPORTANT, OKAY?” she yells, shutting off the Dylan. It’s silent for a moment, beside the tccct of four wheels riding gravel. My breathing slows. “I just have to sleep,” I exhale. We are only forty-five minutes from New Orleans, my friend’s cozy mattress, but she responds, “Walmart it is,” throwing her final toenails out the window. She understands. I decide that I comprehend polyamory a little more than before. I had inadvertently picked a travel buddy who spends significant time being a considerate companion. A professional partner. We pull into the Walmart lot next to their security cameras. We go inside, buy some canned peaches and tell the store manager that we’ll be sleeping there overnight. They say that’s fine and
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recommends a specific aisle of the parking lot. And even though I cry a little more, even though we argue about how many of the windows we should leave open in this heat, even though there is a chorus of grasshoppers jumping on car, licking up door handle peach juice for six hours, even though I’m woken by night terrors that someone is knocking on the window (politely, before attacking us, Southern hospitality, right?), even with all that, I am grateful for the three winks of sleep, and I am grateful to be across the street from the ocean. ‌ The sun rises and hits the water. It frees up some of the air in orange and red hues. The horizon opens up like a present. I realize that we have driven all the way south. I have driven the farthest distance of my life thus-far, in a 98 Honda Civic, and I have kept myself and a peculiar new friend alive for one week. I have made it south, and if I can do that, then I can make it all the way west, all the way north, all the way to California. One completed direction, one complete breakdown. Pretty fair math to me. I wash my sticky, young grief in the ocean. I breath in all the ends of the Earth I can imagine. For a moment, my heart stretches as far as my wet eyes can see, and I am home.
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T the last tears: redwoods of california
But of course, but of course. I know I’m crying, but I feel nothing. My face is wet, my body is heavier — these are the tell-tale signs of crying. My breath is coming from a deeper place in my belly. But the tears are external, and I am way down deep in myself. I am nestled between two redwoods. I am realizing how limiting the self is, as you do, in your average end-of-three-months-onthe-road-Redwood-mushroom-trip. I am kissing the six grams I procured with gratitude because I was fired from trimming weed. I was actually bad at gardening. This was my severance. Am I Jack or the Beanstalk? Either way I am climbing higher and higher to meet the big, tall, terrible, beautiful giants standing solidly above me, the roof of my sky. Don’t they know how amazing their beans are? But of course, but of course, I think, like a steam engine. This mantra soaks my mouth. I am okay. So much has happened and I am okay and I know this. It is simple, and of course this is the way things are. I had to be so horrible at trimming weed. I had to be the worst at the easiest job in the world so that I could come here and hear what these trees, these giants, have to teach me. Inanimate things have patterns and sometimes breath, and I see how these giants are me and I am them because I am without limit. It is impossible to speak on a subject that doesn’t involve language. Wordless chorus. This is a moment that involves me not writing anything down. Stories told with my ears. This is a moment that I feel boundless and small, simultaneously. Feelings with my inside gears. And I feel like maybe the best way to communicate is through snaps of my fingers and clicks of my tongue because how much substance does my language have in comparison to that of bugs, of trees, of earth? This is high quality stuff. But of course, but of course. My life will change again, I will return to its normal rhythm of fear because it’s easy to be zen on the mountaintop. New York runs like a toohot combustion engine of ambition and self-validation. I will spring back. It’s easy to fight in The City and not so easy to not fight there. I apologize to the tree that is catching my wordless words. I am working on it. I have collapsed between these two redwoods, and feel my grandparents with me. Not as ideals or vagueness or hallucinations - they are simply here, running through the bark’s cracks like water, feeding this tree, feeding me. They have seen me walk in this forest and they know I am here. I talk to them wordlessly
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about the place I am in between essence and love and pride. I have survived this trip, all of The States except Maine. How did I avoid Maine? I have learned to pluck vegetables, though I failed at gardening. I am an extension of them. But of course, but of course. They perpetuate into everything. I love now. I love alone and with everything at once. It seems so boring that I fear ever feared loving myself on my own. Boring is the wrong word again, a hollow word, and I pull it from my ears like yarn unraveling. If you watch enough sunrises split the sky and stars overpower the Earth the fear dissipates and you meet yourself. The last time I had thought about my grandparents I was lying in a sleeping bag in Yosemite’s freshly-burnt forest and a bobcat had sniffed my feet. I froze in fear and prayed to my grandparents, counting the stars in a moment that seemed to last a lifetime. My best friend Ernesto would later say, That’s so Sara. You don’t pray to God, you pray to Marv and Arline. The bobcat left a paw print in the one bit of damp earth left. I am their fingerprint, a mark in the ground that shifts and grows like the married roots of this million-year-old forest. I touch the bark and intensely miss their touch, that human touch. I miss Grandpa Marv’s nose between my fingers, large and wrinkly and without apology for its strong forward arch in the center. I feel it between my fingers, in the lines of my knuckles. He says, “I got your knuckles,” when I say, “I got your nose.” His smell in the young wrinkles of my body. He always smelt a little like him and a lot like her. Their smell always seemed a culmination of each other. But of course, but of course. He had told her they would share his record collection one day, she said “Okay,” and that was the marriage proposal. They died a year apart, like a strange clock whose hands give out separately, beating time without time. It was only a matter of it.
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I stand, slumped between two trees. But of course. The patterns in the tree are rolling. I see all the waves from my journey. The waves in the Gulf of Mexico that cleansed me after at Walmart. The waves of the beach in California, which helped salt the wounds after being fired from the simplest job on earth. I feel the water and supplies of the women who had housed me and taught me to farm. I feel glad, immeasurably glad, that I’ve spread that love across a country in my tiny body. I have been pressing pause on my life. There is no purpose but to live my life in love, with love in their honor. And that doesn’t feel foolish or drugged out. It is simple, as simple as praying to what you know. As simple as getting into your car and saying go.
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THE SALON DAILY NEWS
The SALON by Ariana Lombardi The idea behind The Salon is simple: Set a time and place, and invite people to show up and share their art and ideas based around or inspired by a chosen theme. The event that ensues is a sharing of written works, spoken word poetry, photography, video and painting exhibitions, installations and site-specific performances. The Salon happens monthly (currently in Guangzhou, China) in public and private venues in the form of pop-up shows, performances and art jams. For more information about The Salon and all its happenings go to homeisalonelyhunter.com
Astoria, OR the Blue Shifting
Posts ranged from imagined headlines, poems, photographs, illustrations, musings, articles, 30-day challenges, songs, movements, improv performances, and so on. This “news” was posted on Facebook, July: Instagram, Twitter and WeChat with the hashtags #thesalondailynews, #createeveryday, and #homei During the month of July, The Salon launched salonelyhunter. It then became part of a conversaa month-long initiative called, #thesalondailynews. tion which engaged a global community of artists and This was setup to inspire and foster conversation thinkers. and connect a global community of artists, thinkers and doers via social media. For the entire month Want to see what people had to share? Search the participants generated, created and shared narratives hashtags #thesalondailynews and #createeveryday. of their own creation. The prompt being, Language Here’s a review of some of July’s Daily News. creates our reality. What story do you want to tell?
NEWS:
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POSTS
text Daniel Siuba, Emilee Lord & Ariana Lombardi
drawings Mark S.L. Williams
I have no prescription or answer for anybody but myself, but I do know that if we let the unending violence paralyze us into traumatized silence, we will have been complicit in finishing their work for them and imprisoning ourselves.
photography Emily McKelvey-Markwiese
July 1st, 2016 “…The sun is out now, on me and my bench. Yesterday, walking to the grocery store listening to ‘De Profundis’, I saw an image of myself: my body collapses on the sidewalk, the voice in my head screams, ‘It’s too much too much too much too much!’ The excruciating beauty of yearning, the pain of being alive, the ever-present nearness and distance of the divine. Also, I saw a rabbit in an alley.”
July 8th Today’s Headline” Language Creates. July 21st A miniature city sends up a flare - containing angry cries for help on paper sheets while I witness my country self destruct.
July 28th Meaning research for a show this fall: What does it mean “to belong”? How would you describe a sense of belonging? I’ll be reading the dictionary and having feelings if you need me. #exhibit #art #meaning #createeveryday July 5th #thesalondailynews Today’s Headline: Mad World Day 29 - another research day: Today about memory - Draw a map of your childhood home. What have you neglected July 7th, 12:21pm …Singing last night for dozens of family and friends until I to remember? Are there spaces you can’t fill? #mentalmap could barely sit up, for my own sake and as a vigil for black #mapping #memory #createeveryday #thesalondailynews men shot dead by police, for people bombed in Baghdad that no one seems to care about, all the voices crying out July 31st and silenced. My story is one of _____________________ . And then I wake up today and there is yet another murder. Is this the nature of things? Is the pattern going to remain “blood, vigil, blood, vigil”? Shouldn’t there be some order? Shouldn’t there be some change? What is justice in 2016? ...Perhaps Justice has disappeared (or retreated) into the unconscious dimension of the collective psyche, because we’ve so vehemently repressed it for so long. Preferring to assuage our guilt with rationalized racism and denial, we (dominant white culture) conveniently avoid engaging with these situations and our true reactions to them. And as a result we have (more often than not) failed to recognize our responsibility to speak up and act on behalf of all targeted and victimized communities worldwide... Maybe we will never see justice, but in death. I imagine that the crimes we commit follow us into death. I imagine that at the end of our lives we are forced to look at who we have been, and that may be the truest justice of all. Still, is there no potential for peace and justice while we are still alive? Actions and words matter. They reverberate with more force than we can ever #thesalondailynews, watercolor and ink drawing, July 2016 comprehend.
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The Salon Daily News Playlist Didn’t It Rain – Sister Rosetta Tharpe Rabbit Hole – Joie Flare Feral Love – Chelsea Wolfe Mississippi Goddamn – Nina Simone Morse Coded – Daniel Suiba De Profundis – Arvo Part Make it Work – Majid Jordan Calgary – Bon Iver
Inscription found inside of a Robert Bolano book found inside a used book store.
So Tall To You, watercolor and ink drawing, July 2016
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BODY AS NEWS Colby Gates Let me write a line for every day my body has been away Life ebbs / take heart. from your body. What haven’t you seen? (Let me) celebrate life / learn to speak for the dead. Call Some days I’ve been away / I’ve been flat on my back / me only by the name I’ve given you to call me. If we are looking up. So femme. What a shock. Yes there have been bound to our bodies— this is not a body. What haven’t aliens – (everyone is an alien) / (I’ve been) salvaging you seen? I locked the door behind you when you left. garbage, hoping the truth surfaces. In my mind I make a How long can a body be silent before it is news? How long can a body be news? list of men that I trust. You are not on this list. Everything happens almost. I have moments when I forget who I am, where I am, what I am doing-- is it a crime to be poor (in mind) / is it a crime to be poor (in body)? Unrest. Unearthed. My faith: moving on. / Your faith: finding. Modern love (means) satisfaction guaranteed. O, to be a universe unpeeled. I stand on my right foot and balance the rest of my body above it and forgive another man. I’m so good at forgiving men. How small my body must have felt in all of your hands. Watch me be a natural American animal— for you to rent to buy to love. Harm is relative / expectation is harmful. Haven’t you anything more to give? Haven’t I? (O) bankrupt empire, who gets to be angry?
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