K N AC K
M AG AZIN E
we are dedicated to showcasing the work of new artists of all mediums and to discussing trends and ideas within art communities
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AIM IS TO CONNECT
strive to create a place for artists, writers, designers, thinkers, and innovators to collaborate and produce a unique, informative, and unprecedented webbased magazine each month
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photographers graphic designers studio artists
10–12 high resolution images of your work. All should include pertinent caption information (name, date, medium, year).
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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.
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, brief biography including name, age, current location, awards, contact info (no more than 200 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.
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Submission – Photography Studio Art Creative Writing Graphic Design
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pt. Times New Roman
Please title files for submission with the name of the piece. This applies for both writing and visual submissions.
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is requesting material to be reviewed. Reviews extend to any culture-related event that may be happening in the community in which you live. Do you know of an exciting show or exhibition opening? Is there an art collective in your city that deserves some press? Are you a musician, have a band, or are a filmmaker? Send us your CD, movie, or titles of upcoming releases which 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.
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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.
AND HEAR ING YOUR WORK
Andrea Catalina Vaca
co-founder, publisher, director, photo editor, subscriptions, artist coordinator, marketing, advertising, digital operations
Jonathon Duarte
co-founder, design director
Ariana Lombardi
co-founder, executive editor, writer, artist coordinator
Fernando Gaverd
designer, digital operations
Chelsey Alden
editor, writer
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proofreader
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design intern
cover spreads
Alicia Morris Andrea Catalina Vaca
Submission Guidelines 06 Artists
FIFTY
12 Alex White writing / studio art 14 Allen F McNair writing 24 Federico Cannata photography 32 Ilka & Franz design 42 Sarah Rosenthal studio art 52 Gabriel Najera studio art 64
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Alex White
Allen F McNair
Federico Cannata
Alex White is a artist, based in Boulder, CO who combines the disciplines of poetry, music, and visual art to convey his Vision and to inspire positive action. In 2017, he graduated with a Bachelor of Music in music performance from the University of Colorado Boulder, where he also was published in the 2015 CU Honors Journal. Alex has contributed to the Boulder community through projects with the University of Colorado College of Music, as well as the Boulder Barrel Project, which sought to bring awareness to water conservation.
Allen Frank McNair is the author of a selfpublished epic poem entitled, I Dream of A’maresh, and From Checkered Cloth, A Collection of Poetry from 1990 Through the Present. Additional poetry has been published in Musing Place magazine, to which he was also a contributing editor. Illustrations have been shown at the Orange Restaurant Lincoln Park, Orange Restaurant Roscoe Village, and the Gallery Cabaret, twice. He enjoys watching science fiction, fantasy, and action movies, and reading in his spare time. He lives in Chicago.
Federico Cannata was born in the city of Modica, in Sicily. Upon graduating from Accademia di Belle Arti di Catania with two degrees in Graphic Design (Business Communications, and Publishing), Cannata has had the opportunity to collaborate with international fashion and photography magazines such as Vogue Italia, Vanity Fair Italia, Vulkan Magazine Canada, Elegant Magazine New York, Visionary Magazine New York, En Vie Fashion Magazine Osaka, and FNM Magazine Roma. In 2017, he presented the fashion project The Flam at the Salone del Mobile, in Milan. His work can be seen at
His latest experiments deal with the sound spaces that we inhibit, and how we can use music to expand the awareness we have of our surroundings.
www.federicocannata.com
Ilka & Franz
Sarah Rosenthal
Ilka & Franz are a German/Austrian photographer duo based in London. The pair, who are partners in both work and personal life, are largely self-taught. Ilka & Franz’s work has been featured by Konbini, Trendland, SchÜn Magazine, Vice and more.
Sarah Rosenthal is an artist working across the mediums of sculpture, painting, and installation art. She holds a BFA in Studio Arts from Santa Fe University of Art and Design. At 24, she currently resides in the mountains of Colorado.
ig: @ilkafranz tw: @ilkafranz fb: @ilkaandfranz
ig: @evoke_yugen
www.ilkafranz.com
www.sarahrosenthal.com
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ALEX WHITE
Music can tell one side of a story, words the other, and visual art might fill in the blanks.
W R I T I N G
Undoubtedly, there is a chaos the world cannot escape, and I want to show that, but I also seek to send a positive message. I like to work with opposites, and I am inspired by the beauty hidden in everyday objects and encounters. I choose to work in multiple fields because I cannot fully convey what I need to say in one medium. Music can tell one side of a story, words the other, and visual art might fill in the blanks.
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Dream
In my basement, in a room that doesn’t exist, there is a wooden table with a cool light and a clear, f lat, glass plate. I had had some cocaine that night, so I spread it across the table. Some of it was already in a fine powder, I made this little bit into a line and snorted it. The rest was clumped up, and I wanted to make some more lines, so I grabbed at it with my hands. It had the texture of feta cheese, and it crumbled apart in my hands. I thought to make it finer with a straight razor, and there was one on a stool next to the table. Before I could grab it, my Grandpa walked by the door to this room. I quickly covered the cocaine with my hands so he wouldn’t see, but I am pretty sure he saw. He asked if I would like to have his old car and showed me the keys in a bucket he held out in front of him. The keys glistened. I said, “yes,” and grabbed the keys with both hands, revealing the cocaine. “Wrong answer,” he said. I realized he tricked me. He said, “I will have to trade in my old car in order to afford a new truck.” He chastised me for using cocaine and swept it all away with both hands. It f lew like dust over the room.
Longing
My brother had a mother that went south and never looked back. Some say the plastic bag is still floating in a far away place, waiting to be caught on a plastic tree wrapped in plastic lights. My lover said to me the other day, “Look for me when I’m gone.” When you read this, please, tell me you’re okay.
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I stand on one leg as a bucket of pink paint drips onto me. A lion sprints out of the bushes and eviscerates me. Through the pink and red mixture, the mac-n’-cheese-yellow of my fat, I see my lunch falling through my stomach, becoming the lion’s lunch. Too bad for the lion, he didn’t know I poisoned myself and now he’s dead too. My shoes, covered in blood and paint, were taken off my feet and placed in an art gallery, entitled The Glory Of Capitalism. No one cared to see it.
Just Human Things
A flea swinging on the pendulum of a grandfather clock, I am not ready to leap. The world roars by me at speeds that could kill. My grandfather’s clock ticks away as he watches television all day: a good retirement. Waiting around for the day my fire is put out, with a fear the sky will rip apart at any moment, braced for a deafening explosion, I am reading a book because I’m going to die. Sweat and grime and shit and piss. Pimple pus and skin dust. Asshole, cock, pussy and nipple. Down a long narrow road, a farm stands covered in a light mist hit by morning light. The purple, the orange, the green grass. A rusty brown truck drives into a field. It stops by a lone tree. A shadow walks back to a house. The sweet hum of the Emerson microwave baking a sweet potato: yum. Nutrients and simplicity.
Police State. Get me a gun. To protect myself from this Bacterial Contagion. Guttural growl. Piss soaked towel. Smoke my cock. You don’t really want to be free. Cartel Castrations. No spunk after masturbation. Public beheading. The time has come, you’ve been dreading. Meteors falling from the sky. Filled with f lames and midnight black smoke. Dead puppies on everyone’s front porch. Gratuitous Violence is the norm. Norm MacDonald podcasts blast from public speakers spread across every street. Police Monkey Mountain High Colorado. Awakening, Awakening, Awakening, Awakening, Awakening. The light is too bright. Cut out my eyes. Pouch full of pimple pus mush. Must digest. Chaos wrapped in a bow, Merry Christmas. Happy Birthday. Happy Halloween. Floss my teeth, grind my teeth. Blood, sinew, snot, caught in my throat. The dead plastic eyes remind me that we are all captured. Staring out, unending, uneasy. Why do they look tormented? They are in pain. The f loor moves behind me, squeaks as I move forward. An afterthought.
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Grandma
Something about the dirt made me feel calm. I remember playing in the flower pots outside my grandmother’s trailer home. It cooled me off on hot summer days. I remember crawling on a shag carpet inside, tasting coffee for the first time. I remember mac n’ cheese with hot dogs, how the smoke from her cigarettes would fill the room with a swirling haze. I remember the brown, linoleum made to look like wood walls pieced together. I remember the toy race car that went forward after you pulled it back: yellow wheels and a blue and red driver. I remember the oatmeal and raisin cookies Grandma baked in large batches, then sealed them up in a giant ziplock bag, pinching her fingers across pink and blue lines. I remember squeezing taco bell sauce packets until they burst but I can’t remember if Grandma had died before or after I started doing that. I remember falling asleep on her couch, Mom carrying me out to her blue Ford Ranger. I remember holding Grandma’s hand as she passed. I went to the carnival right after. Mom thought it would cheer me up. When I see one of those toys that lights up and spins, I remember my mortality. As the cheap rubber spins and spins, as the lights move from separate parts to one, blurred, whole, I think of the inevitable: the conclusion: the end: memento mori. Congratulations. You have failed the test. Congratulations. The joke is on you. Congratulations. Fill the form out, and submit it by 9:00. There will be a transmission to the end of time. Get there early or miss out for an eternity. You don’t want to be late, or you’ll be left behind. The Ibanez strings ring out tones, to Nord stage 2 drones, lush chords, the drums be beating. Slam you like a seven ton brick falling from the sky.
I left my socks at the rodeo. I took them off to do the do-si-do. Everything started moving slow, and I forgot them in the afterglow. The clowns makeup dripped down his face, from tears, from sweat, from blood. He didn’t want to be there, jumping in barrels, performing tricks, He spent years in clown school and he’s drowning in debt. What’s a clown supposed to do? Rodeo
He is ashamed of his shoes. They squeak when he walks. He can’t take them off. He is tired of carpooling, with 40 clowns. He is tired of wasting pies and spritzer. He wants to be cool like the fire spitters. The clown covers himself in dirt and bullshit, takes a deep breath, and dies.
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Let Yourself Go So You Can Grow Danger Is A Part Of Life, 2017
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ALLEN FRANK MCNAIR
... life, my present and past experiences, and both the inner and outer beauty of women
W R I T I N G
I am inspired by the wonders of life, my present and past experiences, and both the inner and outer beauty of women. I have been adapting themes from Western dramas and comic books from the age of six, for my own entertainment and imagined audiences worldwide. Currently, I am writing an epic saga.
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CH ECKERED CLOTH — REVI SITED
From the flower’s golden petals, To the colorless sap within, A river almighty flows through Long stem and fluttering leaf. The chilled glass of pink lemonade Is only another form of this frozen bliss. Held against a cheek, cold, red Jewels rush life’s fluid to the surface. The atoms within her blood spin dizzily With the close contact of icy glass Against cooling skin so radiantly fresh. Miniature planets revolve around tiny suns. Two hands touching, lightly squeezed. Galaxies of atoms race within each. The rush to closeness, together without Mirrors the flight of molecules within. From red checkered cloth, strong Weaves of a special, sacred pattern. Two bodies and souls entwined. Love from its roots grows outward.
BOUNDLESS DREAM
Tonight, I listen to Ravel’s Bolero On route to a vivid blessing of sleep. I lie in bed. Images start to flash Before me, a column of many nations.
Gradually I see a galaxy of stars and worlds. My spirit itself expands to embrace them all. My very body tingles with their vibrations. My mind beholds a truly grand, boundless dream.
First, Greek soldiers march along A wide, paved roadway, in black armor. Their breastplates and shields gleaming. Then a phalanx of Roman warriors come.
I feel as one with humanity and the heavens. All of the night and day are honestly mine. Understanding of the all-encompassing universe, The tiniest atom of life’s matter is also mine.
Their armor is colored deep burgundy. Behind them march medieval knights. More strut on powerful horses: proud. Along the broad avenue, doughboys walk.
But I awaken to my limited reality. The bed sheets damp and twisted awry. Two pillows under my head, bunched-up. The music is gone now, softly lost in my ears.
Those of the Hun also travel the roadway. Next, march friend and foe of WWII. After them march men from the Korean Police Action and today’s armed forces.
Tonight, I have only four walls to surround me. Furniture hidden in the dark shadows. My aching body once again a finite shell. But I will always carry my boundless dream.
Finally, American astronauts and Soviet Cosmonauts stride the wide highway. Long rockets ride along the roadway. They follow these travelers of the heavens.
Into all my tomorrows, it enlivens a sense Of joy for each day that I am alive. An experience of conscious expansion. My dreams for the future fill my soul.
All during the long march, Bolero plays In my ringing head, its rhythm strong. My very limbs sing to the vibrant chorus. I feel my head and heart soar to its beat.
This finite shell is not all that I am. Joy and bliss are my birthright. Unity with all that I perceive brings Me closer to an awareness of God.
Now my spirit is lifted on currents of Wind and fire, up into the boundless sky. I see nations and continents become small. A blue and white globe comes into my view. Other worlds of a complete solar system Appear before my celestial face and eyes. A solar wind carries me ever outwards Until other planetary systems are revealed.
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C O M M U N I C AT I O N O F T H E S E L F
There is a place where I like to go Deep within my mind and heart. It is a place of unbounded bliss Which I enjoy relating to others.
The feelings and thoughts of each poem Reach universal truths in my constant Effortless communication of Self. Without poetry, I could not communicate.
An unlimited reservoir of creativity. It allows me great wisdom to express To others about life’s experiences. I am able to tap into it twice-daily.
Just a few words of title or theme rapidly Expand to complete stories. I am able to paint solid word-pictures Transforming them to artworks.
It is an ocean of bubbling bliss which Rises in waves of interminable joy. Thoughts surge within consciousness As I continue to dive deeply within.
These works of art illustrate my poetry As a spotlight illuminates a darkened room. The shadows of mystery soon disappear From abstract concepts transcribed in pen.
Ideas effortlessly bubble up within: Effervescent gems of quiet inspiration. As a spiritual miner, I find value in These precious jewels of truth.
The energy expended in telling these stories Is quite minimal for my versatile mind. An inner intelligence directs the flow of Narrative as my poems unfold directly.
I gently seek a deeper understanding While my writing and illustrations grow Inside my head, capable of natural fruition. I am soon in the zone of great productivity.
Going to my place of rest and tranquility Transforms the individual Self to cosmic Self. From the small world, nuggets of wisdom arise Into a grand universe of unbounded perspective.
When I go beyond my thoughts and feelings I experience something much greater than The finite mental sum of my actual parts. It is a limitless field of possibilities.
The Self is within each person. Anyone has access to this infinite Self. I have had this experience for over forty years Since instructed in Transcendental Meditation.
The deep-rooted stresses melt away. My mind is freer than the wind. This wind blows away the clouds of Ignorance and my distorted thinking.
This easy and effortless technique of mental Exploration expands the mind immeasurably. New ideas manifest themselves with fascinating Food to satiate one’s intellectual appetite.
Many of the poems I write provide New insights into others’ character. They illuminate the lessons of my life as Rays of the midday sun clear the sky.
Poetry is the universal expression of thoughts. Its great importance is very real, especially to me. Individual pieces about homelessness and its adventures Have progressed into an epic poem set in the future.
My mind and heart have also grown apace. Poetry has given me a voice to be heard. My own world is a better place originating From thoughts and progressing into words. These tremendous thoughts are vessels upon A sea of tranquility and peace within my mind. They float without effort to be discovered anon. I gather them together to ship cargos of sagacity. As I transcribe my thoughts to paper, Words miraculously appear, expressing concepts Grand and wondrous and I progress in poetry. From single stories, I develop grander visions. My wish to be self-published has borne fruit. My epic poem, I Dream of A’maresh, has Taken root in the minds of many readers Both in the past and into the future. A fortress for commanding a vast territory of The field of literature awaits my use of pen in Magical arenas of storytelling, upon the stage Of tremendous auditoriums in my future spent. I look forward to telling other stories everyday. With the constant communication of Self There is no end to what I can express. Poetry makes all of this come true.
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THE GROWTH OF HOPE
The growth of hope dawned on me one Dreary night as I lay in my bed after Weeks of homelessness. I realized I was on the thresholds of new housing. I was soon to be transferred from a shelter To a newly-created group home on Keystone. It was proposed to me over a welcome lunch with the Kind administrators from Lutheran Social Services. I could not have conceived of such good fortune Several months living in the Lakeview shelter. Yet I was given a gentle challenge to stay in The shelter only if I worked to grow out of it. I had worked with the city’s social service network To establish my mental disability status. I had a kindly psychiatrist who understood, With diagnosis of bipolar disorder. I began taking the right medication and adjusted well. Since I had a history of stable employment before Homelessness found me emotionally stricken and unwell, I would be working and receiving the benefits of Disability. As I grew emotionally, I began to write stirring poetry For a social services’ literary magazine, Musing Place. I began to perform my poetry onstage in the Thresholds Program of Theater Arts at the Blue Rider theater. I worked in theater maintenance through this program. It was a new, productive means of expression for me. Before this, I performed my poetry in the ensemble Work of a collaborative venture called Address Unknown. I was being productive even while homeless And now I would embark on the journey of Stable housing, employment, and writing poetry: My lifeline to the shore of home and work.
Poetry has also opened doors to drawing, painting, And other creativity, including my own art exhibit. The Literary Guild once owned a bookstore on Lincoln, In the jolly old town of rocking Chicago, Illinois. Therein, I was once in a sponsored show. Impressed with my work, I was given a show Of my own which featured the women I’ve never met. Of the pieces sold, one was bought at its asking price. Originally bought for less, he paid the difference Soon after discovering its true value himself. I saw the progress from writing poetry, To illustrating its content in grand expressions of art. Poetry is my life’s ambition as well as other forms of art. When considering the end to my own life, many times Another poem comes to my fevered mind to first complete, Providing a source of miraculous hope for me. I have regularly contributed to anthologies In the now extinct Journal of Ordinary Thought. I have also continued to perform my poetry in open Readings at the Bazazian Public Library on Ainslie. My life continues to grow in hope as I continue to write. Poetry has rescued me from the very jaws of death. I look ahead to the brightness of a future in writing. I am ready to master life’s challenges with a sense of hope.
FROM CH ECKERED CLOTH
The flower opens to greet The sun’s golden food as It touches her delicate Fingers of red. Her neighbors blush in Pink hues, blossom In bold velvet blues, ignite In yellow flames, shining. From red checkered cloth, a honey Blonde head looks up. Her blue Eyes drink in these colors, Cheek held against chilled glass. She smiles and mimics a bunny’s Wriggling nose, her merry laugh Jiggles pink lemonade and ice. Her hand reaches back to find his. She feels close to the view, and him. Sky and earth move For her with their touch. Her drink tastes sweet as the day. He watches the way she Watches the scene. His thoughts move in the lazy Way the clouds wander by.
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FEDERICO CANNATA
... these photographs shower the viewer with elements of decadence and destruction...
P H O T O G R A P H Y
We live. Inhabited by emotion, we live. Through destructive moments, we live. In Suggestions, the works of Ingres, Gericault, and Hayez are printed on large paper supports, then physically destroyed. These shots are intentionally provocative. Inspired by the romantic sublime, these photographs shower the viewer with elements of decadence and destruction, appearing as wind-torn newspaper wandering through the streets, or as a letter that is thrown into the rubbish, or as the walls of torn houses show proud signs of passing time.
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ILKA & FRANZ
An unmistakable use of color creates a vibrant, bold look, while the conceptual undertones are often subtle and naive.
D E S I G N
Our work blurs the lines between portrait and still life and is often darkly humorous. An unmistakable use of color creates a vibrant, bold look, while the conceptual undertones are often subtle and naive. We draw inspiration from pop culture, kitsch and surrealism.
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this page beauty opposite foodmurder
schon magazine
opposite spiegel wissen this page spiegel wissen
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wired life
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SARAH ROSENTHAL
Look around right now.
S T U D I O
A R T
Look around right now. Where is the nearest living plant? What thoughts does it bring to mind? My current practice brings these sometimes seldom considered urban organisms into a new light and, by using them in conjunction with painting or sculpture, explore their roles in our lives. I strive to present viewers with an object or environment that allows them to question our everyday interactions with the plant world, and inspire a new sense of connection to our immediate surroundings.
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Purely Contaminated
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Find it in Your Heart
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We Are an Item
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QU ICK LO OK
Gabriel “GubR� Najera is best known as the stencil artist who makes stencils that do not look like stencils but rather handpainted acrylic. GubR portrays his twisted version of reality in the form of pop art, blurring the line between street and fine art, creating something like illustrated surrealism. Every detail is applied via hand drawn stencil work, no paint brush or pen stroke are ever used.
GA BRI EL NA JE RA
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