Landscapes of an Other

This document, the result of a course, is directly influenced by Self-Portrait of An Other by Cees Noonteboom and Max Neuman. This document is a direct homage to this most interesting of publications.

Landscape from the very beginning has been dramatically influenced by the image of itself. This continues to be true, it is a visual construct as much as a spatial construct. The image of a place, or the idea of the image, often continues as the primary source of information.

The term landscape, first recorded in Holland in 1598, was borrowed from painting as Dutch artists were on the verge of becoming masters of the landscape genre. The Dutch word landschap had simply meant ‘region’ or ‘tract of land’ but had the artistic sensibility of the scene or scenographic embedded within it. When the Dutch term was brought into English, it literally became ‘a picture depicting scenery on land’- a definition which pervades the landscape to this day.

This document is the result of a course of inquiry that challenged students to construct images of landscapes that do not yet exist or may never; landscapes of myth and allegory, texture and subtext, of the desire for a place not yet made or visited. Every component of the image is a consideration, from atmospheric conditions to the textures of stones. These are fantastic landscapes but not landscapes of fantasy. They are images of embedded with the values, histories; the believed myths of the author. These are stories of images and not a single word; lies full of truths.

This course additionally challenged students to interpret the work of an other. An other landscape, an other person, an other memory- a prose poem in the form of a verbal landscape as inspired and informed by the image of an other.

The Project: This document is the result of an investigation into the beautiful- the visceral verbal and deep visual; a prolonged meditation on the internal landscape of the self in visual and verbal terms.

Each student fabricated a single image over the course of 7 weeks. A digital image of at a large scale with extreme detail- landscapes within landscapes within landscapes. From these landscapes, each participant was assigned an other’s landscape to write about. They were required to write the story, in prose poetry, of the landscape of the others. This document is this set of landscapes of others.

SUBTEXT and Landscapes within landscape within landscapes: Every component of each image is a subtext to the compositional whole. Every individual component of a landscape is a subtext to the whole. Every attribute of a component is an index that informs the reading/experience of the image, object or place- it is all part of the visual narrative.

Fantastic Images of Perspectival Order: The images created are fantasticical but not fantasy. They may be full of strange associations and phantom figures but grounded in the attributes of place. The rules of perspective are met and maintained but openly bent- the images relate to the way we see but shift in scale and dimension. These images are places of occupy-able experience.

The process: Participants first used photography to capture an image of a known landscape, an everyday, historic or iconic landscape (building, monuments, archetypes, fields, forests, oceans, seas). This image or images were then intentionally decapitated and cropped of context to stretch our immediate recognition- they are significantly altered and alternatively constructed/arranged. This process promotes a cerebral search and accumulation of fragments to complete the image- recognizable maybe or not. This was the development of the base of the image.

Students utilized signs of landscape and indexical referencing to stretch the tension between the contents of the image and the signifiers- this required blurring, framing and fragmenting the images into a series of parts and pieces that combine to form the salient recognizable attributes of the imagined place and things. It is here that alternative associations and truths are formed.

Movement and time within the images is critical, defined by the author the attachment, detachment or distance of the context and subject matter index duration: a leaf moving across a parking Jot, a flock of birds moving across the frame and the defoliation of a tree during a storm. The interpretation of movement over the surface of the earth (landscape) may also involve transitions and transformations from ground to sky, from openness to tunnels, from solid ground planes (concrete) to fluid (water). The narrative of each passage as either a movement across the frame or a

distance traveled by a character (human and non) is an open and supportive process that is to be a serious and liberating inquiry.

Participants were finally assigned another students landscape to write about. This writing took the form of prose poetry. The image of the other was the basis for an other experience of the image- a written, poetic experience. These poems do not necessarily tell what is happening in the image but maybe what just occurred or is about to occur. All formatting , grammar and spelling are as determined by the student-author in direct support of the other narrative.

Lastly, This course is directly influenced by Self-Portrait of An Other

by Cees Noonteboom and Max Neuman. This document is a direct homage to this most interesting of publications. Where it does not approach the significance of the referenced text it is our attempt, mine and the students, to explore the intellectual space of an other.

Andrew O. Wilcox Associate Professor, Cal Poly Pomona Landscape Architecture LA 463 Senior Seminar, Winter 2013

Art is a lie that makes us realize truth, at least the truth that is given us to understand. The artist must know the manner whereby to convince others of the truthfulness of his lies. If he only shows in his work that he has searched, and researched, for the way to put over lies, he would never accomplish anything.

Pablo Picasso

Saw-Ann Bryan Cesar Celis

Jessie Corea

Naoki Furuya Vahe Ghazar

Daniel Gonzalez

Crystal Gutierrez Stephen Jinks

George Kutnar Evan Lee

Heejae Lee

Nabyl Macias

Michael Najera

Jennyfer Sanchez

Kenneth Sperling James Voong

People who try to explain pictures are usually barking up the wrong tree.

A picture lives by its legend – not by anything else.

Pablo Picasso

Saw-Ann Bryan

Cesar Celis

Jessie Corea

Naoki Furuya

Vahe Ghazar

Daniel Gonzalez

Crystal Gutierrez Stephen Jinks

George Kutnar

Evan Lee

Heejae Lee

Nabyl Macias

Michael Najera

Jennyfer Sanchez

Kenneth Sperling

James Voong

Painting isn't an aesthetic operation; it's a form of magic designed as a mediator between this strange, hostile world and us, a way of seizing the power by giving form to our terrors as well as our desires.

A good picture, any picture, has to be bristling with razor blades.

Pablo Picasso

Rumble! Rumble! Rumble!

Earth is angry Earth is breaking the rocks Earth is cracking the streets Earth is collapsing the buildings Earth is killing humans, animals, and insects Earth is giving scars Earth is destroying the landscapes This is the day everything changed

Earth reminds us we cannot take over the nature Everyone is shaking Watching building collapsing Imagining that the ground is shaking

My minds are filled with terror and sorrow I am watching people trying to bypass all the broken ground I am watching people shuddering after every shake and jolt I am watching people finding their treasures I am watching people praying to the God My city falls around me I am afraid it can be my end But it is not But it is my friends’ end Death of hundreds Death in pain Unknown friends Tears of thousands

I do not know what to do.

I have a lot of questions on my mind.

Is this really happening to me?

Why now?

What am I going to do now?

I am so confused I want to cry not knowing what to do I am trying many times to close and open my eyes to wake up from this horrible nightmare But it is real Earth is angry Breaking the rocks Cracking the streets Collapsing the buildings Killing humans, animals, and insects Giving scars Destroying the landscapes Here I am all standing Remember how people die And I promise to keep this earth So earth will never get angry anymore

text by Naoki Furuya image by Heejae Lee

Untitled Her skin turned color, the same hue that was often seen at home. The ruffles in her clothes made patterns of the melting hilltops. Razors of tall grass moved along with the rapidly changing surface of her muddy night gown. The sun was grazing the fading skyline and the shadows of birds cast spiraling features on her silhouette. She was running, although the soft ground was under her, the sores in her feet started to blister.

She was concentrating on the distance, though not in her head about what might be there. There was a hand coming through the darkness, a hand that was followed by faint words, “We must get to them”. The cuff of the voice’s sleeve was covered in a thick coat of cold black blood that ran up to her elbow.

Their eyes glistened together with the flickering ember of the lantern extended in front of them. The metal creaked. The ground - moving beneath them – was skipping the sequences of her short fleeting breath. As the distance shrank, so did the fear of the wolf, and its hollow eyes that came with the darkness. Their hair, extending past their shoulders, flowed as if the fibers were made of the strands of rusted wire. She asked, as if trying to comfort the voice, “The darkness on your sleeve – is it painful?” As if trying to form words, the voice spoke silently as the words ran out of her mouth. The drips of black from her sleeve made a long line that could be traced back to a shadow in the distance.

text by Evan Lee image by Crystal Gutierrez

Untitled A hot day that had never burned the sky red in such a way before cast a bloody hue over its desert denizens.

All alone, she stood before a vast field of wildflowers; they bled their colors over the auburn landscape, blowing back shades of red on the cheeks of the young girl.

A gentle wind pushed across the desert ground. The stalks, holding up their crown jewels, swayed to gentle breeze.

before you. No. For you’ve found it. You’ve spent this quest within it all.”

The girl looked around her. She was happy, standing against the wind that carried with it memories of home, happiness and joy.

For this girl, the wind brought with it memories of home, happiness and joy. All this was evident in her glistening icy blue stare, looking past the tumbleweeds.

She moved forward through the alien landscape, alone except for the shadow that accompanied her; a shadow microscopic in comparison to the dark monoliths of the shadow metropolis standing before her. She continued until she sighted her salvation, a river to carry her forward through the sand castle dunes. A river, pink like the roses she might remember her mother once growing, carved its way across the landscape.

She traversed forward, her bare feet grated by the burning sand, until she came upon the river. But a river it was not; a resident rodent of the alien landscape, leaving a trail of neon stood before and spoke.

“Your salvation, if you choose it, is not found in the dark city

text by Vahe Ghazar image by Jennyfer Sanchez

Narrative of an Other This time the air was made of something else entirely. His lungs felt full, and there was an aspect to the taste which was unmistakably resinous. The tangled fields rippled as they accepted his subtle frame, guiding it into the furrow, back to the banks where he used to haul his sack full of thunderous contrivances. It had been here, along these shores, where the machines would churn their sooty pulp out into that haggard stream. Films of grime would mingle with his sweat, trickling down his cheek, anxious to join the deluge. In previous iterations on this route he had tried to peer past the surface, only occasionally catching glimpses of the other side. Those glossy stones beneath the current had never been as visceral as they were now. He shut his eyes or a moment to see if the intensity of the passing had merely been a set of vague memories stirring a spectacle of impetuous yearning. Yet when he allowed the glare in again, the edges still weren’t as fuzzy as they had been before. Tentatively, he yielded a palm toward those polished orbs, the brisk channel provoking myriad contractions across his skin. Yet the depth of the waters were not as clear as his perception and he startled at the notion that he had become displaced. Settling back into the rampant rush, a peculiar thought streaked through his mind. It wasn’t apparent whether it was really the light, or if his eyes were somehow seeing the colors too clearly, but he became convinced that the tableau before him really couldn’t be. As he considered the likelihood of this specter amplifying into substantiality, a qualm grew its way up through his stomach and there came the bewildering sense that his body weighed only half what he knew it

should. Either this place had become a sort of intermediate paradise or the compelling formations were a clever artifice; a synthetic aberration. He let his suspicions overtake him while he watched pallid clones graze idle skies. How was this distant flock any more real to him than illusory motes projected on a vast azure canopy? Like the floor of the stream, they were well beyond his range. Shifting on his matted meadow seat, he tried to quiet his apprehension and let the breath of the wind compose his psyche. Yet the stark viaduct shrieked for attention. This immaculate mezzanine and coincidental verdure succession had him transfixed. The rhythm was flawless, so why had no sporadic pilgrims come to praise that disturbingly void upper vein? Wishing now to turn and run, he found himself incapacitated, only then realizing he was unaware of how he came to be here. Whether paradise or purgatory, he had become like the watery stones, a silent relic of an era which had since flowed past. Across the shore he could tell there was no peering beyond that profuse viridian barricade. The spires which rose beyond it mocked him, alluding to another expanse.

text by Kenny Sperling image by Cesar Celis

Meditative Morning He arose bright and early the next morning, amidst the dense and raucous city.

He could not sleep from the night before, His neighbors screaming and fighting, glass shattering, their kids crying, loud music pounding at his ear, and his wife with midnight cravings.

the beauty he could not see from home.

The lush green plantings, the widened fire road, geomorphic rocks, the hills.

Erosion due to natural processes, the saturated hazy sky, people that look like ants by the sea shore, the industrial plant out in the distance.

adjacent to large massive skyscrapers, and within the over populated community, The roaring sound of the waves, His breath diminished by the second. and the smell of wet soil was like medicine to his bones.

He was exceedingly tired and had to break away.

However, one thing stood out the most.

He got up from bed and looked The tall large vertical buildings out his bedroom window, surrounded by the waters. and out in the distance saw what seemed like “freedom.”

Questions, and confusion invaded him immediately.

He walked down his corridor, What happened and how did it and out the door, happen? down the cold alleys and city streets, and into a warm lush green He closed his eyes, meditated... landscape.

“She can give you life, she can give He stood beneath a tree you death, with his child in his arms she can give you pride, and can take as his wife went for a jog. it away.

He pondered.

She is here, she is there, don’t He stood and contemplated, underestimate, he admired the beauty, she is everywhere.

If you seek you will find.

Above, amid, below.

Divided she stands, so robustly connected in her inner most.

Desired above all, by rich and poor. by short and tall, she is beloved by all.

The most beautiful qualities she holds in her hands, envied, and hatred by most, by far.

Crystalline, so strategically structured untamed by man She rises, she stands. destroys all in her path.

The sound of wrath, sound of remorse.

Sound of anguish, forevermore.

What can I say? Only remnants are left.

Loved ones and memories, reminisce and lost dreams.

She gives growth to the seed, and makes it prestige.

Like a crown on a king, it adorns it in harvest.

The seed stands strong day in, and stands strong day out. but when she ceases to feed the seed then dries out.

Life is a like a thought, here today and gone tomorrow.

What lies ahead will replace you tomorrow.”

A beautiful day, so lush, and so green blue skies, sun rays.

Who knew? they would fall to their feet?

Time of weeping and Gnashing of teeth, do not dare think twice or you will have to face her.

The gift of life, so precious and short.

So real and so true.

They aren’t here anymore.

text by Cesar R. Celis image by James Voong

Scars of the Battlefield The hillsides continue to erode, eating away at the remnants of the sun mural that marks the passage of sun titan cavern. The sun spotlights the cavern and emerging from the shadow filled cavity within earth’s flesh comes the titans who set forth to fulfill their urge for destruction.

Scars of the battlefield lay imprinted on the land; clusters of surviving green blades of grass stand secluded and severed from one another. The veiny dark depths of annihilated soil cracks and crumbles as the horde of overgrown micro militants storm across the desolate plains of earth and dreariness.

Greater in number, outmatched in scale, their wills demoralized by the desecration that met them. Armies decimated with single swift pendulum strikes, individuals left alone hopelessly scattering in directions unknown only to scamper blindly to their eminent demise of the underfoot.

The titans have laid waste upon the once luscious green landscape, once flourishing in life and prosperity. Dense towering blades of green canopies stretch to the ends of the horizon providing rambunctious filtered sunlit avenues and homes only to be scoured not by their wrath, but by their cruel mindless intentions of entertainment. Banding together, the militants regroup as they retreat from the newly fabricated desolations. They make way towards a neighboring hill of allies escaping the havoc that bleeds through their abandoned haven.

Targets grow scarce, boredom arises, and the titans grow weary of the day’s delinquent bustle. As the titans retire to their cavern one notices an irregular formation of sand protruding from the earth’s flesh, a target reserved for the another day. text by James Voong image by Naoki Furuya

The Stadium of the Phoenix He awoke, the indistinct roar of the cheers and screams from above, the creaking of the metal hinges that bolted itself to the monolithic stone wall that had been worn smooth by the hands of man. The people of both blue and silver eyes called him Ash. The blue eyes called him Ash from the color of his aged white hair while the people of silver has come to know him by the rough texture of his leather skin that came from a lifetime under the hot ultraviolet sun. Clenching his fists to let his skin stretch above his sore knuckles, he rose, blocking the sun-light from the ceiling with his large weathered hands that looked as if it could crush boulders. Giving his silver, almost ash-colored pupil time to adjust to the sun, it was like clockwork to him. From 10am to 9pm the almost angelic white light that encompassed the whole ceiling of the dome lit every dark corner with the sun’s rays, or what the the people have come to call their sun. It reflected off the glass casing that separated the stadium of spectators from warriors, and lit the viewport that separated the world of light from the world of green smoke. Slowly he began to descend down the curving red bleached stone walkway that to him felt like walking down the scolding feathers on the wings of a phoenix. Rumbling along the twisting matted corridor which smelled like honey and smoke, a behemoth approaches. Deep-chested, with heavy breaths of vapor that exhausted from its nostrils, the creature stampeded towards the man. With each step of the beast, the earth cracked upon its wake while the fields of living parted through its charge.

The man poised with bouldering clenched hands gazed into the charging blood red pupils of the beast. Trapped within

the eternal battle of reality and adrenaline, in a timeless instant the beast mutates into a lava-filled embodiment of the earth itself. With patterns on its skin that resembles the cracking of earth revealing a volcanic layer underneath and grounded hoofs that extrude the ground in its aftermath. In one swift movement the mans clenched hands release for a moment, only to clasp the limb of the beast that connected it to the earth. Testing the man’s fortitude and strength, his iron-clad embrace bended the earth and crashed the behemoth down in a spectacle of dust and gravel. From there the beast was no more. The blue eyed people from above who stood under the colored canopies that represented the symbol of the phoenix raised their chalices in cheer and ecstasy. The man of ash is awarded his prize. He steadily made his way towards the silver lined concession that protruded from the smooth stone wall and saw an arm of a man reach out to hand him his reward, a chalice filled with life bearing liquid, water. Carefully, the man of ash took the chalice and poured the ice cold liquid into his mouth as his white cracked lips absorbed every drop. Embracing the life liquid, the man stood with one arm pressed along the stone wall and gazed onto the horizon, onto a time past before the age of the phoenix.

text by Heejae Lee image by Michael Najera

The Fringe I have arrived at the fringe

Where the rust tainted sky and crystal-clear ocean are seamed together with life. What kind of life?

By the looks of some it’s residents, all is well Nonchalant of everyone’s struggles This is why we’ve come To see with our own gray eyes

Traveled so far, for how long I can hardly remember, I can hardly forget I stopped looking at time as a measurement, instead counted bodies, counted souls Nearing our destination Beginning to separate myself Unsure of what lies ahead…taking higher ground Finding myself…near…a passage?

The entire coastline was thriving The grass…well maintained, not a blade out of place The water…immaculate The staggering homes…even they appeared to be yielding one another

Standing there it seemed like the means to an end but both sides were at a stand still. Knowing what was going to happen, but not when Watching the mass grow more and more with each passing wind.

Hearing not one voice, but by the amalgamation of them all “We’ve had enough” loud and clear

This paradise was too good to be true, yet here it is The water with its ten shades of blue, never had we seen such clear reflection radiating from its surface.

Myself a mere spectator in a defining moment Tension on the cusp of a frenzy Uncertainty

A small grinding noise, low, slow rising in prominence Looking forward, lost in foresight A messenger brought me back, I’ve arrived at the fringe Enough is enough Setting the ball in motion Leaning forward, beginning our plunge From observing to the observed Thousands scrutinized me “Stop!” yelled the faceless man “3”

The messenger paid no mind “2”

Poised for destruction “1”

Looking back we didn’t know what we would see once we arrived. Now I know, this, this is what we came to see. It wasn’t a destination or a place but rather a coalescence of all our frustration, our tribulations “0” he shouted, we began our ascension We are the fringe

text by Daniel Gonzalez image by Stephen Jinks

[Beneath me.]

A faint buoyant, moves beneath the beyond their absent panes, sky. veracity is no more.

On a tortuous road wandering, Inside this gaze my oblique mind is pondering. for more than a hundred days; From gray-er, Fixated on truth to blue-er. and engrossed by gales, surrounding fabricated tales.

Above, clouds clash as waves, becoming momentarily redirected. My particular gape, into the horizon today: A tacit reproduction to be evaporated, upon completion. As the water sits, can it float on?

The “American Midwest” And if it floats on, can it choose to sit? once towered above the rest; dominated by the steel; the Industrial Revolution.

One momentary impulse, Gradually converting, controlled indirectly. from robust iron and strength, My transparent mind, perceived imperfectly. to a soft crumbling powder.

One modification, This Rust Belt has faded, redirected incorrectly. from glory to ruin.

This disoriented thought, Now, broken like the glass internally reinvented. and walls stained of rancid hoar.

From gray-er The grains flake from the surface, to blue-er.

And as I become exposed, To be moving on— this corrosion continues, Does it mean turning back? removes and consume me.

To be paused in a lens, Beyond this ocean of noise; while trapped in a glass.

A voice heard unclear.

Or to sit in the glass, I’m a prisoner to instinct, while paused in a lens. encaged by my will.

From gray-er Escaping entrapment; gray eyes fervently pursuing. to blue-er, In contempt by my resent, shadows turn, I exist as you conform. deeper and darker, the mind grows fonder.

Through each empty void, Deeper and darker,

The voices become thinner.

Deeper and darker, The light becomes darker...

From gray-er to blue-er.

Each pore is filled, Utterance, upon feelings Within vapors, Inside every way, Especially, each way.

Trapped within vapors.

Eternally trapped.

Four walls contrived by manipulation, for some time, beyond decades.

Internal thoughts produced by population, protecting the flaws, depicting degradation.

Vapors hanging, Toggled between brows; flanked by the eye’s horizon, and the furthest, possible gaze, for some time, certainly not decades.

He said I’ve only become, what I am today; I’ve yet to be called a mature, aged man.

10 degrees towards the south, the frost grasping onto my wrists.

As I rush down the board, the smooth level plane, becomes astute.

Quickly moving past these rocks; my feet callus and blister.

They shred and they tear,

Deeper and darker.

And with each step that I take, A thorn in each breathe.

And as I pace, closer and closer, From beginning to end, The sky becomes, deeper and darker.

And with Each step that I take, A thorn in each breathe.

And as I pace, closer and closer, From beginning to end, the water becomes deeper and darker.

I don’t want to be in this place no more.

I don’t want to show you, what’s become of me.

I don’t want to see what they’ve done to you.

I don’t want to see, what’s become of you.

On a road to an end.

Revelations become deeper And as they become darker, from gray-er to blue-er.

I don’t want to fight, I don’t want to die.

As the tide rises, from gray-er to blue-er.

The floor, beneath my feet.

text by Michael Najera image by Daniel Gonzalez

To bear witness Not to the gesture, but rather the remnant and spiral

A holy contour patterned to motion by miniscule movements

Revolutions and evolutions compounding and conspiring to derive the elaborate from the elementary

What was this behemoth who trodden along with the tenacity of a D and the perceptual urgency of a 28.8k modem?

The behemoth that harbored the dust of stars as it dissevered the tectonic efforts of supine stone giants As it pathed, a payload of glaciatory mucus left in its wake - a basal meltwater mechanism, both mover and terraformer

Nonsorted till, erratics and moraines – the seeded thoroughfare, an inventory of prohibitive potential

Bearing witness I am, mired in the bias of an organic lifespan, unable to grasp the lineage of the billion or even million But what of inorganic predilection?

system I see before me, the mucus of mountains dancing to very particular tunes The tunes are absolute, but the playlist is promiscuous

I am an agent, akin to the behemoth, if only in select function Energy is neither created nor destroyed Energy is moved and is married

Pixels to be pushed at the whim of their own conscious iterations I am one such iteration I am human

I am a sentient agent of displacement I am the displacer I am the end

Are these emanating plumes of systematic interactions none but imperceivably transient specks in the context and view of a Cenozoic scale?

The actualness of my own transience is evidenced in the

text by George Kutnar image by Saw-Ann Bryan

by stories of an old man They were different times; I was a different man when we rode lizardthegans. Sinking waist deep in endless dunes of fine salts accumulated by the placement of concrete barriers.

We gallantly traveled with the wind transposing every follicle and engaging every pore in slight shivers. The eerie silence of the repetitious land was broken by airborne exposures of time created by the lizards’ leather soles.

The man frailly reminisced as he painted on a grain of sand.

The legs of the chair, on which his own rested, dug slightly into the surface it corroded on. The matte desert chalk discolored the extremities. Climbing up and into pores created by the stroking dance of the fervent desert wind.

sun slowly swallowed the figure of the over worked man and exhaled endlessness.

I held the grain of sand in the palm of my hand. Its rough corners interrupted the smoothness of my flesh. I stood there, in the muted purple hues, as if waiting for something to occur.

But there remained nothingness; just shadows cast over thousands of grains saturated by stories of an old man.

Every breath carefully calculated as if his chest would collapse and ruin the piece. The cautiousness of his hand gestures trailed behind his pen’s felted limb as it brushed upon new planes on the granule, heavily, sitting on his index finger. He stared at it intently. His wrinkles, cracked desiccated desert floor, followed the direction of his stare as if extending the reach of his tired eyes.

His muscles relaxed as he finished the piece, with the exception of his arm, which extended out towards me. He licked his salt kissed lips and placed the granule in the sunken valley of my hand. His breath’s humidity moistened his pen. He took a cloth and carefully wiped the blackness off as he walked away without a final word. The smog-tinted

text by Nabyl Macias image by George Kutnar

Untitled Despite our tireless efforts, nature has over powered us once again. Our monuments have shattered under the strain of the heavy atmosphere, splintering into fragments which the seagulls carry away to their hovels within their all too eager claws.

The muscles on the beach possess more color than us. Their sapphire hues over power our pallid state. While they condense and become a permanent feature, our bodies are diminishing, intermingling with the mist of the cold ocean waves.

We glide hand in hand lethargically through the dusty sands, sashaying forward towards the infinite horizon. We have been decapitated, old and young, big and small. In repercussion our eyes have decided to find refuge within the soft pits of clams.

However their ragged ridges prove to be a sorry match for the tenacious claws of the seagulls which pepper the sepia sky. They insist on prying the crustacean open, smashing its shell apart with their pointed beak, and swallowing our precious pearls mercilessly down their loathsome gullets.

Even the trees have turned against us, shattering their stereotypical persona of calm serenity and procuring one of belligerence much like few have ever seen before. Their festive shades and tones are mere illusions to hide the chaos which is brewing within. Yet…we glide listlessly towards them, towards the unknown. text by Jennyfer Sanchez image by Jessie Corea

Untitled All of our lives she has wanted to leave Omegapolis high walls, and now all that I want to do is stay with her.

My thoughts echoed from the valley floor to the tops of the distant peaks and back to me, reverberating in my soul. From where I sit today, our days on the mountain may as well have been on Jupiter.

This morning, the crispness of awakening in the cold mountain air refreshed my skin. There was softness as the soft breeze brushed pine branches against our tent panels and the sunshine doused its interior in a warm glow of orange and mauve color. She was already stirring outside, waking before me as always to write in her journal. The aroma of pine and coffee and hearing the breeze was the perfect start to my day.

There were no options to living in Omegapolis. Urban life was obligatory, a “happy” means to an end as defined by the Priests of the City. Our excursions outside its Boundaries were frowned upon, like the prohibited “tribal acts” of freestyle dancing that the intolerant Brotherhood disdained as “wastes” of time”.

We stayed awake last night, staring down at the bleached buildings, the city walls and the Temple of Omegapolis glowing under a mysterious moonlight. The grey city and hollow sky became one, merging into a vast sea with an unbroken horizon. Our eyes traced our way across the darkened sky for hours as we sat up and talked.

In the deep hours of that night, miles away from the City she pierced the quiet darkness with the decisive words of her choice: “I am not going back to the City”, she told me.

That still warm memory stands at attention in front of me, begging to be buried as the thought of fleeing with her momentarily drowns my own thirst for escape too.

But, I came to my senses.

And here I sit, alone, as the hot wind stirs my heart and I replay the many conversations between us—the night we met, the time we got lost in the strange complexity of Omegapolis.

The noxious exhaust of traffic stings my nostrils. Reminiscing is a luxury now, as are regrets. The happy Festival music contrasts the dread I feel of having to face the Priests of the City. I know their queries as to her whereabouts will be as relentless as the sun that now drills down on me, pounding the dehydration headache that I have harbored since this morning. Bob Marley’s Songs of Freedom click from my ear buds as sage thicket brushes against my calf and rust beetles scuttle below me.

The uncomfortable rock that I sit on cools my thighs, as I glance over the swaying patterns made by the wild grass. The cattle coming into the city are ready for the slaughter now, stepping their obedient hooves on the old road in their own dumb death march.

That was a sign for me—I can’t go back to the City either.

Nothing will quiet this restless force that I have become accustomed to and discomforted by. Reminding me that I am still a citizen, not of this City, or of the Brotherhood, but of a collectively ever-curious humanity. text by Stephen Jinks image by Vahe Ghazar

Yellow, Orange, and Green Leaves of a Tree Yellow, orange, and green leaves of a tree Is what he is sought out to see His eye zooms into its transparency His sight of color is so amp, as if he was on ecstasy He looks closely as he relates the leafs structure to his skin “It is viewable,” he says, but never reveals what is really within He stops a guy with a guitar who tries to pass by And then he says “What makes skin and structure beautiful within the eye?

The guy looks at his guitar and says “I am high,” “High off of materials of our own expressions that can magnify Unify our senses by sound, touch, taste, sight, smell You can experience a 6 sense by just finding the energy to walk a different way, yet we dwell On perfect structural robotic angular zones It makes a difference when a tree is there, because you know, at the end of the day you are not alone”, As this stranger proceeds on his path with his guitar The guy’s high knowledge of his expression transfers into his mind then his sight turns into an apocalyptic radar In which the whole area turns into a different way, seeing different connections He starts to explore with cosmic thoughts of the unordinary; “structures are in need of depletion” “Love can relate to hate,” he says, “Gore can relate to Bush, ying yang domination,” Populated by Medias pristine expansion of urban solid friendly synchronization “How could this guy with the guitar make me feel this way?”

he pondered He looks around and realizes he not only wired But his senses are linked into an advance state of an urbanize sector Where he can create freeway wildlife crossings like a designer Solving puzzles and connecting each theme into a degree A degree of dreams like the movie inception plugging codes to believe That the only thing keeping him from moving is the yellow, orange, and green leaves of a tree As he looks high to see Framing Landscapes and solid structures Realistic rather than TV pictures Capturing the collage of wildlife crossings Noticing the little fine textures of intersecting Like scared geometry of never second guessing Never procrastinating On exploring a site that changes in elevation A site that gives him another kind of manipulation Infiltration into a new him of high notions Futuristic canopy of different positions Where he can only see His focal point of yellow, orange, and green leaves of a tree

text by Saw-Ann Bryan image by Kenny Sperling

Bitter Beauty She crushed it all in the palm of her idol hand and left it to fester as a reminder to us all of what used to be. The carcass of our Frankenstein, abandoned by our misery and surrendered to the oceans edge left in a permanent haze of disappointment. We had hopes of it lasting forever; that our gluttonous fantasies would somehow merge into reality. Instead, a labyrinth of cold sweat piles atop our synthetic ghosts and we hide our faces and time battered bodies from her in places of boring existence.

Where trees no longer comfort, still she keeps a secret amongst the lacy hips of her blue condition. What lays on the other side of the ghostly mountains, where messages are trapped in wires and pavements offend the sea, wandering wizards assemble to negotiate her bitterness. They wave their wands in synchronized motions, writing incantations of youth and beauty into the sea.

Her conniving whispers seduce the vain, and on her shores they bask in the haze as mermaids atop her icy waters. Like slaves to her kiss, they spoil over beauty and turn themselves to shadows. From color to gray, they fade into her bewitching body as payment for the creation of our grotesque creation.

text by Crystal Gutierrez image by Nabyl Macias

Untitled My hands have become cold and unyielding. What is left of my mind is calculating, and methodical. I only look forward as though I am trying to escape my past. However I know that isn’t possible, for my past seems to have been laid out before me to live once more. I remember of all the people that have change and influenced my life, but in my memory they have lost their color. Or has my mind ripped their color off as though it was a layer to be thrown away. I cannot remember when I started to see people in monochrome. People lost their color the moment everything started to be a never-ending routine of land manipulation for ends that I do not know or understand. To me it was something that was not to be questioned. I remember working in the intensity of the sunlight to bitter hours of the moonlight.

It got to the point where I was not conscious of the actions of my body. It was just blind following. Now I am here in this place of past with colorless people and all I feel is a warm moon and a cold sun but why? Over the years my perceptions have changed to the point where these extremes have become acceptable and I have learned to embrace and reach out to these things that I see as the norm. It is because of the familiarity of these conditions. The resilience of my soul is what binds myself from dissolving in to the landscape of my past. My perceptions may be askew but I have to remember that when I close my eyes, the world is still there; that no matter the state of my condition, what I am doing should have meaning and purpose. That all my actions have lead me to this place of past, so that I can come to terms with the means in order to embrace the end. I open my eyes to this new world of my construct. text by Jessie Corea image by Evan Lee

The trouble is, we've been taught what to see and how to render what we see. If only we could be in the position of those men who did those wonderful drawings in Lascaux and Altimira!

When you begin a picture, you often make some pretty discoveries. You must be on guard against these. Destroy the thing, do it over several times. In each destroying of a beautiful discovery the artist does not really suppress it, but rather transforms it, condenses it, makes it more substantial.

Pablo Picasso