ISSUE 01

crosshatch MAGAZINE

ISSUE 01 JACO B D E G U Z M A N | L I N D S E Y YO N E DA | KY L E B R O S N I H A N M A R W A A L K A ’A B I | J O E G O M E Z | N O E L L E E R V I N | A B I G A I L E . P .

IAN ERVIN | MEGAN TROIA | HANNAH SCHNEIDER

ALL IMAGES COURTESY OF THE ARTISTS

This publication is not about art. At crosshatch, art is about intention, expression, and manifestation. crosshatch intends to frame as art, things that have been created by people who agree their work could, should, or will be framed as art. Yet, this publication is not about art. It is about artists. crosshatch believes the enigmatic act of creation is substantially similar across disciplines, means and materials aside. This publication is not about art. Art inherently becomes separated from the artist when the artist completes a work. crosshatch aims to tie the art back to its creator.

This publication heavily relies on the lens bestowed by the work’s creator for the work to have purpose.

Otherwise, it is baseless. Art as object becomes supplementary. This publication is not about art.

“ I d on’ t bel i eve i n a r t , I b e l i e v e i n a r t i s t s . ” — Marcel Duchamp

table of contents 01 j a co b de g u zm a n

F I L M P H OTO G R A P H Y

Profile by Jessica Larsen

09 l i n ds e y yo n e da

I N K & G R A P H I T E D R AW I N G

Profile by Hannah Schneider

15 k yl e b r o s n i h a n

POETRY

Profile by Jessica Larsen

21 marwa al ka’abi

D I G I TA L D R AW I N G

Profile by Jessica Larsen

27 j o e g o me z

MUSIC

Profile by Jessica Larsen

33 noelle ervin

EMBROIDERY

Personal Essay by Noelle Ervin

39 abigail e.p.

I L L U S T R AT I O N

Profile by Hannah Schneider

47 ian ervin

PROSE

“The Torso” - Prose by Ian Ervin

51 megan troia

P H O T O G R A P H Y & D I G I TA L C O L L A G E Profile by Noelle Ervin

57 f l o r a p h i l i a cs

FLORAL DESIGN

Personal Essay by Hannah Schneider

quarantine yearbook, 2020 film photography and digital collage

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jacob de guzman PROFILE BY JESSICA LARSEN

I first met Jacob in a bar in the Upper West Side called Dublin House.

I was there with my boyfriend, who at the time worked with Jacob at a bookstore nearby. It was late, maybe 11 p.m., and I had just spent an hour on the train to get to a plain Irish pub that was full of my boyfriend’s coworkers, all of whom I’d never met. Jacob was the first person to talk to me, and he talked to me as though he already knew me. That first night I met Jacob, he was already speaking to me about film photography.

Jacob was born and bred in New York City, and as a newbie New Yorker myself, I could sense that he was a native by the way that he spoke to me. Jacob is well-spoken in a way that feels unscripted and unnaturally natural – confident, but by no means self-important. The words that come from his mouth feel truly contemporaneous, but upon reflecting on the things he says, you can’t help but ask yourself, “Did he really come up with that on the spot? I can’t even think of saying something so eloquently if I wrote it down and workshopped it for half an hour.” And every sentence he says feels that way, so you can tell he truly knows how to thoughtfully place his words: quickly, efficiently, and persuasively. Jacob would probably be a great podcast host.

@jdeguzmanlawson

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It became clear that Jacob takes the act of photographing quite seriously. He told me the reason he does it is “just for fun”, and that his goals as an artist are “nebulous”, yet his process is far from random or aimless. “The fact is you are bringing your own experience to the photo because you are subconsciously understanding the signs and signifiers that take place within it,” he says, “So I try to get rid of as many of those as possible so that you are just seeing what I want you to see.”

When Jacob gets the chance to see people in person, hands tend to be the subject of many of his photographs. He said they are like “a portrait without taking a picture of someone’s face”. They are unpredictable, full of personality, and alive.

People don’t tend to pose when a camera is pointed at their hands, like they might when a camera is pointed at their face. quarantine yearbook, 2020 film photography and digital collage

Interviewing Jacob over Zoom felt like a breeze.

Although I had questions prepared for him, Jacob spoke about his work so deeply that questions seemed to materialize effortlessly and organically throughout our conversation. We could have probably spoken for hours if it weren’t for the time limit on my free version of Zoom.

Jacob strikes me as the kind of artist who prefers limitations over a free-for-all—the kind of artist who thrives on being forced to maneuver through the challenges and the restrictive nature of his medium, film photography. “Everything you need to know is within the borders of 4x3,” he told me. “I can’t explain myself away. You have to look at it and know everything you need to know, otherwise I have not done my job properly.”

“Everything you need to know is within the borders of 4x3.”

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“These photos of hands are like a portrait without taking a picture of someone’s face.”

He said to me, “I am cutting out all of this room and I’m just taking a photo of this specific point in this corner.” Jacob goes on to say perhaps one of my favorite things he says during our interview: “I don’t even know if it’s ‘truth’. People talk about artists telling the truth—I don’t know if it’s true or not, at least universally. This is my interpretation of this room, this is what I saw. If I stumble into truth, then that’s great, but all I hope is to hold your attention for as long as I’ve asked for it.”

Jacob creates images with intention. He feels the need to include or exclude elements from a photograph as a way of conveying and creating a very specific story or concept to the viewer.

Nevertheless, he loves when an unplanned element makes its way into a photograph. He described a time when a man had walked into the frame of a

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untitled, 2020 film photography and digital collage

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quarantine yearbook, 2020 film photography and digital collage

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“All I hope is to hold your attention for as long as I’ve asked for it.” photograph he took of some red sweaters hanging in a 99 cent store. He ended up deciding to retake the photograph. When the developed photos came back, he found the one with the man in it more interesting. He said, “It does make it feel a little bit more, hm… I’ll use the word ‘alive’.”

Jacob found it difficult transitioning into selfisolation in March of last year when all of New York City shut down. He describes photography as “running around and stealing moments”. Without the opportunity to run around, Jacob said that for him, “the opportunities of solving the photographic problem in the age of the coronavirus have dwindled.”

He is afraid of being redundant. Jacob follows photographers on social media and he noted, “Everyone is taking a photo of the empty street or of the sign that says ‘please wear a mask.’” He said, “I don’t know what I have to add to that.”

Jacob is in it for curiosity’s sake—he finds himself always learning. When he first picked up a camera, he aimed to master exposure and focus, then color.

Next, it was composition, angles, and geometry.

Now, he is experimenting with light. It was at this point in the conversation that he accidentally used the word ‘painting’ instead of ‘photograph’.

It is clear that Jacob believes this medium to be a powerful art form, with the potential to move people in a way that is similar to more classical art mediums.

As he had mentioned, Jacob removes any signs and signifiers of a specific place or time within a photograph. At the point of the shutdown, he wasn’t interested in creating work that looks like it takes place in the midst of a pandemic. He told me, “I definitely don’t want to take a picture and you go, “oh, you took that during quarantine.’ I would feel defeated.”

As an artist, Jacob is always evolving and striving for better. He said, “No matter how good or bad it is, I don’t know anyone who wouldn’t give a part of themselves to take it over again.” He went on, “I would always want to feel that way, always hungry, operating on the outskirts of another great potential trove of information for photography. I would like to look back and go, ‘oh this interview, how naïve I was.

I didn’t even think about X, Y, and Z. So, I’m trying to figure out what X, Y, and Z is.”

“No matter how good or bad it is, I don’t know anyone who wouldn’t give a part of themselves to take it over again.”

Being the curious artist he is, Jacob instead took to revisiting some of his old photographs in a new way. He became interested in recontextualizing some of his old work. Jacob began to learn to manipulate some of his film photography in Photoshop by cutting him or his friends out of the photos, multiplying them, or pasting people into different scenarios. He called it The Quarantine Yearbook, because “no one is really going out and experiencing things”, which is in a way “the currency in which we pay our social life”. Jacob took to this manipulation and storytelling as a reflection of that tonal disconnect that he imagines everyone is feeling.

Jacob hopes to carry over some of the skills he learned in Photoshop into his regular practice, even when he is back into the real world taking new photographs. He enjoys experimenting with the program, he told me he thinks “it’s a laugh”. Jacob would like to see what he might create when the work is not created as a response to something

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untitled, 2020 film photography and digital collage

“Experiencing things...is the currency in which we pay our social life.”

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external, as opposed to The Quarantine Yearbook, which was a creative response to having nowhere else to go but to the computer. Nevertheless and unsurprisingly, Jacob is excited to have that feeling of getting a roll of negatives back, after it’s been developed, and seeing what he referred to as the “presents” that lie within.

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untitled, 2020 film photography

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overgrown, 2020 ink on paper

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lindsey yoneda PROFILE BY HANNAH SCHNEIDER

“It’s so weird, I’ve never been interviewed before. I feel like I’ve always been the one interviewing,” Lindsey Yoneda said with a chuckle. As a former journalism student, Lindsey admitted she is more accustomed to the other side. She studied journalism and art at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln and graduated in 2018.

“When I was starting out in college, I didn’t know anyone and I didn’t really know about the art scene…You kinda have to know where to look for it. My sophomore year I met some friends that were in the music scene and I got more into my art major. I started meeting people who were involved in art in the community, and that just opened up a whole new world I didn’t know existed in Lincoln.”

Allowing herself to be nurtured by the Nebraska art community is something that has deeply impacted Lindsey’s direction in life.

She worked as a photographer for Hear Nebraska, an online music journalism publication, for two years. While there, she met other creatives who encouraged her to delve even further into the hidden gem that is the art scene in Lincoln and Omaha.

@lindseyoneda

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Lindsey took advantage of her free time during the pandemic. She said she has had more space to draw, hone her skills as an artist, and establish herself in the art community. A self-proclaimed “shy girl”, the pandemic and the accessibility of social media gave her the courage that she needed to start pushing her artwork more.

A great deal of thoughtfulness, precision, and passion goes into every stroke of Lindsey’s art.

Her attention to detail, black and grey stippling technique, and moody, often nature-inspired pieces bring to life Lindsey’s inner world. Though Lindsey has an education and background in more traditional art mediums, she has recently shifted her focus and aspirations to the tattoo industry. Lindsay explained to us that after graduation she was part of a work-trade program in Hawaii and began drawing more in her free time. Her immense enjoyment of the freedom that she experienced outside of her formal art training was partly what led her to think about pursuing a career in the tattoo industry. not dead, 2020 ink on paper

“The Nebraska art scene is so underrated... everyone is a lot more tight-knit. I’ve had a lot more opportunities to show my art in Nebraska than I would in a bigger place.”

“ The Nebraska art scene is so underrated.”

Although Lindsey spoke affectionately of her community and experiences here in Nebraska, she dreams of someday moving away from her home state to pursue art elsewhere. “Of course when you grow up in a smaller place you’re always like, ‘Oh, I gotta get out!’...but I’m still here for now and I’m not upset about it. But yes, I would still like to see the world as a young person.”

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“I loved the freedom of choosing whatever style I wanted. I kinda realized, I’m really enjoying drawing and I’ve always been passionate about getting tattoos, while school kind of burnt me out on a lot of different types of “formal” art… maybe I should try to be a tattoo artist? I’d say my experience in Hawaii was probably the moment I realized I wasn’t being held back by schoolwork anymore and this was something I could realistically spend my time pursuing.”

She’s now working at the front desk at Iron Brush, a highly successful tattoo shop in Lincoln, Nebraska.

This is a big step in the industry because Nebraska is a hotspot in the Midwest for tattooing. A lot of really talented tattoo artists live and work in Omaha and Lincoln.

When asked what inspires her, Lindsey spoke very highly of other artists in the community, reinforcing what had already become abundantly clear as we got to know more about her: Lindsey is a gentle, humble soul who is deeply connected to and

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motherpeace, 2020 ink on paper

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who?, 2020 ink and graphite on paper

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witchy flash and woodland flash, 2020 ink on paper

invested in the like-minded individuals around her.

The pandemic has been a difficult time for pretty much everyone, however, as Lindsey spoke about her art and her process during the previous months, it appeared as if she has been blossoming. She was excited by how she has used this time to refine her style and create a more cohesive body of work. Lindsey also used her free time to be more intentional with sharing her work with others, especially on social media. Normally Lincoln boasts “First Fridays”, a city-wide event where galleries and studios open up with shows, usually with food and drink, on the first Friday of the month. The pandemic has rendered First Fridays impossible, so circumstances have pushed artists to be more active online. As someone who is usually timid in sharing her work, Lindsey found this new culture more approachable. She embraced it.

tattooing is so client-focused, being able to show that you are capable of many things is extremely sought after. Lindsey expressed that she feels like she’s been granted the space to explore. She has also had the time to reflect on her growth as an artist, and perhaps nothing demonstrates this clearer than her self-portrait.

“I haven’t done anything super realistic like that since I had to in art school, and I was looking back on a self-portrait that I did back in school and I can really see the growth in my work,” she reflected.

The self-portrait, which is the featured artwork on the cover of this issue of crosshatch, perhaps does a much better job of giving you a window into who

“It’s really cool to be able to put myself out there and allow people to see my art because I’m pretty shy about sharing it.”

Lindsey is as an artist than this article ever could.

She speaks for herself in this way. Her eyes, soft and inquisitive, looking ahead with a quiet strength and optimism give you a picture of Lindsey as she is.

But ever the one to be constantly shaping herself as an artist and growing, allowing herself the space to create and adapt, the other half of her self-portrait is left abstract and not in full form.

As Lindsey continues to both fine-tune and expand her skills, she has also enjoyed the leisure of playing with different styles, something that comes in handy when building a portfolio as a tattoo artist. Since

Someone once told me that it shouldn’t take a lot of words to speak the truth, and apparently, Lindsey doesn’t even need words. I should definitely be taking notes.

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Notwithstanding

Here I am going through myself with myself between my self down to myself beside myself around myself until myself is because myself until myself is opposite myself following myself despite myself against myself amid myself minus myself while myself is near myself since myself is within myself is beyond myself despite myself according to myself out of myself due to my self except myself excludes myself on be half of myself instead of myself hence my self by means of my self for myself by myself prior to myself being apart from myself as far as myself is unlike myself I’m past myself no longer myself

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Notwithstanding, 2020

kyle brosnihan PROFILE BY JESSICA LARSEN

We have Kyle to thank for the title of this publication—thanks, Kyle!

He’s a writer, so I figured he’s had some experience coming up with titles. He also pitched “Charcoal and Chalk”, but we both decided that one is best reserved for a bougie home goods store that sells overpriced candles.

Kyle (affectionately known as “Bandido” among his friends) was born and raised in the Midwest and spent the majority of his childhood in Hastings, Nebraska. Kyle is well-traveled, has even spent a couple of years abroad: Germany for a year, the Philippines for six months.

He moved to New York City in the summer of 2019. When I asked him why, he said, “New York just has that thing. It’s such a part of the American psyche. I love movies and books and characters from New York. Not a lot of cities do it for me, but New York has what I’m looking for. I can’t explain it.”

@young_bandido

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Although primarily a poet, Kyle also enjoys playwriting and writing prose. In fact, Kyle wrote a play, a farce that was performed in Manhattan back in March before the crisis hit. I went to see it with the rest of our Nebraska friends, and it was hilarious.

Although Kyle is a truly versatile writer, it is clear that his heart lies with poetry. He told me he wrote a new poem every day during the first few months of quarantine.

Kyle’s first brush with writing was in middle school when he was writing songs for an MCR-inspired band made up of pre-teen boys. He wrote a few screenplays in high school, then, inspired by a friend, he started writing short stories too. While living in Germany for his study abroad program, he wrote a poem, which he sent to a friend who loved it and encouraged him to explore the medium further. He started skipping school every day to write poems. Naturally, Kyle is now attending school to write poetry—a graduate program at Brooklyn College in New York City.

When I asked Kyle if he enjoys writing poems because they’re short, he told me, “Kind of, it’s nice when you can write something and it’s finished in one sitting, but I also love long poems.” Kyle recently finished a poem that was more than 60 pages long. Still, he finds himself avoiding larger projects because they’re a bit riskier—they frequently “crash and burn”, as he puts it.

Although, he admits he hasn’t looked at it in over a year, and he’s a little scared of it. He described to me that writing a novel requires the writer to live in a “weird dreamland for months, or even years”. To re-approach the novel would mean to re-enter the “weird dreamland”, which would mean losing focus on most other projects.

Since putting down the novel, Kyle has been focused on other things, mainly his poetry. Since moving to New York, Kyle joined the Brooklyn Poets, a community that puts on a monthly open mic called Yawp. Brooklyn Magazine called Yawp the “best poetry event in the borough” and Time Out New York says it is “one of the most innovative literary events in the city”.

At Yawp’s 2019 Poem of the Year event, Kyle shared first place for his poem titled Martha, a playful and disorienting piece that won over many of the experienced and talented poets in the room.

Kyle enjoys being a part of the Brooklyn Poets community because of the diverse nature of its talented members. He enjoys when dozens and dozens of people pack themselves into a room above a bar and all listen intently to the poet who is reading. It feels intimate.

Kyle has written a novel and started two others, which all led to something he refers to as his “secret novel”. When I asked him why he calls it that, he said, “I just want it to be for me, until it becomes something or doesn’t become something.”

Unfortunately, since the pandemic, Yawp events are virtual. Kyle notes that poetry is naturally a very solitary thing, so getting together and sharing poetry, chatting about their work, is something that Kyle really misses. Being in a room alone, with fifty people watching you share a poem through a screen “feels trippy”. Still, Kyle attends the virtual events and enjoys hearing the poems people have been writing during quarantine.

“I just want it to be for me, until it becomes something or doesn’t become something.”

I asked Kyle how quarantine has changed his work, and he said, “I used to write for myself and my friends and other poets, but I feel like my audience has changed. Now, I write for a sort of collective ‘we’.” He feels like a lot more people can connect with his work, since we are all experiencing the same global crisis.

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It Comes In Waves

It comes in waves; bright with speed or slow with darkness. The sky seems

to never get used to being itself, and if I wanted, I could live how I wanted

but what’s in it for me?

When the sun floats through the firmament like a log

down a river? Who cares if heaven is better than sex, it’s still pornography.

You can’t touch it.

What’s going is gone, and that too, in waves.

It Comes in Waves, 2020

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“I feel like my audience has changed. Now, I write for a sort of collective ‘we’.”

When I asked him if quarantine has changed his style at all, he said, “It’s hard to pinpoint if it’s the pandemic, or just the sheer amount of time I have

to read.” Kyle has read more than 50 books, including over 1000 pages of John Ashbury’s collected poems, which he admits has at least in part transformed his style.

When asked about solitude, Kyle simply referred to a quote by french novelist and playwright Honoré de Balzac: “Solitude is fine but you need someone to tell that solitude is fine.” Kyle has felt fortunate to have the support of his friends, roommates, and fellow poets with whom he shares in a collective solitude.

“Solitude is fine but you need someone to tell that solitude is fine.”

- Honoré de Balzac

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The Birthday Party

No birthday candle wish has ever come true but at least the cake is real and wax has that way of melting onto the icing and I can eat it anyway, and I do eat it anyway, the icing and the wax, yet after only one portion I’m already full and sweet-sick and it’s my birthday and I have such a ridiculous amount of cake dear god why did I buy so much cake for myself?

I’m asking. They say I can’t tell my wish to anyone or else it won’t come true but as I said before it already never comes true so I’ll just break the rules and tell you what I wished for: I wished someone would join my birthday party, and look there you are, as sweet as the icing on my cake and as real as my waxing heart.

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The Birthday Party, 2020

​Poem (Everyone here has a right to be)

Everyone here has a right to be; this beauty was born for all.

A day the size of life

deserves a life-time to recall the way our desires blend into a sweetness almost too sweet

to bear, yet still not sweet enough, as if the air longs for our lungs and closeness welcomes our feet

and the moon invites our song and even the shadows are sweet.

The birds greet us like cousins

and vines clothe our house.

Here we are all family, we even love the mouse who lives in the yard

scurrying this way and that.

Here our hearts grow happy, here memory grows fat

with all the weight of loving, which weighs not a pound, and here when day is done

it comes backs around.

Poem (Everyone here has a right to be), 2020

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Rise of a New Dawn, 2020 digital drawing

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marwa al ka’abi PROFILE BY JESSICA LARSEN

Marwa Al ka’abi is a sweet, soft-spoken girl with a fierce imagination and an incredibly quick wit. I went to architecture school with Marwa.

In a place like architecture school, where you work closely and for long hours with only a few other students, success is driven by competition with your classmates. Marwa was always an unexpected competitor. She didn’t flaunt her intellect or her creative skill. She kept to herself, at least until critique day when she’d often blow the rest of us out of the water with her projects.

I knew Marwa for almost two years before I found out that she is also a visual artist. I distinctly remember when I first saw her drawings. It was by accident. She was at her desk and flipped open a sketchbook.

Another classmate of ours glanced over and saw a sketch from over Marwa’s shoulder and made an ecstatic remark about how incredible the drawing was. He asked to see more. I was intrigued so I came over to join. My classmate and I were shocked—we had no idea Marwa had been creating drawings like the ones we were seeing.

@mawakuu

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Her sketchbook was filled with the kind of drawings you could tell came from someone with an extremely vivid imagination. Marwa isn’t just technically skilled. The worlds she creates through her sketches are captivating. When I look at her drawings, Marwa’s quiet intellect suddenly becomes not-so-quiet. Some drawings are surreal, others are emotive, some are highly stylized, and most are up to some sort of interpretation.

When we asked her what inspires her, Marwa said, “People who are highly skilled, other artists, music, film, animation, video games, experiences, travel, life, and problems faced by the earth and humanity.”

Marwa seems to be able to find artistic inspiration every which way she looks.

“ I am inspired by...music, film, animation, video games, experiences, travel, life, and problems faced by the earth and humanity.”

Citadel, 2019 digital drawing

Marwa is a native of Oman. She left Oman to go to college in Nebraska, but recently graduated and moved back to her hometown of Muscat to be with her family. Marwa said, “The art community here is on the rise and full of like minded creatives that take inspiration from their culture and traditions.”

Unfortunately, art isn’t entirely appreciated as a career in Oman. Marwa feels a bit detached from her culture and frequently feels the need to travel and live in new places. Unfortunately, the pandemic has kept her at home for the time being. Still, Marwa admitted that quarantine isn’t much of a change from her usual lifestyle; she’s a self-proclaimed introvert. Marwa said she used this time to improve her skills; she “took a lot of courses, so leveling up was a lot faster”.

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During the pandemic, Marwa has been inspired to create drawings in response to the collective suffering of the world. She understands the power and influence art can have on those who are willing to listen. She said, “Art gives the artist the ability to be a mediator in our current times. Artists can guide people and help them through tough times with expression.”

It is clear Marwa understands how special the artist’s voice is. She knows there is nothing that can influence quite in the same way. And to her, the possibilities of this voice are truly limitless. Marwa thinks the artistic voice can “change opinions, inform people, transmit experiences, record history, create and enhance culture, project truth, and display a spiritual realm.”

“The artist’s voice can change opinions, inform people, transmit experiences, record history, create and enhance culture, project truth, and display a spiritual realm.”

Although true and noble, and also mostly motivating, this kind of outlook on the role of the artist in today’s world might become exhausting for an artist. Marwa sometimes finds herself emotionally taxed from the pressures she puts on herself to create “good” art—art that speaks to people. Like many artists, she is highly critical of her own work.

Marwa is learning to be as kind to herself as she is to others. She says she has friends who call their work their “children”, and she hopes to have that level of kindness towards her work someday too.

Marwa said she always tries her best to be “true to what she makes”.

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When days are dark, 2019 digital drawing

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Get Better, 2020 music video

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joe gomez PROFILE BY JESSICA LARSEN

Joe was one of my first friends in New York City. The odds of meeting another Nebraskan in New York and becoming friends with them are very slim, but somehow I’ve found myself with more friends from the same hometown as me than friends who are not.

I met Joe at Friendsgiving in November of 2019. We had a room full of Nebraskans, all just trying to find our way in New York City. I made turkey empanadas because unfortunately, I had no idea a vegetarian would be joining us. Joe resigned to only eating my guacamole instead. Sorry again, Joe. Thankfully, he didn’t seem too broken up about it. I think it takes a lot more than that to quell Joe’s spirit.

Joe’s love of laughter and ability to switch in and out of light-hearted banter and more serious subject matter is something that grabbed my attention immediately. He has a willingness to tackle deeper topics in casual conversation. Not in an overbearing way, actually, in an approachable way. Joe is thoughtful and intuitive yet grounded and upbeat.

@_joegomez

listen to Get Better:

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Joe in his bedroom

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There was something Joe said that first night I met him that stuck with me: When he told me he can’t wait to wake up in the morning just to drink a glass of water. I remember laughing, thinking he was making a joke. He explained to me that every night before bed he prepares the glass of water for himself and sets it on his bedside table. When his alarm goes off, he sits up and drinks the whole glass. With a beaming smile on his face, Joe told me that it helps him start his day off on the right foot. It became clear at that moment that Joe is a guy who lives his life to the fullest and wastes no time.

Every other time I saw Joe after that, by the end of the night he’d wind up with a guitar in his hands, casually playing music for his friends and setting the mood. Joe is a relentless guitar player. He was laid off from his job at a record label in March 2019, along with approximately 400,000 other New Yorkers since the pandemic began earlier last year.

Yet, Joe spent no time moping—the day after he was laid off, he woke up and said to himself, “Music is going to be my job.” He told me, “Previously, I was like, work is over, so I’m gonna play some guitar. Now it’s like, work is starting, so I’m gonna play some guitar.” The “decision fatigue” he used to experience when he’d come home from his day job vanished.

“Now it’s like, work is starting, so I’m gonna play some guitar.” anxieties. Working nearly every day from 9 a.m. to midnight for months, Joe found his technical skill improving exponentially. Not to mention, the sheer amount of time he had in the day allowed him to “throw shit at the wall and see what would stick”.

He wrote around thirty songs in a matter of three months. He admits, only about five or so of those songs “stuck”. Plus, he feels like he burnt himself out.

“Music is going to be my job.”

Joe felt like he was able to focus and hone his craft through quarantine. In fact, he felt like he had no choice—being the workaholic he is, practicing guitar became his “lighthouse”, steering him away from his

Amid “throwing shit at the wall”, Joe managed to create a mash-up song from Undone by Weezer and Space Song by Beach House. Joe says he was listening to Undone on a walk and noticed a similarity to Space Song. The songs were only a half step from each other in key. When Joe sent me this mash-up, I was honestly skeptical. I thought, “Okay, two vastly different genres...this is going to be a train wreck.” Though he didn’t feel that the “meat and potatoes” melody of Space Song worked as a primary element in a mash-up, the melody became a lingering background sound in the song. Space

Get Better, 2020 music video

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Song’s shoe-gazer tune sets the ambiance for the song, while Undone’s dry rock guitar and grunge vocals carry it through. The song is a multi-faceted example of finding connections and similarities, such as motifs or rhythms, between songs of different genres and bringing them together in a balanced way. Joe feels like this is a good way to train your ear. He says, like many artists, “The best way to get better is to copy other people’s stuff,” he laughs.

“The best way to get better is to copy other people’s stuff.”

If it isn’t obvious already, Joe likes to listen to a wide variety of genres as inspiration for his songwriting.

If he feels the song is missing something, he starts looking in unexpected places. Take for example a jazz song he was working on: the song was missing

a bridge, so he started listening to and playing along to songs by Beck, The Rolling Stones, Weezer, and The Beatles. He says, “By bringing a different genre in, you kind of retrofit it, and it works. It’s like searching for a puzzle piece.” He goes on, “I can’t just get away with doing a jazz standard for a jazz song I’m writing, so I dive into something else. I prefer to explore genres unrelated to the one I’m working on because it always ends with a better result.”

It’s a balance. Joe knows if he listens to too much of one thing, he’ll stunt his creativity and write songs that sound too much like a specific artist. “If I listen to John Mayer on repeat for three weeks, I’m gonna write a blues-y John Mayer song,” he says, laughing.

Joe has found ways of using this to his advantage, though. During our interview, he lifted up a book: The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie. “It’s magical realism, and now I find the writing style creeping into my lyrics.” He said he enjoys what the magical realism influences have been doing to his lyrics.

Get Better, 2020 music video

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Joe playing an outdoor concert in Williamsburg, Brooklyn

I asked Joe if he has any advice for other people when it comes to breaking a creative block. He said, “Find other things to do. Things that trigger similar brain functions, but aren’t your art.” In quarantine, Joe found himself skateboarding a lot. “It requires so much of your brain to be doing it—danger, uncertainty, and fear. All of these things happen in

music, too. I’m certain it has made my music better.”

Upon reflecting on his hyper-productive quarantine, Joe said, “I learned how to break my artist’s block.

And I learned how to practice better. And you know what? I’m okay to plateau for a few months as long as I get to hang out with people again!” Same, Joe.

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untitled, 2021 embroidery

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what these hands can do P E R S O N A L E S S AY B Y N O E L L E E R V I N

I drink a lot more coffee and beer.

That’s the first thing I think of when I think about how my life has changed in the age of the coronavirus. I drink a lot more coffee and beer. The world, and my world, is in chaos, but the first thing that comes to my mind is my beverage intake.

Toward the end of last winter, I discovered hard kombucha. On the warm weekend days, I loved drinking it while I embroidered at my desk in my basement apartment. I would watch downloaded movies on my phone, because I had no internet, and pet my patchy cat. I would think about how OK I was with the present.

@noelle.ervin

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Now, it’s summer, and my cat’s fur grew back in, and I’m in a house on the first floor watching shows on a television and thinking about a day when maybe the world will be close to OK with the present.

I was embroidering skulls in the winter. Now, I’m embroidering butterflies.

From March through July, I was staying with my sister, brother-in-law, three cats and a dog in an apartment in Lincoln, Nebraska. I need internet to work my full-time job. I need a full-time job to afford rent at the apartment I’m no longer living in and to pay off the student loans I accrued for a degree that I’m not using. Also, it’s expected of me-- by both myself and others.

My sister is an artist. I’d sit and watch her make beautiful pieces while I got yelled at for things beyond my control. She would connect lines and shapes on her couch or her balcony or her room or wherever she wanted. I would tell people to connect cords from a desk near a window. Always a desk; rarely a balcony.

My sister is an artist. She’s always been an artist.

I, on the other hand, have thought of myself as a student or a campus leader or a former student and campus leader turned college graduate with no sense of direction now that her life isn’t graded on a 4.0 scale.

Now, though, I think I am an artist, too.

I also think that I am art. In my head, my existence in and of itself is a film to be watched and my body is an art installation. From knobby knees to pointy elbows to hands that can write and create and feel.

That is, when they let me.

There are days when I look down at my hands, and they are not the same hands that I had two years ago.

It might be because the fingers on my right hand are now covered in calluses from pulling a needle 35

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untitled, 2020 embroidery

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untitled, 2020 embroidery

back and forth through varying forms of cloth. I keep a bandaid over the tip of my index finger to help it out. Every couple of days, I replace it. When I take it off, my fingertip is sickly pale. I like to give it a moment to breathe. Once it regains its color, you can see how dry and wrinkly it is, almost like I dipped it into a puddle of super glue.

I like my calluses. I don’t like the swelling.

The other times when I see hands that are not my own are when they’re so swollen that I can’t squeeze shampoo out of the bottle. One day, in May, I spent 20 minutes trying to put my hair in a ponytail. There are some mornings where I need to sit with my hands wrapped up in a heating pad up until the time when I need to clock into work. I can’t 37

embroider on those mornings.

I can’t do much of anything on those mornings, in fact. I can sit, and sulk, and think of all the times middle-aged women would tell me I had such beautiful hands.

I think it’s lucky, though, because my left hand takes the brunt of it. I haven’t been able to make a complete fist with it for a while, but I don’t really need it to. I just need it to stabilize and support.

My right hand is the moneymaker, even though it doesn’t actually make money. It does, however, make butterflies and skulls and flowers and anatomical hearts and all these bits and pieces that find a way to fit together.

It can also make a fist.

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And in pain and confusion and anger and helplessness and lots of beer and caffeine, my broken, stupid, beautiful hands have allowed me to create something of value, if not only to myself.

They’ve allowed me to create a life where pain, confusion, anger and helplessness are secondary to beauty, art, passion and resilience.

I still don’t know if I have direction or what my life will look like in the next five years (or even weeks).

I don’t know when the hurt will decide it’s going to overtake the OK, but I know that, eventually, the OK will take its rightful place above again.

And I know what these hands can do.

untitled, 2020 embroidery

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indoor garden, 2020 digital illustration

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abigail e.p.

PROFILE BY HANNAH SCHNEIDER

When I first came across Abigail Ervin-Penner’s art per my friend’s recommendation, I immediately found a kindred spirit. I scrolled from post to post and discovered a singular, unassuming girl, the picture of vulnerability. However, she drank, fought, ran, and danced with big and burly monsters that looked like they’d leaped out of the pages of a fairy tale. Whether the relationship between the girl and her monsters was volatile or harmonious seemed open to interpretation. All I knew was I saw myself in her. Abigail’s work has that effect. It’s amassed a significant following over the last few years through her unapologetic interpretations and depictions of her inner life.

@abigailepenner

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“People who feel deeply, people who feel super radically and are hypersensitive, tend to follow me because I’m all of those things.”

When asked about how the pandemic has affected her interactions with her followers and their interactions with one another, she said that people have been “connecting through their sensitivity” now more than ever. She said there is a marked “sense of togetherness” on her platform.

As we asked Abigail questions about her process, her intentions, and her inner life, her apparent empathy and deep sensitivity began to beam from her. Though she insisted that her art is made purely for self-expression, she still maintains an attentiveness to the perceptions and experiences of others. This was especially apparent when she spoke about the pandemic and the social uprising.

Watching her ruminate was fascinating. Every now and then she paused in a clear state of deep reflection.

What began as a desire to express herself as a young girl has blown up into working as a fulltime artist, with her own shop and a respectable following. As her sphere of influence grows larger, she grows with it. Quarantine is a time where we’ve all been asking ourselves the difficult questions, and as we conversed, something that I already knew to be true about Abby was reinforced: she is not one to shy away from uncomfortable emotions.

“Most of the people on my platform identify with my struggles. Whether it be struggles with unlearning or understanding certain things about ourselves or undiagnosed chronic illness or struggles with the pandemic or being lonely or sad...it doesn’t really matter. I just feel like on my platform, all across the board, there is togetherness, and everybody is aware that no one is alone.”

“Everybody is aware that no one is alone.”

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For Abby, realizing that she isn’t alone in her feelings has been a positive byproduct of doing what she loves: drawing and making art. As someone who comes from a creative family, Abby recalled years of growing up watching her dad put in long hours as a full-time illustrator.

“I admire my dad for his work ethic. He still works until like two or three in the morning on drawings, and I’m exactly the same way. I think I owe my entire work ethic and my unconditional love for drawing to my dad. But, I mean, we have completely different artistic styles and artistic voices,” she said with a chuckle.

“I owe my entire work ethic and my unconditional love for drawing to my dad.”

According to Abigail, her art is anything but onedimensional. Its intention is not merely to be seen.

“I want my art mostly to be seen and heard and felt.

I want it to be a reflection of how I’m feeling at that moment because I think that the only good things I make are the things that I actually feel. I can’t make something until I know exactly what I’m sitting with.”

“I think that the only good things I make are the things that I actually feel. I can’t make something until I know exactly what I’m sitting with.”

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quarantine baby, 2020 digital illustration

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“I want my art mostly to be seen and heard and felt.”

Which brings us back to the monsters that are weaved throughout Abigail’s collective tapestry of work. They are always there, both menacing and inviting, and create a poignant contrast between the incredibly vulnerable girl often depicted alongside them. When pressed about the story behind her monsters and what they mean to her she said: “Monsters are interpretive to whoever. I feel like that’s why a lot of people like my monsters too because they can be whatever you want them to be. For me, they’re a very particular thing. For you, they might be something else. My monsters are simultaneously the things that I’m fighting or the voices in my head, for lack of a better term...but they’re also hyper-protective. These voices serve a purpose to me and they seem scary...but really they’re there just to protect me. That’s what my monsters are.”

“My monsters are simultaneously the things that I’m fighting or the voices in my head...but they’re also hyper-protective.”

This concept is the most impactful thing I see Abigail doing through her art. Instead of fighting her monsters, she is learning to understand them, tame them, and own them. It is a delightful process that we all get to witness when we look at her art and hopefully, we begin to reflect and identify what our own monsters are too.

don’t worry, 2020 digital illustration

After all, who else is around to have a drink with right now?

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you are sitting alone, 2020 digital illustration

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i think they’re my friends, 2020 digital illustration

“My monsters...can be whatever you want them to be. For me, they’re a very particular thing.

For you, they might be something else.”

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the torso PROSE BY IAN ERVIN

I am grotesque. Dismembered. I am without face, without head, without shoulders, without arms. I have no calves, only one knee, my feet are barely distinguishable from the pedestal I sit upon. I am without buttocks. Where I am without, I am porous; I am like bisected spongy bone. Look at me, I am writhing in pain. I see through the blood-stained hole in my breast and the hole at the top of my right thigh, the hole on my left thigh (not even I can deny it’s a sizable one), the two holes in my left shoulder, three in my left buttock and one in my right; a lovely dimple in the small of my back. I have many eyes, they are so very terrible and they’ve seen so many things.

I am beautiful. I contort; I’ve made centuries upon centuries of men jealous. I am invincible and I am perfection. I am what the human form wants to be. Not even God could dream of making me. Look between my legs, I am without member, yet I am virile (unlike so many unlucky fellows in places similar to where I am now)! See me. See my ribs, my many muscles, my magnificent back. I am so supple. I am milky and soft to the touch, but I know you cannot feel me. Not now, not anymore. Not as he was once able to…

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I am so old, sitting upon this panther’s hide (they once called it a lion, who are they to take that achievement away from me?); my legs are stumpy and floating in space, as a child’s would. As a plaything’s would. I do not know my birthday. It was before Christ; now I am after the man. They call me a copy and I hate them for it.

I have known many forms. Oil paints and fresco, ink and graphite, plaster and bronze. Yet my heart is in marble and its stone beating cannot be excavated.

It cannot be carved from me like I was carved from the jagged block of marble whose origin was an island quarry. I remember I was so brutish then, with brutish thoughts, not fully developed, not until my father pulled me from the block’s loins with hammer and chisel.

Who am I? Perhaps only my father, Apollonios, and his Athenian contemporaries know who I am. (My grandfather, Nestor, I never knew; only by the scribe upon my pedestal did I know him, though I heard him mentioned often, from the lips of my father to the rough-hewn insinuation of my ears.). I’ve been called many names: Heracles, for the longest time, but also Hercules and Polyphemus, Marsyas and Sciron. Now I am often called Ajax and they say I am contemplating my suicide (if only they knew how often I would think such same things!). I am not sure how much longer I will be Ajax, perhaps they will find another name for me—I think I have already tired of being him; I have tired of being myself as well.

Many men have loved me. Aspertini and van Heemskerk, Goltzius and da Brescia. I knew Andrea Bregno better than most hope to (and more than I would have liked to). More recently I have been the subject of Rubens and Gérôme. Even the great Raphael has stared at me, gobsmacked, and how many of you can count Raphael amongst countless other admirers? But none have loved me as Michelangelo did. I was his school, yet I often felt his pupil, how we spent ceaseless hours studying each other. The Pope (he who was so fierce and manly, violent and a lover of the arts: Julius II) offered my 49

dear Michelangelo the chance to give me what I lost: my arms and legs and head and buttocks. My heart leapt, and were I not made of stone it would have torn the flesh of my flayed chest. What I could be! The proven mastery of my father, Apollonios, this torso, born anew with the appendages and face carved by the same man who birthed that beautiful creature, David! I could finally see through the eyes of his divine craftsmanship rather than through the retched holes in my legs! (I most anticipated the carving of fresh lips; I do admit I imagined the taste of his lips upon mine, how I longed for that salty brine of his workmanship upon me, I, who had known no lips to kiss for so many long years!)

My love, my Michelangelo, how could you deny him? Hatred in my pores and my cracks when you told the devil Julius II that I was already beautiful as I was! Could you not see what I had become?

A writhing, miserable torso and nothing more!

But oh how I wish I could take that hatred back, when my love, my Michelangelo, you made me into Christ himself! Made me into St. Bartholomew and the Sybils and the Prophets! You created for me a heavenly ceiling and I couldn’t help but feeling you did so for my approval, as a kind of recompense.

Little, sweet Michelangelo, with the talents of God, on bent knee before me. You brought sketches to me and showed me your future fresco (when you left, I seared with missing limbs and vitriol in the corner of your dark workshop, unable to move and unable to tell you I loved you, for I lacked the foresight to realize what you did for me and how you would immortalize me). * When my father carved me from stone, I was whole. I lost my many features so long ago; I hate to recall those evil memories. I hoped my love, my Michelangelo, would make me whole again. I could not see that he made me into the risen Christ, when he painted those ceilings, his neck cricked and paint dripping into his eyes. I could not see that the Christ he painted was merely a block of marble, and that I need only carve away the arms and legs and head to find myself beneath it!

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Belvedere Torso by Peter Paul Rubens, c. 1602 pencil and black chalk on paper

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Rosie I, 2020 photography and digital collage

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megan troia PROFILE BY NOELLE ERVIN

Did you think that this would be the year that you moved back in with your parents?

Megan Troia didn’t. In fact, this was supposed to be the year that she finally moved out. Out of the house, out of the city, out of the state. To a place to help her move on from years of traumatic health realities. This was the year that she left Omaha, Nebraska for Eau Claire, Wisconsin, a town of around 69,000 people. A town that Megan felt would be supportive of a fresh start.

“There was just this real beautiful from everyone,” she said. “My first visit to Eau Claire was actually at a music festival, which is funny. And any local would laugh at me because it’s so stereotypical of me. They have several people that are drawn to moving into this small town that’s so Midwestern, blue-collar, awesome, farm town, essentially…”

That’s why she loved it. Hometown to Bon Iver, Eau Claire is a small, quirky, ultra-Midwestern city with a captivating, electric pull that drew her right in. Listening to Troia describe Eau Claire makes you wonder why every town in the world isn’t more like it. She describes it with an air of wonder and magnetism. To her, it’s the type of place that inspires art and is art in and of itself.

@meganktroia

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Rosie II, 2020 photography and digital collage

She got one winter of biting cold and numbing winds as she walked across the pedestrian bridge on her college campus to get from one class to another. A few months surrounded by a bursting enthusiasm and support for art and creativity. A few months before the coronavirus pandemic shut down her college and forced her to move back home.

What do you do when you leave Eau Claire?

If you’re Megan Troia, you reflect. You reflect, and you get going. You make art.

“Oh, I’m here,” Troia said. “I’m here. I’m home.

What am I going to do to make the most of my experience?”

“My parents are going to walk in any second now while I’m talking to you,” Troia warned during our interview. “They’re just going to barge in with groceries!”

It’s strange having to warn your friends about the potential of your parents interrupting your conversation. Maybe not so much in your teen years or after your mid-30s, but your 20s? Your 20s seem like they’re meant to be a time of independence and self-discovery. Of breaking free from the mold that shaped your childhood.

“I’m here. I’m home.”

Troia wasn’t going to let her journey stop just because the rest of the world did. She was determined to push the boundaries of her mind and her art by taking what the world provided her with. And what the world provided her with was a camera, a handful of old trinkets and mementos collected in years past and an unfinished basement.

At least that’s how they used to seem.

Eau Claire was a reset for Troia. But what happens when a reset is undone? What do you do when your new source of inspiration is taken almost as soon as it’s arrived?

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This project, in particular, contains several facets that were unique to Troia. In the past, she’s shied away from self-portraiture and gravitated toward natural light over studio. In the world of quarantine and social isolation, however, she decided to adapt.

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This series of photo collages captures Troia dancing.

More than that, though, it captures a woman taking the world she once knew, pushing its boundaries and entering into a world that not even she knew she could create. It shows ideas that had been culminating in Troia’s mind for years finally breaking through the barrier of her own self doubt.

“You have ideas,” she said, “You have them now.

Don’t wait another day.”

“You have ideas. You have them now. Don’t wait another day.”

that hasn’t been seen before. In this set, suddenly, she became more than just the artist she’d been in the past.

It beckoned her to be the director, producer, model and photographer. The pandemic encouraged Megan to reflect on the extent of the linear thinking that society so often projects on creativity and where these ways of thinking continued to create blocks in her own expression. She reflected on the ways that society so often preaches formal training. You had to study film and art for years and go through apprenticeships to be a producer. You had to know the exact angles of your face to be a model. Troia’s background is in none of those things; she’s done none of those things, and yet, with this project, she is: Photographer. Model. Producer. Director. Empowered.

In this series, Troia’s so-called “willingness to push through” brings us layers of color blocking, dancing and dazzling trinkets from ages past. These come together in collages that bring forth a Megan Troia

“I am all of those things, and it feels really declarative to be any kind of artist that I want to be,” Troia said.

“This series represents me letting go of what I’ve held

Rosie III, 2020 photography and digital collage

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back from before. It’s combining these new modalities that I really want to accept into my life.”

With the acceptance of a new, and yet familiar, life came Troia’s acceptance of herself as a multi-faceted artist who’s open to new possibilities. Instead of setting strict goals or deadlines for herself, she began creating based on how she felt. She dug deeper into her emotions and the confusion that settled upon a world frozen by a global pandemic. Instead of waiting to create, she created.

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In a life full of nonlinear living, in a time full of nonlinear timelines, in an art full of nonlinear creativity, she broke free. Troia no longer allowed the boundaries she set for herself or the grief she felt in the past hold her back. She bursted through.

She danced.

There was a world in front of her. A reality full of

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Rosie IV, 2020 photography and digital collage

anger and frustration and terror and darkness. The darkness you find in a deep, unfinished basement without windows or warmth. A darkness that is begging to be filled with light.

“When things change, we change too,” Troia said.

“But there’s so much power there, even with that little ‘shake up.’ We all just complied and decided to shake things up too.”

It is with great luminosity that Troia embarked on a path to creating great art. Her simultaneous acceptance of grief and defiance of letting that grief define her has brought her a new understanding in what it means to create -- in what it means to live.

In a shaken, broken-up, uncertain life, from a shaken, broken-up, uncertain mind, Megan Troia has found her art.

And so have we.

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Delicate Exhaustion, 2020 floral design

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floraphiliacs P E R S O N A L E S S AY B Y H A N N A H S C H N E I D E R

Designed by: Taylor Roseriecken and Hannah Schneider Photography: Molly Shepherd Models: Abby Meyer and Sage Meyer

Taylor and I first met when I came on as part of the floral production and design team at a flower farm just west of Denton, Nebraska.

There, while trekking through tall grasses on dewy mornings, bagging dahlia heads in the hoop house, and cutting herbs in the aquaponic greenhouse, friendship and partnership were born. I came to Grow with the Flow looking for work after just getting back from a yearlong stint in Mexico and the Netherlands, and as I struggled to adjust to my new life as a wife and settle into a routine, Taylor had a grounding presence that I so often appreciated. She had an intimate knowledge and understanding of the flowers and their life cycles, as well as a firm grasp on who she was, and I admired that.

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At first, I had no idea what my relationship with flowers would become. But when Taylor began to teach me about designing natural materials-about shape and movement and color--I instantly recognized the artistry behind her process. I also began to see inspiration in the natural world around me. The curvature of a particular branch or the delightful mix of textures in native grasses mesmerized me. Flowers became something more to me than frivolous accessories that a bride tosses into a crowd, here today and gone tomorrow. They became vehicles of mood expression, gratitude, and mindfulness. The process of working with them became therapeutic. Before exploring floral design, I was a poet, a writer, and a dancer. Expression is and

floral design, here is what she had to say. “Color has always been ‘my thing’ while working with many different mediums and it’s still my favorite thing to mess around with for flowers. I also always try to look for things that complement one another in a way that moves with the person, especially for photo shoots or bridal accessories. My aim is to give the effect of the flowers being an extension of that person, not some super rigid prop.”

always has been essential to my sanity.

with different ideas for photoshoots and floral sets or installations that we wanted to do. We always had a lot of ideas in our back pocket but didn’t usually have the budget or the time to bring them to life. Since the pandemic hit and I had a lot of time to reflect, I had been dreaming about a photoshoot that would involve a dark and moody setting in an abandoned structure, with a huge floral set and models. I had never done anything like that before, art directing. But it was something I was highly interested in. Of course, when I told Taylor about my musings, she immediately began helping me to formulate a plan to make it possible.

“Flowers became vehicles of mood expression, gratitude, and mindfulness.”

Taylor has always been a great foil to my often comical romanticism. When I think about Taylor, I think of a successful and hardworking artist, who has gained recognition for her work and yet remained incredibly down to earth. In fact, she will probably snort at this part. Sorry, Taylor. Taylor is a person of excellence, and she approaches all of her creative endeavors with almost a sense of duty.

As someone who has been successful working in the tattoo industry for seven years, Taylor has a dedication to precision and flawless execution that inspires me to prune and refine my own work more diligently. A woman of many talents, Taylor has worked creatively with just about every medium under the sun. She has worked with ceramics, paint, pencil, marker, watercolor, resin, and more...you name it, she’s probably done it.

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Taylor and I had always dreamt of breaking away from commonplace floral traditions and doing something unique and exciting. Much of our time planting and transplanting in the fields or filling seed trays in the greenhouse was spent coming up

“The process of working with flowers became therapeutic.

Expression is and always has been essential to my sanity.”

Within a week of planning logistics and conceptualization, making contacts, and figuring out how the hell we were going to get all of our flowers without breaking the bank, we found ourselves hiking through Schramm National Park,

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Delicate Exhaustion, 2020 floral design and photography

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Delicate Exhaustion, 2020 floral design and photography

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backpacks stuffed full with bundles of flowers wrapped in wet paper towels. We hadn’t even seen the site yet. We hadn’t seen the models or met the photographer, and we had a very short time slot to get to work.

Most of the conceptualization had been done at that point. We wanted to convey vulnerability, as I think that is something we have all had to experience during the pandemic. We also wanted to focus on certain juxtapositions. For example, the dark lighting against the warmth of skin, and the abandoned structure against the body of flowers.

We wanted all of the shapes to blend in with the natural landscape in a way that looked symbiotic with its surrounding environment and even the structure itself. The idea was for it to look as if it had thrived there for many years, despite the neglect. And of course, the minimal styling of nude undergarments and those instantly recognizable masks is a reflection of the sometimes comical but mostly tragic juxtaposition between the measures

we take to protect ourselves and living in a constant state of vulnerability, regardless.

Many of our materials had been foraged or donated by our friend Jamie at Harvest Home, a local flower farm. Because most of the flowers were too bloomed out to be sold and we had made a journey of a couple of miles deep into the woods, by the time we finished, all of the flowers had slightly wilted. It was as if they were all letting out a big sigh. What a journey they had been through.

Their delicate exhaustion yet uncompromising beauty mirrored the fragility and strength that I wanted the models to keep in mind as well. It’s beautiful how both people and flowers can be so frail and resilient at the same time. And I think ultimately, that is all we were trying to get at. We tried not to get too perfectionist. We just enjoyed the process, enjoyed creating the setting, and enjoyed each other. Because after all, that’s really what it’s about: creating, connecting with others,

“The minimal styling of nude undergarments and those instantly recognizable masks is a reflection of the sometimes comical but mostly tragic juxtaposition between the measures we take to protect ourselves and living in a constant state of vulnerability, regardless.”

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“T he a r t i s t a ct s l i k e a m ed i u m i st i c b e i n g w h o , f r o m t h e l aby r i nt h b e yo n d t i m e a n d s p a ce , seek s hi s wa y o u t t o a cl e a r i n g . ” — Marcel Duchamp

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behind the mag Jessica is a curator and art consultant living in New York City. Born and raised in Nebraska, she received her degree in architecture with an emphasis in art history from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln in 2019.

Jessica appreciates and engages in many forms of art herself: painting, poetry, design, and music—but ultimately enjoys bringing other artists’ work to light more than anything else. crosshatch was born from this desire.

j essi c a l ar s e n

Hannah Schneider has always had a love for writing. She works as a freelance copywriter and a floral designer, all while furthering her education at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. With a passion for all things creative, Hannah has pursued everything from writing prose and poetry, to dance performance and choreography, floral and set design, and music. Her most recent creative endeavor has been trying her hand in stained-glass art.

hannah sc h n e i de r

Noelle Ervin is figuring life and how it works in Omaha, Nebraska. She graduated UNL in 2019 with a degree in Journalism. With minors in Textile, Merchandising, and Fashion Design, Film History, and Theatre, it’s apparent that she’s always been one to explore, and admire, various forms of art. She hopes to help share that ever-expanding passion with others so that they can view the world around them in the same way as she does: as art.

noel l e er vi n

ISSUE 01

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