touch a pride zine writing by anton dudley photography by arielle bobb-willis edited by elisa suarez
'
editor s note Anton Dudley's work "Touch" is a story of loss and connection, interjected with imagery that conjures up worlds of mysticism and magic among the everyday. I chose to accompany his words with the brilliant photography of Arielle BobbWillis, who plays with connection and color and meshes them artfully. The gradient colors throughout this zine are intended to pay homage to the pride flag, while taking on softer tones that evoke the content of the words you'll read and the images you'll see. I invite you to listen to the accompanying playlist I have curated while reading to get the full effect. To access the playlist, either scan the code below in the spotify search function, or follow this link: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0YehTSc KzglV5fbZejMqzR?si=nFNB8uJkQkaA_XQ5bp_iog
touch: the playlist
1. I'd Like to Walk Around in Your Mind - Vashti Bunyan 2. Magdalena - duendita 3. Licking an Orchid - Yves Tumor, James K 4. I'm Not In Love - Kelsey Lu 5. Venice - Beirut 6. drip bounce_7_24_18 - Toro y Moi 7. Baby - Donnie & Joe Emerson 8. Green Grass of Tunnel - mum
Touch is the only sense
unnafected
by water.
The grasping for experience, as the mind strains to understand all that brushes
against the skin.
The bathroom was dark, lit by a solitary red bulb in the corner. All around us were men in various stages of undress, engaged in various attempts at physical connection. We found an empty stall and fell in. My heart was beating so loud I could barely make out the beat of the music in the other room. I held my breath and closed my eyes. I pressed my hand against the cold metal wall of the stall and dreamed of ice.
“ ’
,
It s a bit dark to be swimming
’
?”
isn t it
“
'
."
Moon s high enough
.
He just stared
"
’
?”
Why d you come down here
.
asked
“
Wondered where you went
.”
off to
“
’
Didn t seem to notice me
.”
leave
“
You know I get tunnel vision
.”
when I paint
I
She had a precious diamond tear in her eye. If I had known then she would not live to see me turn eighteen, I would have pressed my forefinger to her cheek and let that tear roll into the palm of my hand, then sealed it tight in a jar
to keep out time.
T h e
s t a r s
s e e m e d
w e a v e
a
t h r o u g h
O n e
d a y
m y
l a d d e r
t h e
,
I
'
l l
b o d y
c l i m b
F o r
t o
n o w
t h e
,
.
s h e d
a n d
i t
I
s k y
.
l i v e
w o r l d
t o u c h
.
o f
i n
