No. 003
FIELDNOTES rose blossoms
september 2014
FIELDNOTES art through collection
Issue No. 3 rose blossoms Field Notes exists to document the expressions and art that collect over the course of our experiences. The smallest gestures and sentiments, the most banal items and sensations can provide the deepest comfort. The ways we choose to comfort ourselves, the patterns we form and the lengths we pursue to achieve this, are just as revealing, if not more so, than the admission of our most ruinous of vices. This is explores the both the small pockets of warmth and the colors of our most familiar memories, as well as the more absurd things we reach for when we seek refuge. There is a lot out there that compels us to build our own sanctuaries, and these are the places we go.
cover by alessandro ruggieri
charlie pfaff note to self
contents
page 2
alessandro ruggieri all over the space
pages 4-13
shana hodosh collected poetry
pages 9-13
dalton day collected poetry
pages 14-16
bianca zabala collected photography
pages 14-17
sara sutterlin ebook excerpt
pages 18-19
alice kamenetsky reflections on that one dark street
page 20
jimmy mcelravy faith
page 21
julianne waber reaching
page 21
jack wrinn hangman this machine kills everything ghost story one (the zombie)
page 22 page 22 pages 23-25
suzanne bakkum the (extra) ordinary
pages 26-29
alexa masi swimming upstream
pages 30-31
thomas brown steps
page 31
ben sack i belong in parking lots
page 32
madison haskins collected visual art
pages 32-33
molly caenwyn no. 38 west house
pages 34-35
rachel lynch collected phtography
pages 36-37
note to self: note to self: note to note to self: self: take a shower. wash your face. quit revelling in the past, it’s over, it’s done. you are here now. put that box of his things in the basement or somewhere you won’t look at it everyday. eat breakfast. eat lunch. eat dinner. everyone deserves to eat food and skipping meals won’t rid you of the fat on your hips. don’t shave your legs, even if your sister is getting married and she wants you to for the wedding. when your dad calls you a good daughter, correct him. when he dismisses your identity, dismiss yourself. it’s okay to cry. it’s okay to have bad days, bad weeks, bad summers. you’re not a loser for staying home. just because your friends are ignoring you, doesn’t mean they hate you. they’re just busy. when you’re lonely, play guitar. fall asleep with your fender beside you. when you’re lost, look to glow in the dark stars for guidance. you don’t need a hand to hold. go to work even if you’re dreading it. go to school even if you’re dreading it. it’ll be over soon and it’s not a waste of time. quit revelling in the past, it’s over, it’s done. you are here now. don’t hate yourself for letting her cross the street. look both ways for oncoming traffic. don’t think about how the sirens sounded. don’t think about the shattered glass. you are here now. stop crying every time you have sex. it shouldn’t hurt anymore. brush your teeth, take your pills. don’t feel guilty for taking pills. don’t stop taking your pills. try not to bite your cheeks, try not to pull out your hair. mirrors are not your best friend. drink lots of water. quit revelling in the past, it’s over, it’s done. you are here now. you are loved, if only by yourself.
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words and art charlie pfaff
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all all over over the the space space photo series alessandro ruggieri
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shana hodosh
collected poetry crush
i always felt crushed between my own fingertips. when you teach kids to hold gently, you teach soft animals and overripe fruit and parents’ hands. i have never taught someone else not to twist open their hearts (i’m sorry i’m sorry)
soil
i think before i found you i’d been stuck in the soil just a little too long.
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think about
some people some people write words that curl off the page like the cigarettes you some when you’re drunk me though i only write pragmatically looking to solve a problem i think i create.
shana hodosh shanashana hodosh hodoshshana hodosh shana shana hodosh hodosh 10
II
however it turns out that if you find a candle or a match or a very strong flashlight you can talk to all of your demons and you can all laugh about how bad it used to be and and you’ll go into the light and your eyes will not even blink you’ll be so warm 11
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photo by
collected poetrydalton day
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didn’t you know? When it snows in summer the moon has never loved its body more.
bianca zabala
after i buy my helicopter
After I buy my helicopter I am engulfed by bees. This is my worst nightmare, I think. I will probably die, but not before experiencing a great deal of pain, I think. Through this slow tornado I can just make out the shape of my helicopter. I will never fly it, I think. I will never take my daughter on a flight, where I point at the skyscrapers in a city that has no name, & she will name it bzzzzzzzzz. Except, the bees are not hurting me. They aren’t even touching me. The bees are protecting me, I think. I will probably die, but not because of this, I know. The sun just drips & drips.
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before i ride in an airplane there are no such thing as airplanes. People build things called birds instead. They open their bird mouths & fill their bird bodies with sand. They push their people bodies inside. One person per bird. They tell each other how they miss each other. They sing songs in languages nobody else understands. But mostly they sleep. When they wake up, they destroy the birds from the inside out. In the end, the people are standing in piles of feather & blood & dream, blinking at each other like they are the first bodies in the world. But they’re not.
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bianca zabala
collected photography 17
featured release // ebook excerpt From Sara Sutterlin - MARK JOHNSON DOESN’T LIVE HERE ANYMORE is a collection of short stories and prose written between 2009-2014. all unpublished material. The following pieces are excerpts from the ebook, available in PDF form online for $1.99.
more information is available in the artist directory
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sarasara sutterlin
sara sutterlin
sutterlin sutterlin sara
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sara sara sutterlin
reflections on that one dark street
alice kamenetsky
Did you know I love the drone of planes Well maybe not at night When I walk down the street where I told you I was sad And you shifted slightly and cast a weary glance to the side Did you know that the radiance you emitted wasn’t all that unique There’s very little that’s unique but I like it more that way I think After all we all get warm in similar ways Have I told you about the time I was stranded on a cliff And how I passingly thought about your face at my funeral And how you’d press the grass with your slightly scuffed dress shoes And wonder if my pale taut smile thought of you in final moments? How many times did I pump blood into my heart It stopped so often I’d hit my chest and squeeze my lungs and there, it’d work again Mechanically efficient albeit with human faults I gravitated round your essence Orbiting and grinding feelings into dust so mite It refracted every color of skin and blush It was really quite pretty But I’m afraid it is misplaced How many times did I experience infinity with you And how many times did it end all too soon And how many times did I think how long? I can only rationalize in numbers
image by alice kamenetsky 20
faith
jimmy mcelravy Mama, why did I have to leave warm serenity, unnamed First glimpse, hurled into the naked air Defenseless, defense predetermined no choices In arms that were held by arms that were held Who was the fragile body, who lay by the strength of granite Who bore the sunlight like the shimmering lake Who’s clarity as clear as the eyes that beheld Who’s skin was the color of the world Who’s elegance quieter then woman’s beauty louder than a man’s soft kiss Who knows why I was taken placed in the arms of strangers Mama, my worst fear isn’t the beast with dripping teeth The endless dark ocean with cutting caps It is the hand that watches the fly desire the outside world Not knowing the window that separates him between life and death.
“reaching” by julianne waber 21
hangman six lines sketched, five straight, one bent: stick figure’s stuck up on the lynching tree. too late to figure out the phrase so now i only figure eight: i shoot another blank out to infinity. i hang out to dry on the clothesline my ghost sheets full of holes and i hang my head and cry over spilled milk chopped onions and my dead body neck broken spine a railroad shoulders aching no more from an imaginary planet ass perfect legs a forest feet floating above the floor of the ocean dangling, i’m a ragdoll waving in the wind i’m colours i’m a goddamned empire or the whole goddamned universe or something: watch me expand until i collapse and laugh and clap when i’m done. i’m goddamned; i’m doomed.
jack wrinn
“this machine kills everything”
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ghost story one (the zombie)
jack wrinn
14 December 23
My name’s John Doe. I drift. I don’t mean much to Deadwood, but I’ve been staying in this town for some nights now and wandering throughout its twilight scenes. I’d been seeing this girl out of the corners of my eyes--never directly, always at a distance, always at night, and never catching more than a half-glimpse of her before she’d vanish into the black like magic. But last night, Friday the 13th, I saw her and, for the first time, she didn’t disappear. The following concerns the events that occurred that night, and any events that should follow (should any events follow). It hopes to document any and all happenings I observe surrounding this mysterious case, this mysterious girl, this mysterious place of death and unknown suffering. I left the Lake-Ring Inn and paced my way to the crisscrossing trails in the woods I frequent for a smoke as the sun set on the hillside. As dark grew, it got harder to tell which lights came from the fog-cloaked trees below lined with dim, distant streets and which lights came from the cloud-forest above lined with pale, faded stars. I came out of the sticks into a clearing--a perfect panorama of fall’s last fanfares and winter’s first whispers. The black clouds and blacker sky stood at eye level, making eye contact, making themselves clear. I want to imagine that bells jingled it in, or that up above the encircling bark fingers frozen grasping for dying sunlight a child laughed as he shook my little glass globe around. But no. I could hear the woods breathe as the crystals began to fall in mock-moths, in butterfly flakes. The first snow of winter was silent. Maybe it was out of respect (or maybe I was just finally sick of talking to myself) but for once, for a while, so was I. A mix of smoke and visible breath drifted hazily, lazily, from the corners of my mouth. I got lost, staring out to the stars. Then, turning in to the trees, I blinked. I blinked and there she was again, this time peeking from behind a distant pile of dirt. I thought nothing of it for a moment. (I thought about my cigarette. I thought about how it tasted and how dizzy it’d made me.) Then it hit me. Then I blinked again. Then I stared. She wasn’t going away. She was staying. She was coming closer. She stepped in a way that made the snow seem to hit the ground hard. At first, the dark made her details into mud, but soon I could see. Her face shined silver. Her hair sucked in light and spat out a bluish abyss. She donned the same dirty sky dress and the same black glasses she always had on. Observing her in depth for the first time, I noticed something very wrong with the way she looked. She was perfectly pretty, but looking at her made me want to look away almost instinctively. She felt off, as if forbidden. My gut ached, but I held my gaze. Without warning, she stopped, finally close enough to meet. “So,” I half-smiled through my half-smoked cigarette, “who are you?” “You know...” she ignored my inquiry sheepishly, sleepily, “you--you really sh-shouldn’t smoke. That shit--that shit can... can k-kill you.” I breathed in deep and sighed my pale poison air. “I know... but that doesn’t answer my question. Who are you?” Her big, blue irises flickered through their thick frames. “I...” She tried. “It’s--” She tried again, eyes tired and nearly tearing. I gave her ample time to answer before I gave up, after it seemed like she had, too. “Look,” I tried my best to sound understanding, “I’ll make it easier. You’ve been following me around at night. You hide whenever I look your way. I never see you in town, except for when it’s dark out. Just... work from there, okay? Just start with that.” “I--” “Take your time.” I added, interrupting her accidentally. “I’m--I’ve been trying to... t-to see what you’re like. Y-you’re not from here, I can tell. The others... the... the people in town... y-you’re not l-like them. They’re all so scared. I d-don’t understand. There’s... so much... so much I don’t understand... A-a-anyway, you seemed like a good person. I could tell when I first saw you. Y-you still seem... g-good.” I smirked at that, shaking my head. “You’re not right, but alright. I’ll take what I can get. Now, hang on. You said--the people in the town... you said that they’re scared. All of them... what are they scared of ?” She could barely keep herself from breaking down on the spot, sad sapphire eyes locking in with mine as the word left her lips like a shiver: “Me.” It took some time for me to react. My face flipped through expressions, my mouth moving to make words while my mind could find none. In the end, the only sound that would come out was a little baffled laughter and her own word bounced back at her in disbelief: “...you?” She closed her eyes and nodded as a spider web smile and insect tears both appeared on her face.
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“Well,” I said, sucking my cigarette dead and stepping its red remains out on the now-snowy ground, “you don’t scare me.” (I lied--she did, a little, I just didn’t understand why.) “Great.” she sang, her smile and her tears intensifying ten times over. I gave her a moment. She took it with care. “Say,” she said, composed, now, and more confident than before, “you got another one of those?” She gestured at the last resting place of the butt. I scoffed. “I thought you said that shit’ll kill you.” She shrugged. “I... don’t think I’m too worried about dying, right now.” “Oh...” My brow furrowed for a moment and my eyes met my shoes. The moment passed and they moved back to her. “I think I know what you mean. Still, though... are you sure?” “Sure.” she said. She seemed sure. So, I pulled my pack out of my pocket, opened it, and pulled out the only smoke left. “Last one.” I said, handing it to her, “You can have it, but you gotta be a good girl and share.” “We’ll see.” she said, sticking the drag between her lips like a flag. “Light?” My lime lighter sparked with the speed and sound of a finger snap. The flame flew too far and too fast. My eyes flared and my hand flinched back from the burning heat. In the instant I had, I hid as much of myself as I could from the explosion. It knocked me on my ass. I grunted at the sudden purple pain and pandemonium. Her bloody howl broke into my ears. I sprung to my feet in a beat, saw she’d been banged back, too, and hastily fell to my hands to see how badly she’d been hurt and maybe how I could help, if I even could. “No!” she screamed, rolling away as if I were a rabid wolf, her face in her hands, heaving heavy, muffled, hysterical moans. “N-no...” she whimpered between deep breaths, “i-it’s o-k-k-kay... I d--I deserve it... I--I’m evil.” “Oh, god...” I sighed, “Look--Listen. You’re not evil. And you definitely don’t deserve it. No one is evil. No one deserves it. There’s no such thing as evil. There’s no such thing as good. Nothing... nothing exists separately; things are only defined by how they compare with other things, like... good and bad... black and white... what would one be without the other? All there is is different points of view, and if you view yourself--or... or anything else--as being just... evil, then that’s just the way that it’s going to be to you. But that’s clouding your vision with this great, big, conflict... this duality, this duel, that just isn’t real. A-and I know that it seems like it, I know that it feels like it--” “S-s-stop.” She whispered. “I-I... I know. And I--” She gulped, “I... ohhh, fuck. There’s no point in trying to hide it anymore, is there? I believed that...” She shook as she took her hands from her face, supporting her wiry skeleton frame with them as she turned to look my way. I froze over inside, sharp shards of ice suddenly spiking under my skin as I saw the bloodied black space where her left eye and about a fourth of her face had been, her glasses not even broken but just gone. “I believed that...” She echoed, “...but then I met the devil. ...r-right after I died.” It all paused. The snow stood still in the night sky and the wind and the woods stopped moaning. Of course, I speak in metaphor--time still passed and I just sat there stupidly, stupefied. But I believe my breath did cease for a brief second. And hers, I noticed--not too much to my horror--had never even been present; she wasn’t crazy, she was dead. Though, the wound on her head should’ve been enough to tell me that. The silence was so sickeningly thick I thought I’d choke on it; I couldn’t believe it when she broke it. “Are... are you still... not... scared?” She looked at me so longingly, so lonely. I tried to keep my eyes to her right side as I answered. “I’m... curious. And if it kills me, well, I was a good cat, anyways.” I shuffled closer, put my hand on her shoulder, and found her the same temperature as the snow-filled air. I kept it there. I didn’t care. “Tell me... just tell me everything.”
The following is essentially everything she told me. She doesn’t know her name or her history whatsoever. The first thing she remembers is the last thing they say you ever see: a bright beacon, a white light, drawing her in to just let go and give up the ghost. She struggled, a fish on a line, already too far from the waters of life to return. Her resistance was the result of some persistent remnants, the remains of a reality beyond her body or mind’s reach. What was it she wanted? Revenge? Reconciliation? She knew it was some sort of resolution, but nothing seemed clear except excruciating suffering. Everything clouded and darkened. The scene shifted and suddenly she stood atop the strongest storm she’d ever seen. Wind whipped and wailed amid frigid fog and electric mist that spastically split and lit up the black canvas on which the picture was painted. While she still could feel, it all felt funny and unreal. Her bare toes burned beneath her, skin bubbling and crackling in the same key as the lightning. The fire crawled slowly but steadily up her feet, devouring and destroying all it came to meet. She didn’t scream; it seemed a dream, nothing more. Her blood churned, told her she was no longer alone. She turned with no hesitation, knowing nothing could hurt her--not anymore, or at least not any more than she already hurt. The masculine demon-shaped shadow thrown behind her before and before her now dug a darkness so deep it dyed its black night backdrop as bright as blue daylight. Its glowing blood eyes gleamed, beaming as it licked its lips and a grotesque grin grew from its morbid maw full of charcoal-shaded fangs. Sparks flew as it snapped its fingers on the upbeats of its jazzy, lyrical, snakelike speech. “Well, hello and good day my dear pretty little miss. There’s no need to be afraid-lovely weather, isn’t it?-Anyways, Lu’s the name and I couldn’t help but notice that you’re in a bit of pain-I’d like to offer you my service. You see, I’m an angel cursed to look like something else and, I’m sorry, but you’re a dead girl and in dire need of my help. To summarize, you’ve got to die but you’ve just got too much conflict, but I can bring you back to life for just enough time for you to resolve it. There’s no catch, should you accept-I assure you, miss, I’m honest. This is no kind of dirty trick, And that, my dear, is a promise.” He held out his horrible hand. “Oh... o-okay.” she said, her voice violet ethereal echoes. The handshake seemed harmless at first, but after a brief delay his grip grew stronger and he shocked her whole being with a shot of dark energy. She cried out and curled in on herself, cut to the core. He chuckled at her hurting and spoke once more. “What’s wrong? You’re getting what you want: you’ll go back to the world of the living in a second where you’re doomed to wander, undead, ‘til it’s gone or at least until you learn your lesson.” “but--” the words barely escaped through all the pain, “... but you promised.” He howled loud laughter. “‘Promise’ is just a pretty word That slips right through a liar’s slur As easily as this rhythmic, rhyming verse And you, my dear, just made a deal with a devil named Lucifer.” And then, putting both of his hands to her shoulders, he pushed her off the storm cloud and she spiralled out into the dark.
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She awoke with a start, tied with her hands behind her back to a After she completed her account, fatigue hammered my head with log in the middle of a still-burning pyre built at the clearing in the curt force. I’d been too occupied in her wild words to recognise sticks where we met. The fire had been finding its way up her legs how tired I’d become. and was nearly to her knees before she’d struggled fiercely enough “I--It’s late.” My tired eyes tried to make contact, but hers to set herself free. She dimly remembered the wooded place, where had fallen to her burnt, fleshless feet. “It must be at least midnight back then autumn’s last bits still burned, but knew nothing about its by now.” I continued, “I’m... so sorry. I wish I could stay and keep surroundings, and ambled aimlessly in the woods for hours before you company longer, but I wouldn’t be able to stay awake, anyway. coming across the way back into town. And... you’ll see me again, soon. I... I promise. And that’s a promise The first person she saw was a curvy girl with wavy, that’d kill me not to keep.” fall-fire hair. Their paths crossed at the very verge of the forest. We’d become close, somehow, almost cosy with each The stranger’s round face sparked some senseless traces in her other. The gap between us had diminished undetectably as the memories, only reminding her of two words: “nurse” and “sister”. night had streamed along. I turned my head in her direction and (Despite the latter, she doesn’t think they’re related.) This new, found her face mere snowflakes away from mine. I could see every unknown young woman stopped flat when the two met, standing grain of water in the desert of her hardly but in this new nearness almost as stiff and at least twice as pale as a sun-stained marble noticeably clouded eye as it glistened. statue. Her grey eyes grew wildly wide and blank in bewilderment. “Don’t worry.” I smiled. “I’m gonna--I’ll do whatever I She made a noise that started like a wild animal’s wounded moans can to fix this for you... even if I’m not too sure what that means, and worked its way into mix between a crying wind and a banshee’s right now. Hang in there.” Our lips met, lingered together for a mosoul-splitting screams. ment. For that moment, I forgot she was dead. No I didn’t. It just The main-focus mystery girl, my mystery girl, received no didn’t make any difference to me. I stood up, straightened myself time to respond to this other mystery girl’s reaction; she ran away-- out from a long seat on the snowy ground, and started to make my still making that sickly sound--as if her feet were doused in flames way back to the inn. and a lake lay in the opposite direction. All other encounters with “John?” She beckoned as I forced myself to leave her the townsfolk offered similar levels of fear. She could only enter behind. I couldn’t bring myself to turn back around, but my feet Deadwood at night, when the dark teamed up with the frequent fell flat for me. fogs to hide her features. Even then, she still had to stay in the “You’re a--you’re a goddamned... good person, John.” shadows, and couldn’t interact with anyone. Not that it mattered too “Oh, fuck you!” I called back, audibly beaming. “And much, though--she couldn’t sleep and didn’t seem to need to eat. thanks! ...thank you.” I tacked on as I started to take some of may She came to know the town from afar. No fresh faces be my slowest steps since my first, feeling weird. found their way in for almost a week and a half before her eyes fell on mine. And I suppose you can guess how it goes from there. She followed me around intending to figure me out, to see if I might be the kind of soul willing to help her instead of the kind to flee. When she witnessed me spare some money for a war-torn old homeless man and spend my night listening to his intoxicated story-spinning, she was sold. (What she didn’t know is that I stole that money from some young nobleman the next town back, and I’d been pretty damn inebriated myself at the time. But that’s not that important.) She came across me on my way to the woodsy trails and, after spending some time unnoticed in my wake, somewhere underneath her understandable uncertainty she managed to find the courage to approach me.
photo by bianca zabala 25
the (extra) ordinary suzanne bakkum august 2014
I recently graduated from the Royal Academy of Art (KABK) in The Hague, the Netherlands. Alexa Masi asked me to share a little bit about my experience at the KABK and I feel honoured to do so.
I chose to do something which would give me a certain amount of freedom and an opportunity to do research and experiment freely. I analysed trivial objects, randomly chosen, like bag clips, twigs, stones and chewing gum on the street. Through analysis I discovered graphic connections between the objects. I ended KABK is known for its conceptual character. During up drawing a lot and creating new objects, experimenting with my studies I learned a lot about conceptual design and creating forms and discovering new ones. It’s not about a finished product something that not only looks nice but looks a certain way because but more about the creative process and the act of researching and of the idea behind it. No doubt, the principal of ‘form follows analysing. The project shows that any seemingly insignificant little function’ is still a major influence on design education in Holland. thing can be very interesting if you pay attention and take the time Don’t get me wrong, I value my KABK upbringing but I realised I to investigate. need a balance between conceptual and visual design. For me this project is a personal Research Lab from Creating from concept can get you far and is a valuable which I can draw inspiration for other commissioned work. It facet, but it can also limit the creative process. When you have to gives me an excuse or rather pushes me to keep creating and exjustify every little step you make, you’re not free to do ‘whatever’. perimenting for myself in between commissioned assignments. It There’s this term, ‘lateral thinking’ by Edward de Bono which ended up being a rather autonomous project in that way. means thinking through an indirect and creative approach. It delib- The book I made The (Extra) Ordinary Encyclopedia erately takes the unbeaten path and avoids the standard ‘logic’ way is a very important part of the project. It’s a documentation of of thinking. When I found out about it I thought that’s it, that’s all my findings so far but also a site for enquiry and discovery in what I have to do! itself. A book is a sequence of spaces, and I made use of that; I like to experiment, playing around. I’ve come to realise each spread in this book is raising new questions. It aims to make that it’s a big part of the way I work. In the field of graphic design the reader look closer to the trivial little things in his or her own I think there is a lack of experimenting in general. Things look life and see them in a different light. I hope it will be a source of polished and finished, often you can easily make out the calculat- inspiration not only to me but to others as well. ed steps that have been made to get to the finished product. To me this is uninteresting. I think it is partly due to the exaggerated focus on conceptual design or so called ‘meaningful design’ nowadays. Only through experiment, trying things out and making mistakes, will new unexpected things come to the surface. Only then the boundaries of the field will be stretched. This is when it gets interesting and challenging: exploring different medias and materials, and crossing the boundaries of conservative graphic design. Students should reinvent the definition of graphic design, not simply follow the conventional rules.
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“collection III” 28
“rules glitch poster”
“shadow sculpture”
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swimming upstream
alexa masi
With my palms held up against my closed eyes, pressing into the hollow, I try to see through them and try to see my mother’s face. I try to see her standing with half of her back to me in the kitchen when I wake up in the morning. Everything about her is soft and soft particularly for me. Everything about her is warm like big band brass in the winter and orange and making the light dribble over it like spilling molasses. Around my temples I feel a faint pulse of heat. It comes with a poke of relief but then it begins to tingle and my stomach turns into a pricker bush. My head buzzes against the window. The P&B is coasting away from the coast and being so high off of the road doesn’t make for a smoother ride but I like the way the cool glass feels against my forehead and I need to keep feeling it so I let myself knock against it. I feel moss growing up the length of my tongue and I feel the ends of my mouth being tugged on. I press harder to feel the cool so maybe as to cancel out the growing and tugging but I still feel too prickly and hot to fall asleep. I have an hour or so before I reach the station and I’d prefer to be asleep. I clasp my hands together in my lap and make small, pattering movements with my fingers against my knuckles to remind myself that I still have control over all my muscles, that all layers of my skin are still present and feeling. My hands feel sickly light and then wrenchingly heavy but all the time they feel far away from the rest of me. Sometimes I’ll raise them back up against my eyes to show myself how close they are but I just can’t get that thought to stick. Every pinprick sensation brings my body farther away from itself and so I am screaming in my mind to bring it back, screaming for it like a dog who tore off into the woods without his leash. The screaming makes my mind hoarse and makes it feel like it wants to force itself asleep and put the search off till morning or till its more convenient. I feel trapezoidal. I feel unhinged. The prickerbush has sunk through the entirety of my stomach and sits now unfurling itself against the swell of my calves. My body declares itself an unfamiliar thing and so seeks to make it uncomfortable enough to leave. I saw my mother no more than twenty minutes ago when we pulled into the bus terminal together. I had no impulse to start itching or pulling at my skin, no sensation too bothersome to shake out. I was given no warning while parked in the car, or else I would’ve tried to stifle it all right there, would’ve smashed it to pieces between my fists and had my mother sweep it up for me. I would’ve pointed to it like a centipede in the upstairs bathroom, pointing urgently until my mother comes in with a napkin. I would’ve done that if I had been warned but I wasn’t and now I can’t focus on how it felt to be in the car long enough to piece together my mother’s face in my mind. I think about the other passengers on the bus. The lights have all been turned off and the highway is dark. The others around me are mostly folded in on themselves and sleeping or speaking quietly to the rider beside them. I wonder what they would do if my body did shut down. How would they be able to tell one way or the other. I’d look like just another crumpled up passenger waiting for the lights to come back on. I’d have to yell out for them. I’d have to try, if I’m able to. Maybe some sort of intuition kicks in when it’s most direly needed. I can’t recall ever hearing about a bus pulling back into the station, having all its passengers file out per usual, only for the driver to find a straggler not only crumpled, but lifeless. I haven’t heard of that. So it can’t happen to me. Something won’t let it. My hands feel heavy. My hands feel light. In front of me is the seesawing voice coming from one of the only straightened out passengers, leaning hard against my knees tucked up into the back of his seat (and now I feel somewhat guilty about this, but the pressure makes me feel better so I’m not moving them yet). He says he needs to catch a flight from Logan at two in the morning. He says “don’t ya wait for me”. What he’s talking about, from the parts that I haven’t coated with fuzz in my head, is that the person on the other line, maybe his wife or his mother, wants to make sure the plane takes off alright, that he gets his connection, that they’re ready to meet him in Charleston when he gets there. He tells them not to wait up. It’s already late and will be later by the time he gets around to calling them again and they should make sure to get to sleep. He will see them in the morning. His voice has a winding quality to it, like a river lazily bending around the shore. His vowels are babbling in the water, slipping into each other. It makes me settled to listen to. It’s strange that he was in Hyannis by himself, that no one else with his drawl is travelling with him.
30
“I’ve got an awful pounding in my ear so I’m gonna let ya go,” he says into the phone. I can see the electric blue outline of his cell phone’s light cradling his profile in the window’s reflection. It’s a thin little thing that escapes through. It swims along the glass with each bounce of the bus. “Mhmm. I’ll call ya when I get to Washin’ton,” he says. He grunts a few more affirmations before saying goodbye and “love you” and pressing to hang up. I miss his voice. I miss his dropping of every ‘g’ in gerrands and the honey sticking between his pauses. I miss the “love you” and I only heard it once but it’s nice to feel his back against my knees and nice to think that my mother is also waiting for me to let her know once I’m back in Boston. I feel a small pin-pricking feeling right at the top of my head. I wonder if a vein bursts in my head, would it sting like this first or would it be a cold, smooth but hurried gallop into darkness. I think my scalp, my whole head feels too much lately. Everything it feels I also feel in my throat and my chest and it all reverberates against each other. I think about the blue line wriggling against the window. I picture a school of twinkling blue fish hauling together through the ocean. I think of them nibbling on my toes this morning, when I stood still enough. When fish are swimming against the current, those salmon who do it every year, they must feel the powerful rush of water against their heads. All the other water they knew has helped them forward but now this water is cruel. It pounds on their faces and rushes in to dissolve every instinct in their pulsing bodies. But they aren’t crumpling up against the shores of the river. They don’t fight any feeling and it brings them closer to what they are meant to do. I think of the wriggling blue line and the wriggling fish and my mother’s hand patting my head and I don’t think I’ve felt the pin prick stinging me for a few minutes. The skin over my temples slacks a little bit and feels warm. A poke of relief that is warm and stays warm until I forget to even call it that. I hear the man in front of me fumbling for his bags beneath his seat. I try to see his face with what I’m sure are soft features, rounded out with the sunlight over the weekend and years of someone calling him before his plane takes off, someone reminding him to wear his seatbelt in his car, encouraging him to get enough sleep. I can’t see it but I’m sure he looks soft like my mother is soft. Soft because when the water hits them they know it stings more against hardened skin. I let my shoulders drop and hold my breath a little longer before exhaling. Pretty soon, I’m sure, the lights will come first out of the city like noisemakers and streamers offering their congratulations, then when we hit the terminal the lights in the bus will come on like a thousand balloons tied up in the same roped net that the salmon sometimes fight and wriggle against too. I’ll get off the bus and the driver will slap me on the back as I make my way, telling me you made it you made it you made it and look it didn’t even hurt so bad.
“steps” by thomas brown
31
i belong in parking lots
ben sack
I belong in parking lots A thousand squares for slotted thoughts The heat breathed by the flat concrete Bakes me like an apricot There’s no terrain to conquer here No nights or dreams or streams or fear A finch hops strong but can it fly? Pecking at past cans of beer I belong in parking lots The future reeks of polyglots My socks are dry, my shins are hot The ocean’s all tied up in knots The heat in waves upon the ground The only comfort I have found For the pit I guess I swallowed when I pined for more than gravel sound There’s no terrain to look out for Why watch your step when your feet soar I stepped upon that fragile finch Flattened it near the liquor store
“fish bowl”
The waning warmth won’t help me now And the cradle on that old pine bough Cries like it is fit to fall I don’t dance because I don’t know how I belong in parking lots A thousand squares for slotted thoughts Smell that warm apricot pie And hear how that flat finch rots
32
“starbucks sir”
art by
madison haskins
“maggie blatz at waterfountain” 33
no. 38 west house
words and art by molly caenwyn
34
When asked what comforts a person we are faced with the regurgitation of the same old clichés of home, family, warmth, hot drinks and a movie on a rainy, autumnal day. Some of us close our eyes and imagine cascades of oranges and yellows behind our lids and bathe ourselves in visions of sun and sand. In the year before coming to terms with my anxiety disorder, when reality became too overwhelming, my comfort was the tiny bathroom I had within my room in halls. A tiny ensuite room, no windows, shower barley big enough to move around in and where I could easily stretch out my legs for a wash whilst taking a piss. I used to shut myself in and lock the door whilst I cried, cried and cried under the ambient, orange glow of my dirty, flickering light. I would wrap my arms tightly around my knees as I raised them onto the grimy white toilet seat. I would turn the heating on, place a towel over its warming towel rail and lean against it for a sense of ease, something to still my shakes and dry my tears. The walls were paper thin so you were able to hear the muffled conversions of other students with ease. The boy next door was usually out smoking pot (or was passed out from smoking it) so it was always quiet when I locked myself away. The lack of windows blocked out the world and kept me away from the paralyzing ordeals of growing up, the frustrations of an excessively sensitive boyfriend, the confusions over my sexuality and the anxieties of late night parties and taxis journeys. My large baggy t shirts clung to me as my cold sweats formed great wet patches upon my back. To distract myself away from my unease and growing panic, I would frantically pick away at my big toe nail, then the next toe, then the next, until finally I had trimmed my piggies so far they appeared beaten and had drawn blood. As I lay upon the warm towel, I would rest my eyes, drifting off into dreams of my youth, yearning to be looked after and have somebody else carry my worries for me. And then... I realised. My comforts were just as cliché as the next. Warmth, escapism within the walls of my temporary new home and yearning for my family. I guess as far as we try to pull away from stereotypes and overused benign expressions, we can’t help adoring the same old nostalgia that comforts us in the worst and darkest of times.
35
collage photography 36
rachel lynch 37
FIELDNOTES art through collection
additional artist information suzanne bakkum suzannebakkum.com gradection.tumblr.com instagram.com/drtpx 2014: BA in Graphic Design from the Royal Academy of Art (KABK) 2013: Research Lab at KABK, an individual research program about visual literacy 2013: NO/DE workshop at After School Club in Offenbach Germany 2010: founded my own studio in Amsterdam 2007: MA in NeuroPsychology from the University of Amsterdam 2001: moved to Amsterdam to study Psychology 1981: born and raised in Bergen N.H. a small town on the west coast of Holland thomas brown
brownmegacorportation.tumblr.com
molly caenwyn mollycaenwyn.com mollycaenwyn@hotmail.co.uk Photographic practitioner and freelance writer, Molly Caenwyn’s work is based upon a keen interest in abject art, the grotesque female body and feminism which includes her contribution to feminist publication Parallel Magazine as a columnist and photographer. madison haskins madisonhaskins.tumblr.com madisonfhaskins@gmail.com Madison a senior at Taft, trying to make emotional art. She aims to show how things or people feel or make her feel rather than just rendering the subject. She love to experiment with a lot of media, and especially mixing them. Most of the work is from her AP Concentration which was called “girls: revealed vs. concealed”. It was about how we react to girls exposing themselves physically and emotionally and how that affects their comfort. shana hodosh humantrashbicycle.tumblr.com shanahodosh@gmail.com Shana has been writing for years, but is only recently figuring out what to say. She lives in Manhattan with her two (guinea pig) children. She takes major inspiration from ee Cummings and the stream of consciousness style. More writing can be found on her Tumblr.
additional artist information
charlie pfaff charliebennetpfaff.tumblr.com tallfriend.bandcamp.com Charlie Pfaff dwells in a pile of blankets within Maryland. They enjoy making art, writing songs, and guzzling iced chai. sara sutterlin s.sutterling@gmail.com Sara Sutterlin is a writer from Montreal, QC. She cries on public transit a lot. She makes zines and e-books and you can find out more about that by e-mailing her. The featured e-book is entitled “MARK JOHNSON DOESN’T LIVE HERE ANYMORE”. It is self published and available here: https://payhip.com/b/9gyG julianne waber
cargocollective.com/juliannewaber
inquiries // submissions
fieldnotesmag@gmail.com
SUBMIT: Issue No. 4 Field Notes is always seeking visual art and written work, under the broadest of definitions, from as many willing voices as possible. If you have put yourself and your experiences into some printable form, please do not hesitate to send it our way. Issue No. 4 will be centered around fire - the elemental energy, the heat in your blood, the steam of your ambition, the color of your passion. We are seeking works relating to this prompt, whether directly or loosely; but, of course, we will still review and accept submissions of any form, content and topic. To ensure your work will be reviewed and accepted in a timely manner, please submit no later than November 1st. We look forward to hearing from you.
field notes issue no. 003