Ginger Networked feminism
Winter 2018
MISSION
LEIGH SUGAR
JILLIAN JACOBS
LAUREN BANKA
JOEY BEHRENS
Ginger maps networks of creative people. In keeping with the logic of a network, all of the contributors to this issue were referred by an editor or contributor from a previous issue. As a feminist publication, we are committed to supporting the work of self-identified women and queer/trans/gender non-conforming individuals and strive to share the experiences and distinctive voices of those who identify as such. Our goal is to produce a zine with a diverse range of forms, content, and viewpoints.
• • ISSUE 2 • ISSUE 3 • ISSUE 4 • ISSUE 5 • ISSUE 6 ISSUE 1
TRACI CHAMBERLAIN
KAITLIN McCARTHY
HAYLEE EBERSOLE
AMANDA LÓPEZKURTZ
JAN TRUMBAUER
JESSICA LAW
SOFIE RAMOS
• • ISSUE 8 • ISSUE 9 • ISSUE 10 • ISSUE 11 ISSUE 7
LAURA McMULLEN MICHAELA RIFE EMMALINE PAYETTE RACHEL BRODY CARLY FREDERICK
MARKEE SPEYER LAURA PORTWOODSTACER
NATASHA WEST
PAULAPART
ERIC DYER HALA ABDULKARIM
JACQUELINE MELECIO
NATALIE EICHENGREEN
JANE SERENSKA TONI KOCHENSPARGER
CAMERON RINGNESS
ALEXIS CANTU
MOLLY HAGAN
WOLFGANG SCHAFFER
MARISSA BLUESTONE
DELILAH JONES
CARLA AVRUCH
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IRENE CAVROS
LEYLA TULUN
JESS WILLLA WHEATON
KRISTINA HEADRICK
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MARIA R. BAAB
SAM CROW
MARIA STABIO
FELICIA URSO
GRACIE BIALECKI
LIANA IMAM
BRITLYNN HANSENGIROD
OLIVIA JANE HUFFMAN
JEN COHEN
SONYA DERMAN
REBECCA BALDWIN
KATIE VIDA
RACHEL WALLACH
LA JOHNSON
HANNAH MODE
HARRIS BAUER
KATIE FORD
SOPHIE KNIGHT
NP SANCHEZ
DOROTEA MENDOZA ISSACHAR CURBEON
RACHEL ZARETSKY
KRYSTA SA
ALLI MALONEY
LAUREN ARIAN
ENA ´ SELIMOVIC
ARIEL JACKSON
BRIE LIMINARA
SOFIA PONTÉN
HERMIONE SPRIGGS
LAURA COOPER
CAITLIN WRIGHT MARTY MANUELA
YI-HSIN TZENG NANDI LOAF
COLLEEN DURKIN
FREDRIKA THELANDERSSON
IVY HALDEMAN
ASHLEIGH DYE
CLARE BOERSCH
ANA GIRALDOWINGLER
ELAINE HEALY
JESSE HEIDER
HANNAH NELSONTEUSCH
KATHARINE PERKO EEL COSTELLO
ELIZABETH SULTZER
STEPHANIE VON BEHR
ABIGAIL HENNING
HANNAH RAWE COURTNEY STONE
MARTHA WILSON
JACQUELINE CANTU
ALEX CHOWANIEC
LEIGH RUPLE
JULIANA HALPERT LANI RUBIN
JESSICA PRUSA
MIMI CHIAHEMEN
JOLENE LUPO
NATALIE GIRSBERGER
NATALIE BAXTER
KASIA HALL
SOPHIE OAKLEY
BRE WISHART
LEAH JAMES
EMILY LUDWIG SHAFFER
JENNIFER WEISS
EMILY ROSE LARSON
MOLLY RAPP
JENNY BLUMENFELD
INDIA TREAT
LAURA BERNSTEIN
NICKI GREEN CLAUDIA GERBRACHT
MEGAN SICKLES KATE WHEELER
MARIA NIKOLIS TYLER MORGAN
SARA LAUTMAN
MOLLY ADAMS
CAROLINE LARSEN
BECKY BRISTER
ALEX VALLS
TIFFANY SMITH
AGROFEMME
HANNAH MCMASTER
ANNE MAILEY
LEANNE BOWES
ANNIK HOSMANN BONNIE LANE
KATHERINE TARPINIAN
ALYCE HALIDAY MCQUEEN
KERRI GAUDELLI
G I N G E R 3
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Issue NO 11 contributors Natalie Baxter .... PAGE 07 Nicki Green .... PAGE 12 Cameron Ringness .... PAGE 17 Eric Dyer .... PAGE 23 Irene Cavros .... PAGE 29 Felicia Rose .... PAGE 35 Emily Ludwig Shaffer .... PAGE 41 Anne Mailey .... PAGE 48 Laura Bernstein .... PAGE 53 Marty Manuela .... PAGE 57 Alyce Haliday McQueen .... PAGE 59
Co-founders EDITO R
Markee Speyer D E S IGN E R
Jacqueline Cantu
On the cover: Steppin’, Walkin’, Jumpin’ by Alyce Haliday McQueen
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Natalie Baxter
Tammy Gun
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n December of 2016 a friend sent me a link to an article about my work that I wasn’t aware existed. The article titled, “Feminist artist takes on ‘toxic masculinity’ by making ‘soft, impotent’ sculptures of guns” was published on Glenn Beck’s website, The Blaze. Through a hodgepodge of misquoted and out of context statements pulled from other articles, it was clear that the author was not a fan of my work. Accompanying the article were a plethora of reader’s responses, such as, “Clearly Natalie Baxter is confused about her role as a woman,” “Just a man hating feminazi with no redeemable qualities (not to mention no brain),” and “This chick needs a good railing” to name a few. While these comments are specifically directed at me, my role as a woman, my sexuality, and my mental state, I’m in no way a unique target. There is no shortage of negative remarks about women on the internet. Using the same sewing and quilting techniques used to create the work that caused such anger to begin with, I decided to bring these comments off the screen and into my work. I feel this absurd aggression is sadly a part of the fabric that makes up the world we live in today and is worth granting a new context for analysis.
My Super Sweet M16
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Natalie Baxter learned to quilt from her Granny on Kingdom Come Creek in Kentucky. She received an MFA from The University of Kentucky and a BA from the University of The South in Sewanee, TN. Her work has been exhibited recently at Mulherin Gallery in New York, Yale University, Spring Break Art Fair, Aa Collections in Vienna and has been featured in The New York Times, Vice, Hyperallergic, Huffington Post, and The Guardian. Baxter currently works in Brooklyn. Catch her upcoming solo exhibition, TrollLoLol at The Elijah Wheat Showroom in Brooklyn, NY from March 2–April 1, 2018. 10
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Nicki Green
Three States of Gender Alchemy, 2015. Glazed earthenware, 23" x 16" x 16".
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Morel Crock, 2016. Glazed earthenware with found stool and polyester felt, 72" x 22" x 22".
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Crock for Dinah and The River, 2016. Glazed earthenware, 42" x 26" x 26".
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Prolapse Figure, 2017. Glaze on recycled stoneware with wool felt, nylon straps and kiln bricks from Peter Voulkos’ deconstructed gas kiln at University of California, Berkeley, 49" x 46" x 18".
Nicki Green is a transdisciplinary artist based in San Francisco whose work explores topics of history preservation, ornamentation, craft processes and the aesthetics of Otherness. Originally from New England, she received a BFA from the San Francisco Art Institute in 2009 and will complete her MFA in Art Practice at the University of California, Berkeley in 2018. She has exhibited her work internationally, notably at the Leslie Lohman Museum of Gay and Lesbian Art in New York, The Contemporary Jewish Museum in San Francisco and Broken Dimanche Press in Berlin, Germany. She has contributed to numerous publications including Bend Over Magazine (Berlin), Maximum Rock n Roll (San Francisco) and Fermenting Feminism (Copenhagen.) She is represented by [ 2nd floor projects ] San Francisco.
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Cameron Ringness Whole paintings and 2/365 poems
“Whole� paintings fragment the female body, reducing it to the remembered parts and positions. Whether by a stranger or a voyeur, the subjects appear out of an anonymous memory. But it is unclear if the bodies are forcibly made un-whole by this invasive gaze, or if they are deliberately hiding their unseen parts, or even the gazers themselves. The flesh surfacing or departing from the white page reinforces this duplicity of erasure and mask. The two poems are from a completed collection of 365 poems titled Phantoms written from 2015-2016.
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75 i’ll try on some words for size as we roll in the upper deck shuffled against the fading new york morning air and the stolen seats of the bus cushions hold our heros at a cool distance their joining pasts his to be clear was arriving in motionless procession she tumbled silently against the only wound to enter and still the borders invisible meaningless unfelt continued to be drawn and erased
windows where easily she slipped where frames of another’s discontent or derailment, probably divulge - but certainly birth and you know
they stepped into a new england froth hard to displace old and new memory creeps up like the babadook hand she recently grated that image-wrought his own moments sifted through the ceremonial memory rug but she only could walk on what he laid
but looming elms the kind that freeze against blank skies horrifying and hostile without intent the brutal judges of our mortal march, fickle settlements we never could reach from a single point like the tree roots do
she filled the phantoms he had unchained long before where hair of brushes and deep violet charcoal was sanding the day’s anew
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limpid the sky pushed them over in chowder bowled meanders the sea felt farther than a driving breeze the river did not inch everything felt retired shoveled from somewhere else the way two pm is like the bridge to real places not of itself anything at all
we only return to beginnings that we’ve abandoned we never remain but skate in and out of every step leaving behind
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C a m e r o n R i n g n e s s 19
351 my body was hotter the bubbling egg fry day pavement miraging smoke talking mostly in the head we carry words like balloons strings pulled behind caught in the canopy I’ll keep mine close do the usual sidestep check false places - look at pictures of you that cherry top day the one I stole all the frames I save just to practice you there pin-balling around why do we frizz heads try we didn’t talk really just those lost balloons I’ll keep the red one closer because we stopped lightning, but no sound is it here that clock-busting shot that room behind the eyes that gets full and hot trying to get near you
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moving from stop to stop I’d love to eat this sandwich wait until that one leaves their watchful like anyone notices what they talk about later dinners, phone glowing I’M not there, maybe I’m another piece of grass happened to stick the dark stuff in the shower hallway lint pipes going everywhere then nowhere your hairs collecting mixing with mine that straw hat web black and red there’s not much else left to keep I’ll still find those tokens wake tangles in sleep dreaming of octopus promises seaweed lines I’ll reach over to the imprinted sheet, finds its only mine
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Cameron Ringness is an artist, architect and poet from Cleveland, Ohio working and living in New York City. Working across mediums, her work lies between the seen and unseen, and between space and image. She is the lead designer of the new Statue of Liberty Museum for FXFOWLE Architects. Her past experience includes Reed Hilderbrand Associates and Diller Scofidio + Renfro, contributing to projects including the Charles James Exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She has worked and studied in New Orleans, Copenhagen and Beijing.
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Eric Dyer Searching for Sunflowers
Painting has the ability to slow time. Every day I take in more but remember less. What did I do last Wednesday night? The week before that? Today, three years ago? So, while trying to make conscious decisions about how to think and what to pay attention to, I paint. I paint buildings I see on my walks around the city. I paint pictures of photos my parents took when I was a kid and portraits of who I may be today. I paint past art that I made but no longer have. I paint because my paintings can never be perfect. I paint to hold on just a little bit longer.
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Sometimes it’s the small imperfections that make you love something even more, 2017. Watercolor and ink on paper, 6 x 8".
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I don’t really speak about what I see, but to it, 2017. Ink on paper, 6 x 8".
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The things you think but can’t find the words for, 2017, iInk on paper, 6 x 8".
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Just a little more love and no one would be lost in this world, 2017. Ink on paper, 6 x 8".
Eric currently lives and works in San Francisco, California. They studied Studio Art at California College of the Arts (MFA) and Painting and Drawing at the University of North Texas (BFA). • Eric-Dyer.com • instagram: @ericsozone
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Irene Cavros Saint-Louis (Ndar), Senegal
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I spent 4 months in 2017 traveling solo through eight countries in West Africa (Senegal, Guinea-Bissau, Guinea, Côte d’Ivoire, Ghana, Togo, Benin, Cameroon.) This experience was liberating in so many ways, but with every late night border crossing and tightly cramped bush taxi, I found myself grappling with my perceived vulnerability as a female traveling alone. My photography was my release. My conversation starter with so many beautiful, brilliant people. This series of photos is from Saint-Louis, a sleepy port town on the coast of Senegal. • Instagram: @irenecavros
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Felicia Rose Reckoning
Part One – The Race It’s December in Rhode Island so it’s pitch black at 5pm when my father is driving me home from an early family dinner at the Italian chain restaurant, Cabrera’s. I’m trying to warm up my hands by putting them under my thighs while I scratch the short velvet with my nails, still seething over the fight I just had with my mother, about whether Route 1 or I95 is the fastest way to get home. I’ve recently gotten my license and am convinced that route 1 is the superior route because it’s more direct, but my mother is positive that I95 is quicker because it doesn’t have any traffic lights. This mundane argument is one we’ve had multiple times. In a huff, she decided to take my younger brother and pawn me off on my dad, so we could drive home separately and settle it once and for all. I’m furious that she doesn’t believe me, even though I drive myself from CCRI back home to Charlestown in less than 35 minutes every Tuesday and Thursday. She claims this is impossible. “I’m smart enough to be in fucking community college at 15 but I don’t know how long it takes to drive home? Like, are you serious? She never believes anything I say. It’s exhausting. I don’t know how you stand her.” My father is gentle with me. He shakes his head with understanding but says nothing, allowing me to continue exploding unchecked. His silence emboldens me, eggs me on. “I hate her so fucking much.” Instead of chastising me for my language, he ignores it and in a low voice asks, “What do you hate about her? Tell me.” He’s seems neutral, curious even. Needing no more encouragement I begin screaming and ranting, the tears of anger blurring the yellow and red taillights of the cars ahead of us. “She’s a just a bitch! Even her face is annoying. I have no idea how you’re married to her. I seriously can’t stand her. She treats me like a child. I don’t know how you do it.” My dad says nothing. We’re almost home by the time I’ve exhausted myself. I turn to look out to the window, sighing while wiping my snot on the sleeve of sweatshirt and join him in what I interpret to be a comfortable silence, sometimes turning to check the clock, counting the minutes until we get home. There’s no traffic and my dad’s driving fast. I think he wants to prove Mom wrong too. I’m pleased with myself in a sick way, interpreting his silence to mean that he’s considering what I said and seeing some truth in it. I start scheming in my head, “Maybe if they get divorced, I’ll get to live with him. He doesn’t really care what I do anyways, and I would be able to finally do whatever I wanted without Mom saying no to every single thing.” By the time we’ve almost pulled into our driveway I’ve calmed down and am ready to throw this victory in my mom’s face. As the house comes into view, I see her car parked in the back.
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Years later, my parents do get the divorce, following the news of my father’s years long affair with one of his yoga students. I remember this forgotten car race home almost a decade after it happened when I’m drunk and high at a bar. I do the math and am suddenly freezing and nauseous as I realize he must have already been having the affair for months when we had that conversation. What I then interpreted as a calm understanding from my father now feels grotesque and contorted, like he was using my teenage anger to help justify his affair, coaxing me for ammo against her. I had thought he kept quiet and let me vent out of respect for my mother, as to not speak ill against her, but now I imagine him keeping a mental tally against her, with my words adding marks to his list. Part Two – Christmas My father left my mother two weeks before Christmas. I was 19. I was supposed to be old enough to handle it. He woke up one morning, after months of trying to make it work, despite his affair rolled flat out in front of us and said, “I’m not your husband anymore.” His car was packed and he was on his way to his new family’s house within the hour. He took my brother with him, not to live with, but to help him pick out a new house. I was in New York the day it happened. It was my sophomore year of college but I had been coming home a lot in the month’s leading up to his eventual departure, my presence being a good excuse to act like a family. Otherwise my mother, father and brother would squirrel away in their own little silent corners of the house. It was my job to bring everyone together, but in the end no amount of visits, dinners and movies could do that. I can still hear my mother through the phone, relaying to me what he had done and said. I don’t remember where I was, what I was wearing, or how I reacted but I can hear those five words, “I’m not your husband anymore” like a CD skipping. I hear, “I’m not your father anymore”. Often I have to stop myself from saying my father is dead. It’s the first thing that comes out because he is. The person I knew died a decade ago. Whatever walks around in his body isn’t him, is a foreigner, an imposter, a fraud. Something that is sick and wounded and detached but thinks it’s enlightened. This new thing thinks it’s Jesus, or beyond Jesus. A savior who couldn’t save his family. If this is who Jesus is, sign me up for hell.
As I write this I drink a Rolling Rock, my father’s drink of choice when we was still drinking, before he traded booze for God. I wish he stuck with drinking. Or I wish he never drank so I never had to become me. I can feel his half inside of me, clawing at me, trying to get me back to the place where he can control me again. Some days I don’t want to fight it anymore. Maybe it would be peaceful, letting him take over my mind again. Sometimes I miss it.
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I’ve known for years I was brainwashed, that my father is sick in a way that doesn’t really have a name, which most people don’t want to or can’t grasp. But often I find myself questioning my memories. Am I exaggerating? “Yeah, your parents got divorced, your dad had an affair, so what?” “Oh you grew up in a cult, that’s wild. My parents were like super Catholic. Fuck church.” It wasn’t until recently that I realized how early it began. I thought in-between being 12-15 he was relatively normal or as normal as a bipolar narcissistic genius can be. He could still hear me when I spoke to him when I was 14. He didn’t start closing his eyes in the middle of sentences until I was 16. Two weeks ago I was lying in bed on my stomach and the guy I’ve been sleeping with was giving me a massage, talking about quantum physics. I was high and wasn’t really listening until he mentioned What the Bleep Do We Know—had I heard of it? Alarms went off. I flipped over and sat up so quickly he looked afraid of me. I babbled and choked and apologized until he bolted. I hadn’t thought of that movie since I saw it. I had forgotten. I was 11. It was dark and snowing. My dad took me to a tiny movie theater in New Hampshire. We were alone, which is strange, my mother must have been at home with my brother. He thought I was smart enough to understand and I was thrilled he thought I was mature enough to take seriously, to share with. I tried to understand so hard. As I remembered this night, I panicked, shocked I had forgotten, shocked it happened when I was so young, but also in the center of it there was relief. Remembering peeled back a bit more proof I’m not crazy. A little bit of validation, another fact to cling to when I go dark and question his vs. my reality, a memory to show that he started grooming me to live inside his warped perceptions even earlier than I had thought.
Christmas that year without him was a blur and I wasn’t even a drunk yet. How many times did I beg my father’s siblings and parents to help me, to help us? Once you start tugging it all unravels. Who has time to examine generations of abuse? Who keeps us safe? Have I ever been safe?
Both my mother and I shut down. I’ve always been jealous of people who completely lose it. I was never allowed that. I maintained my 4.0 GPA during an emotional collapse. My brother Luke was 12 and I can hardly remember him being there. Was I there for him at all? Was my mom? All I remember is her begging me to sleep in bed with her because she couldn’t sleep alone. I taught her to sleep in the middle of the bed instead of wallowing on one side. Where was Luke? The Christmas Eve after he left we didn’t know what to do with ourselves but couldn’t bear to lay around any longer so we drove.
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We drove through the back roads of southern Rhode Island, blinking at Christmas lights. It seemed simple. Everything was foreign. Who were these families so lucky, so carefree to have time to put up Christmas lights on their houses? How dare they project their happiness, their simple lives to us while we crumbled? We found a house next to a baseball field where every inch of the field and tiny house was covered in lights and decorated with inflatable Santa’s, reindeer and snowmen. The lights were synced to a local radio station playing Christmas music. We parked next to the house and sat for an hour without speaking. We got out of the car without coats and stood in the snow and stared at the lights without sound.
My mother always loved Christmas. She loved decorating the tree, the music, the parties, the many excuses to get the family together. We would drink wine and play that game where you have a celebrity name taped to your head and you have to figure out who you are. We would cook and eat and cook and eat the Calabrian dishes my grandparents passed down to us. The Italian side and the Irish side would all get together at my house and I would have all my cousins in one room to gossip with, catching up like siblings. Even if we hadn’t spoken for months we’d divulge every dirty detail of our lives, giddy to be reunited. Now I don’t go to the parties anymore even though I’m the only one it hurts. We haven’t had a tree since. Part 3 – Wreck Room It’s two o’clock in the afternoon and I’m alone at a dive bar waiting for my recovering alcoholic father to come meet me. This is the first time we’ll speak face to face in about three years, since before he left. I’m holding a bottle of Budweiser with both hands, peeling the corners of the label upwards when he walks in. Initially he’s backlit and his hair is greyer and longer than the last time I saw him but I know it’s him from the funny bounce in his step he has from walking on the balls of his feet. I don’t stand up to greet him as he gets a soda water from the bartender or as he walks over to the booth I’m in before he slides across from me. I’ve promised myself that I’m going to keep my composure and get the answers I need and get out, but seeing him for the first time in so long has thrown me off more than I want to admit. “Thank you for seeing me. You look good.” His voice is low and his eyes are turned downwards. He looks like a dog with its ears tucked back, shy and guilty. I don’t look good. My face is pale, bloated and without makeup. I’m wearing the same hacked up iron maiden tshirt I slept in last night. I stink of cigarettes and my nail beds are bloody and dirty. I drank so much tequila the night before you could probably get drunk from licking my sweat.
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“It seemed about time, I guess.” I don’t want him to feel comfortable with small talk so I try to dive in, short yet fumbling. “Look, I just need to know one thing. After all of it, now that some time has passed – was it worth it? Losing your family? Everything you did, do you regret it at all? Was she worth it, losing a daughter over?” I’m shaking. As I say it, I realize I’m not going to get the answer I want. He sighs and looks up at me but doesn’t hesitate, “Yes. It was. And I’m not going to apologize. I fell in love. You should be happy for me.” My ears are hot and ringing. “Hating me only hurts you, you know. It doesn’t affect me. It doesn’t bother me if we don’t talk. But it makes you sick. You should just let it go.” I can’t stand his culty mumbo jumbo. It’s the same kind of talk that put a wedge between us, long before the affair and divorce. His detachment proves just how deep into A Course in Miracles he’s gotten. At this point it seems like won’t ever come back to reality, will never be his old self again. “You sound like a fucking robot. Can’t you be real with me for like two seconds? I’m right here in front of you, and that’s really all you have to say to me? Nothing?” I stop myself and take a long sip of beer, looking him in the eyes, and then turn down to examine the graffiti on the table. The rest of the talk is a blur. I check out. He’s convinced himself he’s done nothing wrong and tries to convince me too. He doesn’t hear me. He can’t, he won’t, he never will. It’s four pm when he hugs me on the street and I leave him there on the corner. I will later regret letting him hug me, letting him leave feeling that things were wrapped up all nice and tidy. I hate that even for a second I might have allowed him to entertain that I would let him back into my life. In his warped mind, this talk went well. He will later tell my mom how great it went, that he thinks our relationship is on the road to recovery. Then she will then call me, incredulous, as if I’m a traitor too, and I’ll have to explain what really happened. But not today. I’ve been scraped down. I walk straight home to my apartment and curl into my mattress on the floor where I will remain for the next 24 hours. I cry but also feel a strange serenity. I no longer have to wonder. It was worth it.
Felicia Rose is a writer and bartender living in Brooklyn. Instagram: @felishonaleash
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Emily Ludwig Shaffer
My Jungle, 2016. Oil on canvas, wood artist frame, 73.75" x 61.75"
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The Road Less Traveled, My Ass, 2014. Oil on canvas, 52" x 40", photo by Jason Mandella.
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I see three palms, 2016. Oil on canvas, 78" x 60", photo by Andrew Cannon
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My Tapestry, 2017. Oil on canvas, wood artist frame 53.5" x 73.5" photo by Anna Ottum.
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Something’s in the Water, 2015. Oil on canvas 52" x 60" photo by Jason Mandella.
Emily Ludwig Shaffer makes paintings and sculptures that are inspired by and reference traditions of painting, architecture, interior design, horticulture, and textile arts. Born in San Francisco, Emily has lived in Ohio, Nebraska, Kentucky, Rhode Island, and New York. She received her BFA from the Rhode Island School of Design and her MFA in Visual Arts from Columbia University. Her works have been exhibited across the U.S., as well as in Brazil, Ireland, and England. • emilyludwigshaffer.com 46
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Anne Mailey Patch Library
Anne Mailey creates sacred objects to be used in everyday life. She primarily embroiders on the inner seam of clothing or bed sheets. Recontextualizing art from a public arena to a private space is an underlying theme. The images show a developing library of art historical patches. The artworks are loaned to friends/artists to wear and connect with for a period of time.
Paul’s Jacket Lining with Horn Patch, 2017. Lining and Fabric, 24"x 20".
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Above: Leonora Carrington Patch, 2016. Fabric and Thread, approx. 6" x 5.5". Left: Enrique with Carrington Patch, 2017.
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My Camel Jacket w/ Montano and Hsieh Patch, 2017.Jacket and Patch, 24"x22".
Linda Montano and Tehching Hsieh Patch, 2017. Fabric and Thread, 5" x 5.5".
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Ashley’s Coat with Mendieta Patch, Coat and and Fabric, 2017
Anne Mailey is an embroidery artist based in Philadelphia. Anne’s practice is informed from her study of Reiki, her professional experience in museums, and her GreatGrandmother’s seamstress supplies. She has been a resident artist at the Vermont Studio Center, North Mountain Residency, the Wassaic Project, Osage Arts Community, Woodstock Byrdcliffe Guild, and the Sober and Lonely Institute. • annemailey.com
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Laura Bernstein Molted Shell of Sciapode watching a video of Sciapodae
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his work comes from a larger project that proposes a near-future narrative of human evolution where humanoid creatures are studied and researched. Here, video and sculpture focus on one of the imagined beasts known as Sciapode whose large single foot acts as a protective shield and also provides other evolutionary specifics. Video captures Sciapdae posing within various natural environments. The images were taken by a group of scientists called the Super-species Hazmat (“S-s H”). Within these images, we see evidence of S-s H and their interjections. S-s H is a community devoted to conducting cross-disciplinary tests between humans and beasts, basing their scientific method on Medieval (pre-Enlightenment) modes of thought. Tests are performed with the intention to create a hybrid creature-like species capable of adapting to survive the Age of No Ozone. The anatomical anomalies of the forms derived from these Medieval bodies confuse distinctions between the domestic and the wild. What was produced from the earth, (genetics, biology, ecology) and what was created through conflations of the imagination (observation, description, and storytelling)? What is real and what is imaginary? When does something become real? Through genetic engineering, we have the capacity to create such hybrid species. Half human, half creature, these forms recall the fantastical beasts recorded by Pliny the Elder in his Natural History, 77—79 AD, and later produced in the Nuremberg Chronicle. Pliny’s Natural History records the traits and functions of a number of creatures through text and illustration. The shape of these bodies prophesize how the landscape might change and how the anatomy and physiology of our bodies may need to adapt and change to withstand environmental elements. Were the inventors of these original beasts prophets? These forms reflect on the past while projecting onto the future.
Google image search Sciapode.
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2017, wood, wire mesh, iron pipes, plaster, burlap, felted wool, papier-mâchÊ, mixed paper, plastic, tomatoes, 5' x 2.5' x 4'.
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2017, 3:50 HD video (color, sound).
Laura Bernstein (Brooklyn, NY) is a multidisciplinary artist who constructs scenarios and vignettes through immersive installation, performance, and video in which her fictional characters and creatures engage with their environment, exploring the relationship between human and animal, exemplary and freakish, public ritual and private behavior. Bernstein is currently working on a project that draws from mythology and Medieval Bestiaries to examine the relationship between art and science, imagination and reality, nature and ecology. She received her BFA from the Rhode Island School of Design and her MFA from the University of Pennsylvania. Bernstein is a 2017-18 Awardee of the Sharpe-Walentas Studio Program. She was awarded a Toby Devan Lewis Fellowship (2014) and was a fellow at The Lighthouse Works (2016), and Vermont Studio Center (2013), as well an apprentice at the Fabric Workshop and Museum in Philadelphia (2013). She has shown her work in Philadelphia, New York, Chicago, Cincinnati and Austria and her art is part of the permanent collection of the National Dance Institute, New York, NY. Bernstein participated in The Bronx Museum of the Arts AIM program (2016-17) and its Fourth AIM Biennial. In Spring 2018, she will have a solo exhibition at NURTUREart, in Brooklyn, NY. • rarabernstein.com • Instagram: @Rarabernstein
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Marty Manuela EL HOGAR EN MI ALMA
This mix was intended to reflect my first visit to the land that my family is from; I wanted to include voice clips of various friends talking in Spanish about their gender identities and when they feel seen or misunderstood, as well as most “in their gender”. As time passed, I realized that I was coming to the same conclusions that all interested parties had come to—it’s really hard to talk about yr own gender. After deliberating whether or not to include anything at all, I decided on one personal voice clip, and to let the music speak for the home in my heart (el hogar en mi alma). As always, this is dedicated to Joey and Edmond <3
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Marty Manuela—known in the DJ world as OND4—is a valley girl who ended up in Oakland, after years of playing in punk bands and finishing college in Washington. She is a gender nonconforming queer Mexican who is making a name for herself in the Bay Area while remaining politically active and hoping to give visibility for other queer Latinx musicians out there. • Instagram: @ond4 • soundcloud.com/ond4
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Alyce Haliday McQueen The House Is Rockinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;
Sweet Dreams, Too
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Potion No. 9
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Above: Butterflies and Lilac Sprays Left: Ashes and Pearls
Alyce Haliday McQueen is an artist and educator in Chicago, IL. Her work delves into the concepts surrounding feminine identity and female stereotypes. She weaves between medias, incorporating photography, video, sculpture, and installation techniques. McQueen’s exhibition record includes group exhibitions at: Pacific Design Center, Los Angeles, CA; The Center for Fine Art Photography, Fort Collins, CO; Woman Made Gallery, Chicago, IL; Filter Space, Chicago, IL; Perspective Photography Gallery, Evanston, IL, and solo exhibitions at: Max L. Gatov Gallery, Long Beach, CA; Lillstreet Annex, Chicago, IL; Kitchen Space Gallery, Chicago, IL; and Wedge Projects, Chicago, IL. She was named an “Artist to Look Art For” by Starry Night Publications and is a two-time recipient of the Puffin Foundation Individual Artist Grant. In addition to her art practice, she enjoys cats and chocolate cake.
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