Ginger Networked feminism
Winter 2019
MISSION
IRENE CAVROS GRACIE BIALECKI EIRINI PAPAEFTHEMIOU LEYLA TULUN
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.
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ISSUE 1 ISSUE 2 ISSUE 3 ISSUE 4 ISSUE 5 ISSUE 6 ISSUE 7 ISSUE 8
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KRISTINA HEADRICK
LIANA IMAM
LANE SPEIDEL
CARLA AVRUCH
CLAUDIA GERBRACHT
ELIZABETH SULTZER
MARIE HINSON ALEX VALLS
DOROTEA MENDOZA
ISSUE 9
ANNE MAILEY
LEANNE BOWES
ISSUE 10 ISSUE 11 ISSUE 12
KERRI GAUDELLI
ISSUE 13 ISSUE 14
DELILAH JONES
MEREDITH SELLERS DEVIN DOUGHERTY
ISSUE 15
MARKEE SPEYER
MADELINE DONAHUE
S.E.A.
OLIVIA JANE HUFFMAN
MEGAN SICKLES MISIAN TAYLOR CARMEL BROWN
NATALIE EICHENGREEN
MS. NIKO DARLING
JACQUELINE MELECIO
SAM CROW
NATASHA WEST CAITLIN ROSE SWEET
ANDREA GUSSIE
EMILY WUNDERLICH
MARIA R. BAAB
ERICA McKEEHEN HALA ABDULKARIM FELICIA URSO
ALEX PATRICK DYCK
DEVYN MAÑIBO
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JANE SERENSKA
ALEXIS CANTU
AGROFEMME
MARIE SÉGOLÈNE
JEN COHEN
BONNIE LANE
Wi n t e r 2 0 1 9
KATHERINE TARPINIAN
BRITLYNN HANSENGIROD
RACHEL WALLACH
LA JOHNSON
MOLLY HAGAN
SOPHIE KNIGHT
HARRIS BAUER
LAURA McMULLEN
HANNAH MODE
TONI KOCHENSPARGER
CAMERON RINGNESS
AMY BERENBEIM
ISSACHAR CURBEON
RACHEL BRODY
RACHEL ZARETSKY
BRIE LIMINARA
LAUREN ARIAN
ENA SELIMOVIĆ
ARIEL JACKSON
YI-HSIN TZENG
SOFIA PONTÉN
FREDRIKA THELANDERSSON
KASIA HALL
HERMIONE SPRIGGS
LAURA COOPER
JENNIFER WEISS
NANDI LOAF
WOLFGANG SCHAFFER
IVY HALDEMAN
NP SANCHEZ
BRIE ROCHELILLIOTT
ANA GIRALDOWINGLER
KRYSTA SA
ALLI MALONEY
EEL COSTELLO VANESSA GULLY SANTIAGO HANNAH RAWE
SOFIE RAMOS
COURTNEY STONE
CAITLIN WRIGHT
MARTY MANUELA
JESSE HEIDER
ISA RADOJČIC
COLLEEN DURKIN
JACQUELINE CANTU
KATIE MIDGLEY LEIGH RUPLE
EMMALINE PAYETTE
JESSICA PRUSA
MIMI CHIAHEMEN ASHLEIGH DYE NATALIE GIRSBERGER
JOLENE LUPO
JESSICA WOHL
PAULAPART KATHARINE PERKO
MOLLY RAPP
MAYON HANANIA
EMILY ROSE LARSON
INDIA TREAT TRACI CHAMBERLAIN
SARA LAUTMAN NATALIE BAXTER
KATE WHEELER
ELAINE HEALY
DEENAH VOLLMER
TYLER MORGAN
BECKY BRISTER ULRIKE BUCK
MARIA NIKOLIS
JILLIAN JACOBS
ERIN MIZRAHI
RACHEL KANN
TIFFANY SMITH
KATHLEEN GRECO
DEBORAH DAVIS
ANNELIE McKENZIE
CATHERINE AZIMI
HANNAH MCMASTER
ALYCE HALIDAY MCQUEEN
G I N G E R 3
LEIGH SUGAR
CARLY FREDERICK
KATIE FORD
LAUREN BANKA
JOEY BEHRENS KAITLIN McCARTHY
JORDAN REZNICK
AMANDA LÓPEZKURTZ
JAN TRUMBAUER
AMBER HOY
HAYLEE EBERSOLE
ASTRID KAEMMERLING + BECCA J.R. LACHMAN
COURTNEY KESSEL + DANIELLE WYCKOFF
ERIC DYER
CRAIG CALDERWOOD
HANNAH NELSONTEUSCH
CLARE BOERSCH
JESSICA LAW
STEPHANIE VON BEHR
ABIGAIL HENNING
MICHAELA RIFE
MARTHA WILSON
ALEX CHOWANIEC
ANNIK HOSMANN
JULIANA HALPERT LANI RUBIN
SOPHIE OAKLEY
BRE WISHART
LEAH JAMES
NICKI GREEN
EMILY LUDWIG SHAFFER
LEXI CAMPBELL MARISSA BLUESTONE
MOLLY ADAMS
CAROLINE LARSEN
JENNY BLUMENFELD
LAURA BERNSTEIN
MARIA STABIO
LUCA MOLNAR JESS WILLLA WHEATON
SONYA DERMAN
REBECCA BALDWIN
SARAH MIHARA CREAGEN
JEAN SEESTADT
PAOLA DI TOLLA
KAITLIN McDONOUGH
KATIE VIDA
ANNA GURTONWACHTER
C. CHAPIN KATY McCARTHY
LAURA PORTWOODSTACER STAVER KLITGAARD
KAVERI RAINA
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SHALA MILLER
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Issue NO 15 contributors Rachel Kann .... PAGE 09 Eirini Papaefthemiou .... PAGE 11 Luca Molnar .... PAGE 17 Carmel Brown .... PAGE 23 Kathleen Greco .... PAGE 25 Katie Midgley .... PAGE 29 Jean Seestadt .... PAGE 34 Devyn Mañibo .... PAGE 39 Kaveri Raina .... PAGE 43 Emily Wunderlich .... PAGE 49 s.e.a. .... PAGE 55 Madeline Donahue .... PAGE 60 Alex Patrick Dyck .... PAGE 66 Staver Klitgaard .... PAGE 71 Anna Gurton-Wachter .... PAGE 73 Amber Hoy .... PAGE 76
Co-founders E DITO R
Markee Speyer D E S IGN E R
Jacqueline Cantu
On the cover: Spilt Milk, by Amber Hoy. Archival Pigment Print, 30 x 39 inches, 2015.
G I N G E R 7
Rachel Kann Covenant, for Squirrel Hill
in the grey morning, sing to the newborn: welcome to existence. enter into this covenant. we have a name to give you. shuckle your gratitude for a love beyond love. naked beyond naked, one nation under an improbable God, penetrable flesh stands no chance against open fire, semiautomatic and bumpstocked. there is no earthly petition fit to stop a bullet’s trajectory. blood and smoke wend like twinned mirror-serpents. pray that the faithful have got it all wrong, that there is no mystery, no spirit realm spilling with ancestors forced to bear witness to this, no hereafter filled with angels made to grieve the failed experiment of humanity. beg for this littlest mercy.
Rachel Kann’s writing (poetry and fiction) appears in journals such as Tiferet, Eclipse, Permafrost, Coe Review, Sou’wester, GW Review, Quiddity, and Lalitamba. She was the 2017 Outstanding Instructor of the Year at UCLA Extension Writers’ Program. She’s a resident writer for Hevria (Hevre+Bria - a website of creative Jewish thinking founded by Pop Chassid) where she is also featured as a performing artist on The Hevria Sessions. She is the author of You Sparkle Inside, an illustrated kids’ book, and A Prayer on Behalf of the Broken Heart, a collection of Jewish poetry. rachelkann.com • realizeparadise.com • Facebook, Instagram: @msrachelkann • Youtube, Twitter: @rachelkann
R a c h e l K a n n 9
Eirini Papaefthemiou The Obscure Familiar
Endurance of Dreams, 2007, chromogenic print
Perched, 2015, chromogenic print
E i r i n i P a p a e f t h e m i o u 11
Phone, 2007, chromogenic print
Outside Fan, 2009, chromogenic print
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Mesmera/Roil, 2009, chromogenic print
Morning, Garden View, 2007, chromogenic print
E i r i n i P a p a e f t h e m i o u 13
Near Ymittos, 2006, chromogenic print
Untitled (Hands), 2007, chromogenic print
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Before the Crash, 2007, chromogenic print
The Obscure Familiar is an ongoing project 12 years in the making. This is the first time these images have been shared. Eirini Papaefthemiou is a multimedia artist who works with photography, sound, movement and video. She has been shooting medium-format film and printing chromogenic photographs since 2006. Her work examines the tension between closeness and unfamiliarity in family relationships challenged by geographical and emotional distance. She also explores ideas connected to the quiet power of nature as an impartial and thus trustworthy refuge. She lives and works in NYC. ni-nini.com • irene.miou@gmail.com • Instagram: @i_isosceles
E i r i n i P a p a e f t h e m i o u 15
Luca Molnar each painting is a step
I
n 1929, thirty-four women were arrested in the Hungarian region of Tiszazug under suspicion of poisoning their abusive husbands and other male relatives with arsenic. Several of the women cited Zsuzsanna Fazekas, a midwife in the town of NagyrĂŠv, as the source of the arsenic, said to be extracted from boiled flypaper.
I.
they will take everything you offer, claw away if they sense there is more until you are known, a bored routine. so guard it deeply. do not form it into words.
II. in my language, there is pessimism, and there is survival. I do not use it to speak, but it is in my blood, like how to boil flypaper.
III. it is a whispered knowledge, passed down through matriarchs.
you refused to leave the house your hands built, lime green walls and chickens long gone. each time you kissed me, the hairs on your chin tickled me. they became my feelers, imparting sensory information I’d never experienced
a temporary aphasia so the knowing can sneak past language and take residence in my spine, in the curve of my back, aching.
IV. when you were four, you lost your voice. for a year you did not speak. as he beat her, your sound left you.
when you pull a loose thread and wrap it around your finger, sometimes you cannot break it. it grows until you can find a blade to cut.
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V. Hello, tesĂŠk? Mondjad. Your words withered the men who called. I felt fear for them, and turned away from your intensity. But I was never scared of you.
VI.
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I reminded you of your sister. She was kind and drew flowers for children. But I want to growl like you, leave ashes in my dust.
six of you with heads down, hands clasped, as if ashamed or remorseful. I know better. I see your pointed fingers, defiant. they know they are next.
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Nagyrév II, 6’ x 7’, 2018, Oil on panel
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I-85 District, 5’ x 6’, 2018, Oil on panel
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Luca Molnar (b. 1991, Budapest, Hungary) lives and works in Jersey City, NJ. She received her MFA in from NYU and her BA. in Studio Art from Dartmouth College. Molnar has held teaching appointments at NYU, Dartmouth College, and the Governor’s School of North Carolina. Her paintings depict fractured space and argue for work that is grounded in the decorative yet political. Molnar is a painter, most days. lucamolnarart.com • @lmolnar
L u c a M o l n a r 21
Carmel Brown Recollection.
Tongue. Each bud has a sensory node. Convoluted love language, empty words. Salty sand so sweet. Kiss. Nose. Thousands of olfactory bulbs. Putrid sweetness, like a Bradford pear tree in April. Cut clit clicks. Kiss. Fingers. Folds of receptors send neurons. Collection of tiny water beads on the skin. Tussle tear insert them in. Kiss.
My name is Mel and I’m originally from Saint Louis, Missouri. I identify as a queer person of color, my pronouns are she, they. I attended Pennsylvania State University and received my B.A. in Integrative Arts. I own a vintage retail shop in the Fishtown area of the city of Philadelphia called Colored Vintage. CV is a part of a collective, that I am a founding member of, called the Art Department Collective which focuses on art programing and creative space for marginalized artists. I am the teaching resident artist and co-founder of the Young Artist Program, which is an after school program for high school aged LGBTQ+ kids. My personal work as an exhibiting artist focuses on the black experience which for me includes queerdom. artdeptphilly.com
C a r m e l B r o w n 23
Kathleen Greco Body Dysmorphic Series
M
y Body Dysmorphic series started in 2017 as an investigation about the perception of the female body. I imprinted myself in ground charcoal or graphite on large sheets of paper every six months. In a vulnerable prone position, I pressed my skin into the surface creating dysmorphic body images. The process of marks relate to metaphors of psychological and physical layers of real-life conditions affecting women repeatedly. This is an ongoing, lifelong work in progress I will be including in my studio practice biannually for the rest of my life.
Body Dysmorphic 11, 20� x 30�, 2018, Graphite and Petal Pigment
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Body Dysmorphic 01, 20” x 30”, 2017, Graphite
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Body Dysmorphic 04, 20” x 30”, 2018, Charcoal
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Body Dysmorphic 07, 20” x 30”, 2017, Graphite,
Body Dysmorphic 10, 20” x 30”, 2018, Charcoal and Petal Pigment
Kathleen Greco is a feminist artist with a MFA in Studio Arts from the University of the Arts, Philadelphia, PA. Her work has been exhibited in museums and galleries national and internationally including the Museum of Art and Design New York; Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History, Washington, D.C.; Hayward Gallery, England; The Delaware Contemporary; and New York University, Abu Dhabi. Greco’s work is held in private and public collections. kathleengreco.com • Instagram: @KathleenGreco
K a t h l e e n G r e c o 27
Katie Midgley
A moment of peace, shot in New York City
K a t i e M i d g l e y 29
The art of observation, shot in Chicago
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What year is it, shot on Coney Island
Adrien liked my shoes, shot in Toledo
K a t i e M i d g l e y 31
Golden hour on the red line, shot in Chicago
Katie Midgley is a librarian and street photographer living in Ohio. Not one to waste a vacation sitting at home, she explores the world five weeks out of the year—although it never feels like enough. In 2018, she traveled to Las Vegas, San Francisco, Detroit, Chicago, New York, London, Mallorca, and Curacao to document the everyday drama of the streets. All photos are shot with a vintage Rolleiflex camera and film is developed at home in her kitchen. Instagram: @hatekatiemidge. 32
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Jean Seestadt
Franklin, 2018 embroidery, fabric, wood, 14 x 30 inches
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Franklin When I called the vet she let me know that it was time to put Franklin down. She reiterated several times that there was no way of knowing how long it would take for him to die and that death is often painful and hard to watch. She encouraged me to take Franklin into the vet and let him go. It took him three weeks to die. He spent most of his time sleeping near us. Slowly he stopped eating and then barely drinking. We held him often and helped him eat or drink when he wanted to, but he barely ever wanted to. One Thursday we came home from work to find him lying in the hall. His eyes didn’t focus, move, or blink. They had a layer of dust coating them. I picked him up, took him to our bed, and cuddled him on my lap. His breathing was shallow and inconsistent, I kept wondering if he had passed away without me noticing. Then I would hear the death rattle. A death rattle is a noise that animals (including humans) can make as they near the end. It is the sound of liquid building in the lungs and airways. He still did not blink. After about an hour of holding him he suddenly lurched forward, snarled his teeth and let out a loud violent growl. That was it. He was gone.
J e a n S e e s t a d t 35
Athena, 2018, embroidery, fabric, wood, 14 x 30 inches
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Athena Before they molt, tarantulas give clues about their upcoming transformation. They barely move, stop eating, and lose the hairs on the back of their abdomen. Liquid seeps out of the joints of their legs and they build a web to molt into. I’d watch Athena for weeks, making sure to keep her cage moist with a spray bottle and checking to see how her hairs looked. Slowly, I watched her hair and skin lose color, her vibrant brown and gold coloring turning sickly grey. Once she was ready to molt she flipped herself upside down so her legs dangled in the air. The molting lasted a full day as she pulled herself out of the skin. Molting is a very dangerous life process. Most tarantulas get stuck in their skin, fold up, and die. She came out of her skin and her new hairs were more vibrant and she was slightly bigger. I was twelve when Athena’s first molted. I watched her molt many times after that. Each time I watched her colors get duller, watched her lose her appetite, lose her hairs, and seep liquid. Then one morning I would find her flipped upside down, pulling herself out of her skin. Once she had flipped herself upside down all you could do was hold your breath. So started a strange ritual of watching her fight for her life. Tarantulas are nocturnal, so most days she was very still. At night I would fall asleep to her catching crickets and attempting to crawl along the top of the cage. She was surprisingly noisy as she scuttled around. During the day I worried about her as I could see her body getting ready for another molting. Despite being a process that took years, you could see her getting closer and closer to her next molt with the passing of each week and then day. As tarantulas age, it becomes clear that they’ve experienced their last molting. While their outer body breaks down, ready to be discarded for a new outer-shell, their bodies underneath are not growing the replacement. They have come to the end of their cycle. Athena lived until I was twenty-six. The body of the spider doesn’t die by lying down or flipping over. Instead when a spider is ready for death they bring all their limbs inward and lie with the legs folded under them. It is called the death curl.
Jean Seestadt is a multimedia artist whose work explores the tension between the deeply personal fragility of our lives and bodies and the cultural expectations about them. Women are typically required to navigate the unresolvable push and pull of these forces. Seestadt has an MFA from Hunter College and has exhibited nationally and internationally, participating in residencies at Carter Burden and the Wassaic Project. She has been reviewed in several publications including The New York Times, Hyperallergic and The Huffington Post. jeanseestadt.com • @jeanseestadt
J e a n S e e s t a d t 37
Devyn Mañibo with you & with you
D e v y n M a ñ i b o 39
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This excerpt of with you & with you was created to replicate the effect of the original print version, hand cut and bound in an edition of three in December 2018, printed in Georgia type on vellum, black French paper, and cream soft touch card stock, wrapped in a lilac rice paper sleeve. All bolded text by Prince Rogers Nelson, “Let’s Go Crazy” (1983, St. Louis Park, MN). Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group BMG Rights Management. All redaction, additional text, illustration, and formatting by Devyn Mañibo.
Devyn Lorelei Mañibo is a Chicago-based maker. Through text, art object, and gesture, she seeks to activate and disrupt constructs of time, body, and geography. Her research thinks intimately about the textures of death, desire, and the ways physical material and ephemera inform and collide with understandings of language, loss, and home. devynmanibo.com • Instagram: @bestfrienddevyn
D e v y n M a ñ i b o 41
Kaveri Raina Doom to Hover
B
orn in New Delhi, where she remained until moving to the United States at the age of eleven, Kaveri Raina’s work revolves around the often-conflicting aspects of hybrid identity. Raina examines the strangeness of the physical body displaced, hovering, uncomfortable, and always anxiously awkward. She navigates binaries searching for in-betweeness, trying to both fulfill and disrupt expectations at once.
Doom To Hover, 30” x 24”, 2018, Acrylic, graphite, and burlap
K a v e r i R a i n a 43
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Selection of To Hover drawings, 11” x 14”, 2018, Graphite and paper,
K a v e r i R a i n a 45
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Anubhav Karane Ke Liye Dukh Hai, 40” x 70”, 2018, Acrylic, graphite, and burlap
Kaveri Raina was born and raised in New Delhi, India and moved to the States at the age of eleven. She received her MFA in Painting and Drawing from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago in 2016 and her BFA from Maryland Institute College of Art in 2011. Raina has received awards and fellowships including the James Nelson Raymond Fellowship and the Fred and Joanna Lazarus Scholarship, amongst others. She was recently nominated for the Joan Mitchell Foundation Painters and Sculptors grant. Raina’s work has been exhibited in the US, India, and Germany. In the summer of 2017 Raina attended Skowhegan School of Painting and Sculpture. In 2018 she was a fellow at Lighthouse Works and Triangle Arts Association in New York. Currently she is part of Paint School, through Shandaken Projects. Raina lives and works in Brooklyn, New York.
K a v e r i R a i n a 47
Emily Wunderlich Selection of Poems from The Memoir of My Twenties
a construction of ‘you’ 2/13/2011 a superhero speeding by settling into a desk chair suddenly out of your cape and back in your sweater you lit a fire in my belly because as soon as you opened your mouth, the cape was back i saw you rise up and speak i was among a crowd of thousands, i cheered your almost painfully cracking voice it felt like a mirror reflecting back to me, the parts that are the most embarrassing, suddenly i could see clearly your name was in the paper that i read almost religiously so you became a saint i’d follow your miracles and good deeds on my tv, hundreds of miles away when everything went to shit, you were a fantasy a little promise to myself a shelter from the storm or a desert oasis you were someone big in stature, voice, and status a lovable bear who’d protect me in his den if i asked him too old, too important to wreck me like the rest a sweet hearted girl who’s become all too aware of the need to carry her keys laced between her knuckles, day or night, could use a friend with claws.
E m i l y W u n d e r l i c h 49
when ‘you’ became- you ‘you’ became- you- when i realized that you self deprecate like my first love, who i lost years before he od’ed in his parents bathroom and you deserve to be treated better than that but i know you’ll never give yourself that gift so maybe i could? i’m always interested in leaving love on people’s doorsteps seeing, for once, a man who truly speaks even when his voice shakes, who apologizes without needing a carefully worded demand for it, someone who would never ask too much from mesomeone who wanted to taste my breast but wouldn’t dare suck me dry you’re too proud for it you want to be impressive anyone can be brokenit’s boring and you want me in a way that acknowledges my deepest, darkest fantasies i like to be a slut and not be shamed for it and an older man, i need to take no responsibility for you i can let go and know that if i say stop, you’ve got too much to lose not to makes me never want to
the reason i first got into politics as an adult was because at 17, a man, nearly 40, raped me. brutally sodomized me. i bled. and cried. and told him i loved it- so, maybe, he wouldn’t leave me in a ditch somewhere when i finally told the police, this man, twice convicted of similar crimes, similar circumstance, walked free- unconfrontedfor 3 years i didn’t matter enough to stop him and at 20, when they finally asked him about it- he said, ‘she was almost 18’ and the police agreed- it’s nothing a few months later, a drug addict boyfriend beat my evil stomach ripped my shirt and clawed my face in front of a mcdonald’s drive thru when the police arrived, they said, ‘what did you do to make him hit you?’ i know this sounds convoluted but i needed to mean something, then i think, for some reason, you do too and i had started slipping right back into my repeated maryter-status when, down cast your hand you didn’t know that i was caught between giving up and blowing up that this happy heart was so, so sad so, i guess, it’s when you saved me it’s when you let me remember that i’m not alone that fuck-ups aren’t death sentences or dwellings to crawl in to that love is an action, but sometimes, actions are accidental that talking to my self isn’t a downfall it’s a practice of self-preservation
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you-you- didn’t even mean to. you helped me up, and then walked beside me no claws for me, even though i knew you had them no urgency no demands no flailing attempt at keeping me beneath you or asking me to rise above you you’re still playfully fictitious i’m never gonna really know you but it’s beautiful to revel in the other at the mysterious the living, breathing, human art curious mind striving hands cocked smile clark kent almost looks better in his suit and tie
4/30/2013 it’s been at least one year since i promised myself i would stop writing about you and i quit writing i hate that i can’t ever lift you from my mind i’m so angry that you just stick there, without my asking you to i want to be able to write i want to be able to talk and have it never ever be about you again but i can’t. and i don’t know why. it’s not fair that i’m angry at you for itbut i am. you let yourself settle in there, i think and i can romanticize why, as i often do, without ever wanting to.
E m i l y W u n d e r l i c h 51
12/2/2016 sometimes i need to talk to you. i rehearse the talk that i’ll talk when i talk to you. but then i end up talking a new talk when you talk to me. (or, you yell, i whine, whatever it may be) i like to talk to you. more than that, i like to hear you talk to me. maybe more than that, you like that i like to hear you talk to me. in between the talk, i go between thinking that we should talk more and that we should talk less. but what i know, now, is that: talking talk is so good. you should do more of it when it comes to how you feel. to me, to anyone, really. not talking talk of what you think, but talking the talk of what you feel. and, certainly, we should spend more time, doing what we do so well in stolen moments. not talking any talk. silent chatterboxes, you and i.
8/28/2018 I came in with my newborn And you asked for my medication That they gave me When they sewed me back up After 3 hours of pushing And of course, I gave it to you You were shaking, and jaundiced You said you just hadn’t eaten all day That’s all ((that’s forgivable, right?)) You don’t stop asking for years, after that After I ask you to stop After you almost overdose After you promise not to start anything with me again And after you inevitably start something with me, again You accuse me of being an addiction As if I am the real problem As if I am just a thing, a drug, not a person
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You helped me when my father died And I brought you his extra meds Because I loved you And I was being a fucking idiot I cried in front of you You reached out and kissed me, unprovoked Then we were suddenly back to “sex addiction” And blaming me for your bad behavior My therapist said to me, You know- no women ever come in to my office Proclaiming to be a “sex addict” Only men It’s almost like they use that as a way to avoid Any responsibility For Their Actions You could’ve heard that yourself, If you would’ve come But, o, of course, I never really thought you would This is another poem to you The man who reminds me of All the songs I sing the loudest On the radio But really, an ode to me, who finally let you go To my father, who finally left my worldfor goodafter years of stomping in and out, wincing at the pain that, if I’m generous, I can imagine he had I was diagnosed with a rare genetic disorder just before my 30th birthday And though you’ll never know You could have had it too The Kid might, still. We’ll see. And to Remy, my sweet child, Every word I write and have ever written Is written to you Because you deserve to take up every space And I’m learning how to write myself Into the role of protagonist, just for you And how to live for myself, to show you how
Emily Wunderlich, est July, 1988. Queerdo Momfriend with Multiple Disabilities. Sculpter, poet, adventurer. Twitter: @wunderlich_emil • Instagram: @wunderstuff
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s.e.a.
s . e . a 55
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s . e . a 57
All images archival inkjet artist proofs of digital images. December 2018
s.e.a. is a photographer and artist whose work explores love, fetishism, sex and sexuality, intimacy and vulnerability, identity and movement within the confines of our human bodies. She strives to push boundaries, that we place on ourselves and others, especially as it relates to kink and QPOC, while trying to always find and capture moments of beauty and joy. She lives and works in Brooklyn, NY. Instagram: @seafoto13 58
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Madeline Donahue
Pommel, 2018, Oil on Canvas, 16” x 20”
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Party, 2018, Oil on Canvas, 16” x 20”
Diver, 2018, Glazed Ceramic, 13” x 6” x 6”
M a d e l i n e D o n a h u e 61
Skinny Jeans, 2018, Oil on Canvas, 34” x 46”
Skinny Jeans, 2018, Glazed Ceramic, 12” x 9” x 9”
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Bathers, 2018, Oil on Canvas, 36”X48”
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Fruit, 2018, Oil on Canvas, 16” x 20”
Madeline Donahue is a painter and ceramicist living and working in Brooklyn, NY. She was born and raised in Houston, TX. She received her BFA from The School of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston and Tufts University and her MFA from Brooklyn College where she was a 2017-2018 Art Department Teaching Fellow. Her work is internationally recognized and can be seen in the upcoming exhibition, Making (It) Work at the Oliver Gallery, California College of the Arts in Oakland. Madelinedonahue.com • Instagram: @madelinedonahue 64
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Alex Patrick Dyck AN UNBECOMING
i. Awake myself and myself and my other See me but can’t read me Sleeping in a suspension Read me but can’t understand Dreaming as grasping (I’m Something Else) Dizzied dizzied dizzied by the possibility Who is she? A viscous possession The edge of desire as The edge of self A delicious dissolution of body Attended by it’s own putrid anxieties
ii. You were told what your body was What it was made of What it was called: A False Naming You fantasize about being A cloud of vapor Amorphous Amphibious Slime You were taught ownership How to relate to this vessel in terms of The places you could go within it Especially The places you could not go: Unwelcome
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iii. I’m not fluid I’m viscous I’m melted wax I’m not even I’m not even even I’m even becoming Something Else An Unbecoming
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HUSK From the great womb From the butterfly chain From a windstorm From the golden molding of a cloud curve From this peony petal From the handful of sand broken down quartz crystal This touch is my spell From beyond the mountain a murder of crows circles Past the stone steps Past the dirt path Past the mossy moat Around the bend that has no end I call to you From the strawberry seed From the mystery book From behind a painted veil From solitude that has no name This word can only be heard collapsing into a no sense into the bodies that made them, heard them From From From From From
the heavens a precipice a plateau a great height below
The body howls
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EVERLASTING PEA I sit at the table bare beneath my tartan skirt My fur is dirty with your cum Whose table is this? You are not here — What body is this? I am draped like a heavy chain across your lap I am punished relentless relentlessly Aggressively fragile — The pierced clit of an orchid bloom A brunette tendril Wildflowers on the dashboard Soft leg hairs against my butthole Flaming sugar spice Every single quivering pistil Sprawling Overgrown Wild Everlasting pea: wilt thou go with me?
Alex Patrick Dyck is a poet and splosh artist. She is a romantic hoarder of sentimental trash and trampled roses, an altar builder, and a memory gatherer. She explores her own vulnerability in her attempts to preserve the inherent fragility of natural objects as they encounter resin, metal, and bodily fluids. The incorporation of obscured and disjointed text is used as a way to both establish intimacy with the viewer as well as to remind us that understanding and language are not identic. The works are constantly decaying and changing in texture and color, a grotesque reminder of our own mortality. Dyck has self-published two books of poems, curated 12 immersive exhibitions and shown in NYC, California, Miami, Maine, India and Tokyo. She lives in Upstate New York. alexpatrickdyck.com • @yokosnoopy
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Staver Klitgaard Self Portrait as a CryBaby with Bodily Dysphoria
Oil on paper, 1’ x 3’, 2018
Staver Klitgaard was born (1992) and raised in New York City and studied at the Maryland Institute College of Art in Baltimore, and is an MFA candidate at Hunter. Their work is primarily about gender identity, personal narrative, and queer and feminist theory. They’re also really funny. cargocollective.com/staverk • Instagram: vulture_prince
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Anna Gurton-Wachter I CAN AFFORD COFFEE
I can afford coffee ! I can afford tea ! I can afford to buy a pint of strawberries dump the strawberries on the floor and make jam with my feet ! I can afford a jealous maintenance of my rights for instance my right to hear the best apology I can afford to slice off my finger and let it suggest the absented whole I can afford to say words like: coffee, tea, milk, sugar, straw write them down your waiting room is less corrupt than the heaviest district I can afford to loiter here and listen the last remaining fruit is an erotic image an ode to the company my ode to the bosses and the workers and the middlemen is less corrupt than my attempt to describe the most perfect leg emerging from the most perfect lifted dress stepping out of the police van with a giant smile identity holds its own critique the taste of the floor just try me the taste of the floor I’ll lick up dirt and dust mixed with strawberry foot jam just try me what could have been is received my pinky toe deserves drowning my pinky toe is in the water I can afford to bathe! I can afford a bath
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with water so hot I dip my pinky toe in a state of unknowing relief with so much corrupting influence and sentimental loss I was thinking just now of where and how we might view a narrative as a failure a description of a plant as incidental and to understand the history of this island first I had to understand the history of ships and the history of a single transaction and the history of property the history of landscape and people and use and value and the concept of time is spirit what ? the world is spirit what ? the world is alienated what ? the highest expression of the tools we are given is a kind of dominance what what dominance ? alienated I saw I was alone which is reflected in my desire to what ? my desire to what ? what ? what is overcome ? my desire to be transformed in the telling of what ? isolated what ? the telling
Anna Gurton-Wachter is a writer, editor, and archivist. Her first full length book, Utopia Pipe Dream Memory, is forthcoming from Ugly Duckling Presse in 2019. Chapbooks include Spring Bomb (dancing girl press, forthcoming), Mother of All (Above/Ground Press), The Abundance Chamber Works Alone (Essay Press), Blank Blank Blues (Horse Less Press), and CYRUS (Portable Press @ Yo-Yo Labs). Other work has appeared in 6 x 6, The Organism for Poetic Research’s Feminist Temporalities, No Dear, Elderly and elsewhere. Anna edits and makes books with DoubleCross Press, a poetry micro-press publishing handmade letterpress chapbooks. annagw.com • @anna.as.metaphor 74
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Amber Hoy entrenched
Spilt Milk, Archival Pigment Print, 30 x 39 inches, 2015.
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T
he first car I learned to drive was the same age as me, a 1986 Chevy Cavalier. Red on the inside and the outside. I was working the cash register Wendy’s and used my first couple paychecks to purchase the car for 800 dollars. The next car sent me to my first year of college. A Honda Accord. Just four hours from my parents’ home. After that it was an unarmored HumVee. 5-ton truck. A PLS truck. 5k and 10k forklifts. I received my driver’s license when I was 14 years old. In farm communities it isn’t uncommon to have a learner’s permit that young. I taught my ex-husband how to drive when he was 18 and I was 19. While I was in Iraq my command delivered a pep talk of sorts. A plan of action. How to complete our missions quickly and spend our down-time. It was late and we had been working all day. I had been loading pallets of ammunition with the 10k forklift. The kind of day you could be satisfied with the job you did, the best you could, and forget about what it meant, what was in the boxes and where they were going. During this speech Sgt. Stocks said: “We need to be out there doing driver’s training to keep us sharp. We need to get Hoy in the driver’s seat.” I was embarrassed that he thought I needed to be trained in a job I’d been doing all day. My throat filled with lumps. No one stuck up for me, not even the ones that could have. We were half way through the deployment; what did he think I did all day? As the command they rarely watched us work. At the end of the year they collected the log books and I received a driver’s badge for the hours I drove the vehicles. In South Dakota, 2014, I turned on the radio. An advertisement plays. A man informs a woman that she can receive a car loan to make improvements on her vehicle: new tires, exhaust system. It ends with the man telling her she can’t use the car loan to buy shoes. She says: “oh drats.” Transcription of audio story, Shoes, 2015, 2:34.
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CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT
Elle (whiplash girlchild), Archival Pigment Print, 20 x 30 inches, 2015. (untitled) note, Archival Pigment Print, 30 x 20 inches, 2015 Zero Target Data, 72 x 108 inches, Screen prints of bullet holes from range targets, 2014. Cars, Archival Pigment Print, 30 x 20 inches, 2015 Minute Man Missile Silo, Badlands, Archival Pigment Print, 30 x 20 inches, 2015
Amber Hoy is an interdisciplinary artist based in Rapid City, South Dakota. She explores issues that women in the military face and the intersection of trauma. Her more recent work looks at the breakdown of symbols and language and how one can use these tools to communicate unimaginable experiences. She enlisted in the US Army and deployed to Qayyarah West, Iraq as an ammunition specialist from 2006-2007. She later received her Bachelor of Arts degree with an emphasis in photography from University of Alabama at Birmingham and a Master of Fine Arts degree in Photography + Integrated Media from Ohio University in 2015. amberhoy.com
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