Ginger Networked feminism
Issue 20
Spring 2020
Mission
SOPHIE KNIGHT
HANNAH MODE
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ISSUE 1 ISSUE 2 ISSUE 3 ISSUE 4 ISSUE 5 ISSUE 6 ISSUE 7 ISSUE 8 ISSUE 9 ISSUE 10
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AMY BERENBEIM
CLARE BOERSCH
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 womxn, non-binary, and gender nonconforming individuals. Our goal is to produce a zine with a diverse range of forms, content, and perspectives.
HANNAH NELSONTEUSCH
SOPHIE OAKLEY
STEPHANIE VON BEHR
ABIGAIL HENNING
KAYA YUSI COREENA LEWIS
LANI RUBIN
ISSUE 11
COLLEEN DURKIN
LAUREN ARIAN
MOLLY ADAMS ALEX CHOWANIEC
ISSUE 12
CAROLINE LARSEN
ISSUE 13 NEELA KLER
ISSUE 14 ISSUE 15
JULIANA HALPERT
MARTHA WILSON
ISSUE 16
DREA COFIELD + GABY COLLINSFERNANDEZ
ISSUE 17 ISSUE 18
BRE WISHART
LEAH JAMES
GABRIELLA PICONE
ALANNAH FARRELL
ISSUE 19 ISSUE 20
EMILY LUDWIG SHAFFER
NINO SARABUTRA
JENNY BLUMENFELD
AVIVA ROWLEY
SALTY XI JIE NG JESSI LI S.E.A.
MISIAN TAYLOR
NICKI GREEN
ERI KING
JULIE ZHU
DEVON GRIMES
JUNE T. SANDERS ELIZABETH TANNIE LEWIN
MS. NIKO DARLING
JEAN SEESTADT
SARAH MIHARA CREAGEN
PAOLA DI TOLLA
ALISON VIANA CAITLIN ROSE SWEET
ANDREA GUSSIE
EMILY WUNDERLICH
KATY McCARTHY
ANNIK HOSMANN LEJLA KALAMUJIĆ + JENNIFER ZOBLE
CARMEL BROWN
KAVERI RAINA
ANNA GURTONWACHTER
C. CHAPIN
FELICIA URSO JILLIAN JACOBS
CRAIG CALDERWOOD
CHRISTINE SHAN SHAN HOU ERIC DYER
SHALA MILLER
STAVER KLITGAARD
ASHNA ALI
JORDAN REZNICK
LAURA PORTWOODSTACER
JEN COHEN
LAURA BERNSTEIN
CHARMAINE BEE
CARLY FREDERICK
AMIA YOKOYAMA
Ginger is run by Markee Speyer and Jacqueline Cantu. Reach us at gingerthezine@gmail.com.
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ISSUE 1 ISSUE 2 ISSUE 3 ISSUE 4 ISSUE 5 ISSUE 6 ISSUE 7 ISSUE 8 ISSUE 9 ISSUE 10
GRACIE BIALECKI
ISSUE 11
JULIA DUNHAM
EIRINI PAPAEFTHEMIOU
ISSUE 12 ISSUE 13
NP SANCHEZ
ISSUE 14
LIANA IMAM
ISSUE 15 ISSUE 16 ISSUE 17
ANNA CONE
KRYSTA SA
ALLI MALONEY
ISSUE 18 ISSUE 19 ISSUE 20
LANE SPEIDEL
CARLA AVRUCH
CAITLIN WRIGHT
CLAUDIA GERBRACHT
MARTY MANUELA
MARIE HINSON ERICA McKEEHEN
ALEX VALLS KASIA HALL KATIE MIDGLEY JESSE HEIDER
JENNIFER WEISS LEIGH SUGAR JOEY BEHRENS KAITLIN McCARTHY
LAUREN BANKA
ANNE MAILEY
LEANNE BOWES
ISA RADOJČIC
MEGAN SICKLES
KERRI GAUDELLI HAYLEE EBERSOLE
MEREDITH SELLERS
KATIE FORD
DEVIN DOUGHERTY OLIVIA JANE HUFFMAN
JAN TRUMBAUER HEIDI BENDER
JENNIFER FANDEL
MOLLY SCHOENHOFF
COURTNEY KESSEL + DANIELLE WYCKOFF
MADELINE DONAHUE NATASHA WEST
ASTRID KAEMMERLING + BECCA J.R. LACHMAN
AMBER HOY
CARRIE GREEN
AMANDA LÓPEZKURTZ
SAM CROW
ASHLEIGH DYE
WOLFGANG SCHAFFER
JESSICA LAW
HALA ABDULKARIM
JANE SERENSKA
DELILAH JONES
RACHEL WALLACH
LA JOHNSON
MICHAELA RIFE
KIRUN KAPUR
BRITLYNN HANSENGIROD
ALEXIS CANTU
TALI HALPERN
ABBY FRIEND LORI LARUSSO LETITIA QUESENBERRY
MEGAN BICKEL
NATALIE EICHENGREEN
JACQUELINE MELECIO
MIMI CHIAHEMEN
JORDAN LANHAM
JULIANA LUJAN JAZZY MICAELA SMITH
NATASHA MIJARES
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ITZEL BASUALDO
ALEX PATRICK DYCK
DEVYN MAÑIBO
MARIA R. BAAB
AGROFEMME
MARIE SÉGOLÈNE
BONNIE LANE
KATHERINE TARPINIAN
DOROTEA MENDOZA
MOLLY HAGAN
BIA MONTEIRO MAKEDA FLOOD
JESSICA KIRKHAM KATRINA SORRENTINO
TONI KOCHENSPARGER
CAMERON RINGNESS ISSACHAR CURBEON
ARIEL JACKSON
BRIE LIMINARA
MARTHA NARANJO SANDOVAL
ANA GIRALDOWINGLER
YI-HSIN TZENG
MINNY LEE
GROANA MELENDEZ
VERÓNICA PUCHE
ELAINE HEALY
KAT SHANNON
VANJA BUČAN
LUCA MOLNAR
EEL COSTELLO NANDI LOAF
TRACI CHAMBERLAIN
LEXI CAMPBELL
BIRAAJ DODIYA
MARISSA BLUESTONE
MARIA STABIO
COURTNEY STONE IVY HALDEMAN
NATALIE GIRSBERGER
SOFIE RAMOS
VANESSA GULLY SANTIAGO
JESSICA PRUSA EMMALINE PAYETTE
HANNAH RAWE
JESS WILLLA WHEATON
BRIE ROCHELILLIOTT
SONYA DERMAN
KAITLIN McDONOUGH
KATIE VIDA
HARRIS BAUER
LAURA McMULLEN
PAULAPART
KATHARINE PERKO
REBECCA BALDWIN
RACHEL ZARETSKY
KELSEY KEATON ENA SELIMOVIĆ
LEIGH RUPLE
JESSICA WOHL
MAYON HANANIA
RACHEL BRODY
SOFIA PONTÉN
FREDRIKA THELANDERSSON
HERMIONE SPRIGGS
LAURA COOPER
SARA LAUTMAN DEENAH VOLLMER
NATALIE BAXTER
JOLENE LUPO
KATE WHEELER
IRENE CAVROS
INDIA TREAT
TYLER MORGAN
TIFFANY SMITH
LEYLA TULUN
MARIA NIKOLIS
RACHEL KANN
KRISTINA HEADRICK
BECKY BRISTER LINDA STONEROCK
PRIYANKA RAM
EMILY ROSE LARSON
ERIN MIZRAHI ELIZABETH SULTZER
B. NEIMETH
MOLLY RAPP
KATHLEEN GRECO
ULRIKE BUCK
DEBORAH DAVIS
ANNELIE McKENZIE
CATHERINE AZIMI
HANNAH MCMASTER
ALYCE HALIDAY MCQUEEN
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A Word from the Editors
T
his issue marks five years of publishing Ginger. We're honored to have made it to this important milestone, though our happiness is tempered by the destabilizing uncertainty of current events—the global pandemic of COVID-19. It feels weird having something to celebrate during a time of solitude and suffering as the virus is reaching its peak in the United States. Ginger won't be having an anniversary release party or attending now-canceled book and zine fairs; our stockists are closed for the foreseeable future. At a time when most of our contributors and readers are under lockdown in their homes, we've found ourselves revisiting our foundational goal for Ginger: to acknowledge the vibrant community of creative people that we are a part of. Though we cannot physically be together, we can still foster that community in these pages, and we hope this issue provides connection and comfort in this difficult time. JACQUELINE + MARKEE
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Issue 20 contributors
Alison Viana........ Abby Friend........ Devon Grimes........ June T. Sanders........ Tali Halpern........ Makeda Flood........ Kelsey Keaton........ Linda Stonerock........ Alannah Farrell........ Vanja Bučan........
PAGE 09 PAGE 15 PAGE 19 PAGE 25 PAGE 30 PAGE 37 PAGE 43 PAGE 51 PAGE 56 PAGE 63
On the cover: Andy, 2020 by Vanja Bučan
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Alison Viana
Raheem, Brooklyn, New York. 2017
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ALISON VIANA
Arwa, Brooklyn, New York. 2019
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ALISON VIANA
Ceci, Harlem, New York. 2015
Ahteafa, Brooklyn, New York. 2019
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ALISON VIANA
An, Brooklyn, New York. 2016
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ALISON VIANA
Juan, Brooklyn, New York. 2019
Marcs, Brooklyn, New York. 2019
Alison Viana (b. 1991, Miami) is a Cuban-American photographer based in Brooklyn, NY. Her work centers around notions of beauty, gender, identity, sexuality and community. Viana aims to address erasure, neglected histories and stereotypes faced by ethnic minorities and LGBTQ+ population through visibility and self-representation. She earned her BFA in photography from Parsons The New School of Design and currently works as a freelance photographer and as a staff editor at The New York Times. She is an artist fellow at The Leslie-Lohman Museum of Art. Her work has been featured in The New York Times Lens Blog, TAGTAGTAG, Musee Mag, Refinery29, and among other publications. She has exhibited work in Milk Gallery, Kellen Gallery and Powerhouse Arena. alisonviana.com • @alisonk.viana
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Abby Friend Sauerkraut: A Family Fermentation
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ABBY FRIEND
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ABBY FRIEND
Abby Mae Friend is an artist and activist in Cincinnati, Ohio, on land belonging to the Shawnee people. Growing up in the midwest, Friend spent most of their time outside: working with their grandmother, playing in the woods, creating make believe clubs of which they were the only member. A graduate of the University of Cincinnati DAAP program, Friend has exhibited and performed in many spaces including Wave Pool Gallery and the Contemporary Arts Center. abbymaefriend.com • @corashima All images digital scans, 2020
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Devon Grimes Narcissist Project In Color
A
rtists are often idealized as deep thinkers who are innately private and obsessive people. They spend lifetimes agonizing over themselves, their work as extensions of themselves and their inner-selves as a way of producing outer-selves for the world to look at and admire. They are culturally revered. Narcissists (according to Hotchkiss and Masterson) are “shameless magical thinkers” with an obsessive interest in themselves. They are abject and selfish. It’s at the crossroads of these two words “artist” and “narcissist” that I find comic relief. As both are relatable and their similarities are inescapable. From this crossroads grew my most recent endeavour, Narcissist Project in which I give myself permission to creatively explore what I want without parameters or cohesion.
Marilyn, 2020, acrylic on paper, 22 x 30 inches
Kendall, 2020, acrylic on paper, 22 x 30 inches
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DEVON GRIMES
Amanda, 2020, acrylic on paper, 22 x 30 inches
Woman In Blue, 2020, acrylic on paper, 22 x 30 inches
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DEVON GRIMES
Tulip Party In Red, 2020, oil pastel + acrylic on paper, 22 x 30 inches
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DEVON GRIMES
Devon, 2020, acrylic on paper, 22 x 30 inches
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DEVON GRIMES
Tulip Party At Night, 2020, oil pastel + acrylic on paper, 22 x 30 inches
Man In Blue, 2020, acrylic on paper, 22 x 30 inches
Devon Grimes is an artist and florist in Brooklyn, NY. Her works on paper draw from her lifelong obsession with linear movement and unsuspecting color relationships. She explores her subjects in planes of shape that she flattens with color. Although she prefers to study the human face, she has found that flowers make for an interesting substitute. narcissistproject.com • @devgrimes
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June T. Sanders Some Place Not Yet Here
‘Some Place Not Yet Here’ is an ongoing collection of photographs that reflect ephemeral moments of intimacy, pain, pleasure, communion, and emotional exchange. They aim to suggest how an image might reflect—rather than stifle— the shifting nature of gender, queerness, desire, and how we move through the natural and cultural landscapes surrounding us. They are, in some ways, a radical exchange. In others, a framework for past, present, and future embodiments: a posturing towards some place not yet here.
Fox, 2019
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JUNE T. SANDERS
Untitled (sunset), 2018
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Untitled (gesture), 2019
JUNE T. SANDERS
Dylan, 2020
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JUNE T. SANDERS
Harley, 2019
June T Sanders is an artist, curator, and writer from the shrub-steppes of Eastern WA state. Her work has been shown at the Colorado Photographic Arts Center (Denver), Amos Eno Gallery (Brooklyn), and Cascade Paragon Gallery (Portland)—and her photos and writing have been published in Vice, Paper Journal, Leste Magazine, Humble Arts Foundation, and Lenscratch. She is a recent recipient of the Blue Sky Curatorial Prize, Research Fellow at the New Hampshire Institute of Art, and an instructor at Washington State University. Her work is about gender; dirt; expansions; home. junetsanders.com • @JuneTSanders
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Tali Halpern Journal #9
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TALI HALPERN
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TALI HALPERN
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TALI HALPERN
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TALI HALPERN
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TALI HALPERN
Tali is a non-binary queer artist born and raised in Chicago, Illinois. They graduated from Hampshire College and toured the country with their all girl punk band Deadbeat Club. Tali has recently relocated to Los Angeles in hopes of becoming a freelance artist or of at least finding a job they do not despise. taliahalpern.org • @totally.doomed
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Makeda Flood Ifa Makeda Selassie
I
always found the outside world as the first place to explore creativity. It was not until I examined my own consciousness I found that the world is nothing but fragments of the past, memory, trauma and revolutionary joy. I may live in my body for the rest of my life without feeling at peace. Perhaps that was never an option for me, but I will continue to evolve. I have struggled with my own identity because at some point a part of it was lost, and I have been working tirelessly to make sense of what was left behind. I intend to facilitate rapport between those who identify with multiple cultural, racial and ethnic backgrounds through my work. The duality of multiculturalism is not limited to those who are biracial. I would like to open up a rhetoric between myself and those who have experienced similar conflicts in their lives, regardless of their race. Microcultures are forming more rapidly than ever, and finding a safe space in the community to discuss these issues is rare. I would like to use my work as a catalyst for change and discourse. This work is an ongoing self narration of my relationship with my family and our archive. In October of 2018 I visited my paternal grandmother for the first time in 10 years. The time I spent there is documented in video and images, the only evidence I have from one side of my family. The rest of the works are edits of pieces of installations, text and the archive that I have from the other side. I have never been able to make sense of the two sides of myself, or even attempted to, until now.
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MAKEDA FLOOD
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MAKEDA FLOOD
CLOCKWISE FROM FAR LEFT Clemmie (2018); Portrait (2019); King (2018); Brooklyn (2018)
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MAKEDA FLOOD
Gigi (2018)
Silver Lake (2018)
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MAKEDA FLOOD
Self Portrait (2018)
Makeda Flood is a New York based artist who explores the dichotomy of the biracial existence through personal narrative. Her work combines archival images and new material, emphasizing the duality of her reality. Makeda is enthusiastic about community programs and emerging media. Through the combination of her own work and community outreach, she hopes to bring attention to the intricacies of multiracial existence through narrative works and education. Makeda is currently working in a community photography program at the Bronx Documentary Center. makedaflood.com • @makedaflood
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KELSEY KEATON
Kelsey Keaton No One Hears the Femme Fatale
S
he woke with the sense that something was missing. She could identify the feeling somewhere along her third rib, on the left side. She was still not used to waking up in the bed alone, but the loss she could feel along her rib was different. It was like that first smell of autumn decay on the evening air. Yet it was well into winter — and morning. Or, mostly still morning Noreen decided, peering at the battered grey sky through the crack in the curtains. Noreen had always been one to trust her gut. Intestines were full of bacteria, organisms which, presumably, had some minds of their own; opinions and premonitions. But ribs? She surveyed the room. Everything appeared normal aside from the clothes strewn about the floor. She couldn’t remember doing that. And it wasn’t like her. “Come on, just leave it,” he’d always say to her. “Artists are supposed to be messy.” His tone was so serious, only his dark eyes betraying the joke. Then laughing, he’d grab at her waist, pull her down next to him on the bed. “Just let me put these away, ok? It’s driving me crazy.” “We’ll clean later. You’ve been at that dusty museum play-
ing with spreadsheets too long,” he’d say into the crook of her neck, running his thumb across one of her nipples. “A great artist needs to make a great big mess. Art is chaos, not order.” “Sure, sure, okay,” she’d say, rolling her eyes, laughing, shifting her attention to the kiss. But now there was no boyfriend. He'd finally left for California, like he’d always said he would. So she pulled herself from bed and bundled the clothes into the laundry basket. She waited for the satisfaction of order to settle around her, but it didn’t come. Something else, a dread, started to seep in. What had happened last night? Noreen ran fingers through her short hair and thought. Luis had texted her about getting drinks, but she’d only had one, two at most. Something to do with Alice had annoyed her. She’d walked home … That was all. But then the pool of blood blossomed in her mind. It spread dark and thick across the white tiles of the bathroom floor, like an offering to an ancient god. And too, there was the clatter of talons on the shower curtain rod, the rustle of feathers. She felt the amber eyes, the goblin eyes lit from within, staring at her from the shadowed corner.
Roses, sumi ink
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KELSEY KEATON
“I’ll grant your desire. What is it that you desire?” It was a dream. Yet as she looked at her hands, there was a brown redness under her nails, at the edges of the cuticles, as if she had, indeed, been scrubbing blood from the floor. Noreen felt again the pang of absence. Her phone buzzed on the desk and mechanically she moved towards it. The screen announced that it was 11:00 am and that she had three texts from Luis. II
“Alice and I are moving in together.” He was looking at her, she could tell, even though she was staring at her drink, spinning the thin plastic straw round and round. It was Saturday night. “Seriously? That’s great.” The ice clattered. She took the straw out of her drink. She hated those straws, and they were bad for the environment. Next time she'd remember to ask politely for no straw. She sipped the tequila and soda, trying out ways to phrase it in her head. After a few moments she managed to smile at Luis. “Are you looking for a place around here then?” “I’m actually moving into hers. It’s big enough. Technically it’s a two bedroom. Well, a one bedroom plus office.” “Oh. That’s …” “That’s what Nor?” Noreen sipped, pushed the silver blonde strands out of her eyes, back behind her ears. She tried to keep her face blank as she remembered his confession of dismay after going to Alice's apartment for the first time; clothes everywhere and full of dead house plants. Odd for someone always so stylish, odd given that she worked in that breathtakingly beautiful flower shop. But Noreen herself had never been to Alice’s apartment. "It's just, I dunno, that doesn't seem like your part of town." "It's not so bad. I'm there all the time anyway. Alice is really attached to her place and besides it's easy for me to get downtown for work." She couldn't stop herself. "Easy to get to work, babe? You work from home." "Only a few days a week now. They've been wanting me to come in more." "Oh. I didn't realize." Jolene was playing. She ran her thumbnail along a groove in the bar's mottled surface and listened to the silence between them, listened to Dolly Parton crooning. "Look Nor, I knew you wouldn't be into the idea but be happy for me, ok? I love Alice."
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"I'm sorry. I approve, ok? I think it's great. You just caught me by surprise.” He looked at her sideways, raised his dark eyebrows. She laughed. “Look, it's hard moving into someone else's space, you know? Instead of a new place where you have equal footing. Don't let her throw all your stuff out, ok?" Luis looked straight ahead and drank his beer. But his shoulders had relaxed. "Besides, you don't need my approval. I'm not your mom." "No kidding." "Really, I'm sorry. Don't sulk. I like Alice. I'm happy for you." Luis's brows contracted slightly. Noreen turned away, let the wings of hair come forward. "I'm just moving," he said. “Nothing’s changed." "Yeah, course.” But Luis had been her Ex's childhood friend. He'd fit into their life in a way that Noreen couldn’t with him and Alice. She was too proud to play third wheel, she didn’t have Luis’ generosity with people. Besides, friendships between women were just more complicated. She drained her glass and pulled on her stiff wool coat. “Oh come on, it’s not even midnight yet.” “We’ve been at it for hours.” “You're just leaving me here?" Luis said, looking at his half full beer forlornly. "Yes. Sorry little puppy," she said laughing, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. “Alice is on her way though, remember?” Outside the bar, Noreen was greeted with a sharp slap of wind. She buried herself deeper into the coat as she waited for the traffic to clear. It had been one of those fickle February days in Chicago. At noon, when the sun had been high and the sky lapis blue, it had felt positively warm. She'd walked over to the bar just as the sun was slipping, feeling buoyant. Now, in the shroud of evening, crusts of ice were forming on every unwary surface. As she dashed across the street, something thumped against her shin from the lining of the jacket. She’d rediscovered the bright red coat earlier that day. She’d thought it lost forever, carried off by an old roommate, but then there it was, peering out at her from the back of the closet, a relic of her single self. She paused as she reached the curb, fingers fumbling for the hole in the pocket, digging deep into the lining. The lights from the passing cars dashed about like scurrying mice. As her hand emerged with its treasure, she moved toward the orange cast of a sodium-vapor street lamp. It
KELSEY KEATON
was a battered ziploc containing a thin square box and a paper pack of matches. They were the easter colored cigarettes Noreen’s college friend had given her years ago, after a trip back home to China. “I don’t smoke.” “I know, but you like cute shit.” Each cigarette was a different pastel shade (peach, lemon, mint) with a gold colored filter. Noticing her strawberry patterned socks, she laughed. She did like cute shit. And Hao — he had been cute, with his shaved head and lean limbs encircled with tattoos of his own rune-like drawings. The box opened like a makeup compact. There were four cigarettes left. She chose a lilac one and lit it with a match. Well, with several matches, she still wasn’t a smoker, but the nostalgia of the stale tobacco was intoxicating. The grey blue smoke calmed her as she picked her way through the quiet side streets. She thought of the shape of Hao’s head, the feeling of it’s soft fuzz just after he’d shaved it. She remembered all the weekends they’d spent spooning on his couch watching film noirs. It had begun with an art history class, Survey of 1940s Film. But they’d continued on through the summer, renting the DVDs from the school library. She still loved those movies. She loved watching the femme fatales, their sequined dresses glittering like the eyes of a caged panther. As she put the cigarette to her lips, taking in a last drag and coughing, she wondered why nothing had ever happened between her and Hao. ‘Because I’m a coward,’ she said to herself, putting out the cigarette. Besides, her inner voice continued, her stiff fingers fumbling with the keys, it was better to just imagine. Nothing could be spoiled that way. As she entered her dark apartment, it sprang on her, as if it had been waiting — the memory of her first kiss. Rage boiled in her chest, but her fingers were numb. “Damn circulation,” she said aloud, locking the door. She switched on a light to inspect her blue, bloodless fingers. No matter how many sweet, earnest, eager kisses she tried to paste over it, the first one was still there, lurking. She could almost feel the hot breath, the tongue pushing its way between her teeth. As she paced through her apartment, turning on lights, stripping off her winter armor, it intruded. She hated how much one's first kiss seemed to matter. She hated how her sixteen year-old self had just lain there frozen, enduring the press of the body on top of her own. She turned up the heat on the thermostat, and crawled into pajamas. She rubbed life into her fingers, blew on them. She wouldn’t think of it anymore. Besides there
Night Owl, sumi ink & watercolor
was nothing more to remember. That brand new flip phone of hers had rung, luckily. Her mother had needed her to pick up her little brother from hockey practice. Yes, once alone in the car, she’d wept. Wept out frustration for being such a fool, wept bitterly, wept like Rita Hayworth in Gilda. “I hate you too Johnny. I hate you so much I think I'm going to die from it,” cries Gilda. But that was also when Noreen had learned her coldness could be a strength. Icing the boy out of her life had been so easy. In fact she’d relished his confusion and subsequent moping. She’d never felt so powerful. The owl stared down at her from its perch on the wall above the TV. “Yeah, I know, I’m dreadful,” she said to it, cocooning herself in blankets on the couch. It was a great horned owl — very illegal to kill, illegal to even have. But her great grandfather had been an amateur taxidermist, and the owl had probably been roadkill. It was certainly misshapen enough. Glittering amber eyes peered out of a shrunken head. Noreen had inherited it from her grandmother. Or rather, she’d unscrewed it from the wall and put it in the car, finding herself alone in the house after the funeral. No one said anything about it to her afterward, no one even seemed to notice it was gone. As a child it had been her confidant, she’d talked to it for hours, legs dangling through gaps in the staircase railing. She’d read stories to it. Her brother had been terrified of it. “I want to like Alice, I really do. But she’s all closed off.” ‘It just bothers you that you can't dissect her,’ the owl
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KELSEY KEATON
said in her mind, playing devil's advocate. ‘You like to know things.’ “But why does she keep it all so surface? It’s as if she thinks I’m going to bite." ‘Maybe you are — going to bite.’ “Well, maybe. But it’s just infuriating how careful and perfect she always is. There must be stuff she really cares about, or things that make her blood boil. But she never says anything. Not anything that matters. I mean she has a pet snake. How does that sort of thing not come up?" ‘She has a pet snake because it belonged to her boyfriend. The boyfriend that died.’ But Luis had told her this, not Alice. No matter how many embarrassing, secret things she told Alice about herself, Alice gave her nothing. Just a smooth, beautiful, reflective surface, like the moon, beckoning and beckoning. Taking and Taking. ‘What have you really offered up about yourself ? Nothing of equal value to that trauma. Little crushes, past roommate squabbles. Maybe she doesn't want your phony connection,’ the owl in her head chided. “Okay. Yes, I'm terrible. I'm wicked. But it's like Luis is in her thrall or something. Sure, I'm jealous. But it pisses me off okay? We were a couple for over five years before we moved in together, and they’ve barely known each other five months. What is it about her?” 'What you're really jealous of is her pain. She's truly seen life and you haven't. Her tragedy will always be superior to yours.' Noreen shut her eyes, squirming to find a place in her own skin that was comfortable. But that was impossible. She burned all over with a slow steady lava heat. She
turned on the TV. When she woke with a start, it seemed a good while later. She disentangled herself from the blankets, confused. She didn’t remember shutting off the TV or the lamp. She found her phone at last, it was 3:07 am. She waded through the shadows to the bathroom. She felt electrically charged. She didn’t turn on the light, but brushed her teeth in the soft city light streaming in through the glass-block window in shower. There was a clattering behind her in the shower. Then a sort of low thrumming, a chitter. Noreen tensed. Fear, dark and liquid, filled her abdomen. Slowly she turned. Two owl eyes, goblin eyes, eyes the color of sodium-vapor — regarded her. “I’ll grant your desire. What is it that you desire?” It was her owl, huddled in the shower; rustling, fidgeting, speaking to her. Speaking to her out loud, in the flesh. Animated flesh. She stared. “Now, now, it’s just you and me. Tell me what it is you desire,” it insisted, clacking its beak. Its vibrant eyes x-rayed into the deepest parts of her, seeing what she didn't want seen. “Alice …” she started to say before she could stop herself. No other sound passed her lips, no other sound needed to. “It is done.” Then a pain streaked through her core. She gripped the sink for balance. Warm and terrifying, a heavy liquid began to drip from her. Her brain fumbled through the pain, through the slick feeling between her thighs. This wasn’t right … she’d only had spotting the last couple years due to the IUD, and she checked the strings regularly, though she hadn’t had sex with anyone in ages. Still, the smell of iron filled the room. She stripped off her pajama bottoms, they were soaked through, and still it dripped and pooled, a dark clotted substance that reeked of death. III
Hairs, sumi ink & watercolor
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She stared at the dark puddle which lurked under the tracks. From foot to foot she shifted, huddled in her red wool coat, wishing the train would come. She regretted wearing the coat again. Yesterday it had been a prize, a celebration of the false spring. This morning it was garish. The strange pricking at her rib had faded but something else had coiled itself in her stomach. The oily sheen off the puddle below kept drawing her eye, it looked too much like blood, a pool of blood spreading slowly. She shook herself, buried her face into her scarf. Here was
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the CTA train at last. Just two stops and then a few blocks in that dull, grinding cold and there was Luis’ warm face smiling out at her from their usual booth. Noreen slid into the molded plastic bench facing him, piling all her winter layers beside her. Luis looked at them. “It’s not that cold today. I thought you were from the Midwest.” “I’m freezing today. I didn’t sleep well.” “Went hard last night then? After you left me alone at the bar.” “No, not even. I passed out pretty early, but on the couch. Maybe that’s it, interrupted my REM cycle or something when I moved to the bed.” “Sounds like a wild Saturday night.” She laughed, but it rattled strangely in her head. She was relieved that he’d come by himself, and not with Alice. The taqueria was their spot, hers and Luis and her Ex’s, but his texts about getting breakfast (lunch now, really) hadn’t specified. She thought of the dream again and felt pricks of heat on her cheeks. There was no way she could face Alice that morning. Still, she should ask after her. Yet the moment for it seemed to have passed. “And for you, honey?” The server smiled down at her. Noreen ordered the huevos rancheros. Luis smirked. “Aways the same thing. So boring.” “You’re surprised? I know what I like, okay.” “Yeah, I know that about you.” There was a strange expression on his face, a leaning forward that caught her in mid breath. Her hand was lying on the table beside the silverware roll, it looked made of porcelain. “You okay? Your fingertips are blue” Luis said, taking her hand in his two large ones, gently rubbing warmth into it. She stared numbly. They’d known each other for almost a decade, seen each other’s drunkest, darkest sides — even seen each other naked, though only in the safety of moonlight, the three of them skinny dipping in Lake Michigan. But this gesture, for all it’s innocence, was incredibly intimate. It was a transgression. “Alice?” she said at last. “Who?” She jerked her hand back. Something in her stomach tightened. “You know, Alice, your girlfriend.” There was puzzlement in his face, but he smiled. “You know you’re the only girl for me.” “That's not funny. I know I didn't act exactly thrilled when you told me you were moving in with her but you
don't have to... I feel bad enough about..." “Look, I don't know who Alice is, but if this is some twisted way of turning me down. I mean, it's kinda fucked up.” “What?” Something had darkened behind his eyes. “Last night, I asked if you wanted to move in together. You said you had to think.” Her heart began to hammer. She thought of the owl, its low thrumming echoing off the bathroom tile. Had that really happened then? Had she wished away Alice somehow? But even if she had, why would her and Luis suddenly be … This couldn’t have been what the owl saw. “You’re acting really weird today,” Luis said, reaching for his torta. Noreen nodded. She wrapped her stiff hands around her mug of coffee and willed herself not to panic. She drank deeply. “Don’t you usually put cream and sugar in that?” “No, always black,” she said automatically but then it struck her, that was how Alice liked her coffee. How many brunches at trendy new places had the three of them had? Shiny perfect yolks stared up at her, orange-yellow owl eyes. She felt nauseous. “Look, you can just say No,” Luis was saying. Noreen looked up. “If you don't want to move in together it's fine. I don't get this weird thing about this other girl, whoever she is, but it's ok if this is moving too fast for you. I know he hasn’t even been gone a year. But you and me … it's not like … Look, you know that even before, you know that I've always been in—” “Stop.” “Nor, what?” “Don't say that. We're not together ok? This isn't right.” “What the hell, Nor?” His voice was angry now. But she wasn’t looking at him, she was scrolling through her phone. They'd all taken that photo together at the art museum with that fiber sculpture—practically forced by the chatty museum guard, who clearly spent too much time alone in that out of the way gallery. Yet it wasn't there. She looked up at him. “Are you gaslighting me?” “Am I what?” She couldn't find a single photo of Alice and worse, there were a lot of photos she didn't remember taking. She was shaking just a little. Luis scowled at her. “I don't know what your deal is. But if you won't be open with me and tell me what's up … I mean what am
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I supposed to do? Let me know when you actually want to talk.” He put some bills on the table and left the restaurant. Noreen ran her hands through her hair, relieved to be alone. Was this really happening? What-the-literal-hell. “More coffee honey?” Soft brown eyes looked down at her. A woman to woman kind of look. Noreen knew she didn’t deserve the sympathy but was grateful for it all the same. Despite the cold Noreen decided to walk the full thirty five minutes back to her apartment. Her body slipped into the tide of people, weaving through them. She luxuriated in the steady feel of foot after foot on the hard pavement. As she balanced on a curb waiting for the crosswalk light, she stared at the sky; large and nothing colored, a sheet of gauze stretched over the grey city.
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Then she realized where she was. Just across from her was the flower shop. Its neon rose sign glared at her from the window. It was the shop where Alice worked. This was how she’d settle the question of Alice’s disappearance. As she pushed against the door the smell of some ancient druid wood washed over her, bright florals embedded in moss and cedar wood. The interior was painted a dark green and plants crowded themselves on high shelves blending into the walls like chameleons. Warm light gleamed all over from vintage fixtures of crystal and bronze. The woman behind the counter smiled with full magenta lips. She was a black woman with hot pink braids and she looked at home among the kaleidoscope of flowers. The people who worked in this shop were always beautiful. Noreen forced a smile back. She drifted through the clouds of hydrangeas and coral peonies, past the stalks of delphinium and bright sprays of mimosa, trying to work up her courage. She stood for a long while looking at a bucket of roses in the cooler, nearly black with just a hint of red at their curling edges. "You need help with a bouquet?" Noreen turned to find the shop employee at her elbow. Her moment had come. “Umm. Actually I was wondering if Alice was working today.” “Who?” “Alice Tanaka. About my height, long straight black hair, a beauty mark here-ish,” said Noreen putting a finger to a spot to the left of her own lips. “Super pretty.” The woman looked at her, head cocked. “No, sorry. No one like that works here. I've only been here a year though, so maybe before my time?” “Yeah …” Noreen said, her insides icy. Alice had been working a late shift the day before, finishing up arrangements for a wedding. That’s why she’d been late to meet them at the bar. “Yeah, guess it was a while ago now. Thanks anyway.” Weakly Noreen moved toward the front of the store. There was a narrow table clustered with candles just by the door. Above the table was a mirror. As she moved past it, a head of shiny dark hair caught her eye and Noreen whipped around. But it wasn’t Alice, of course it wasn’t, just another customer. Noreen turned to see her own flaming face in the mirror and there, on her left cheek, sitting coyly beside her thin lips, was a beauty mark. Just where she had placed her finger earlier. She stared, brought her face closer to the mirror. Her blood was thundering. Her hand reached up to feel the
KELSEY KEATON
raised surface of the mole. It was undeniably there. She felt a sob of confusion rise up but she swallowed it. She closed her eyes, counted to ten and … The beauty mark was still there. And the hands at her cheeks looked different, though it was hard to pinpoint what exactly. She looked down at them in the flesh. Yes, they were thinner, the nail beds longer. Jolene was playing over the flower shop speakers. But she didn't even want him, not like that. At least she didn't think she did … The smell of the shop became overwhelming. She hurried out and stole down an alley. Legs quivering she wretched up a small pool of coffee and bile. She stood there for a while afterwards, looking up at the colorless sky. Then she pulled out her phone. There were no texts from Alice, her name wasn’t even in the contacts. There was no evidence of her at all. IV
Back at her apartment Noreen made ginger tea. She glared at the owl. “I’ll get her back,” she said, removing her tea bag, lifting her chin. “I’ll fix this.” The owl said nothing. “This wasn’t what I meant to happen,” but the words tasted sour in her mouth. “Fuck.” She sat on the floor and wept until her side hurt. I hate you so much I think I'm going to die from it, cries Gilda, a woman whose loneliness is poison. Noreen was starting to understand what the owl had seen. Dusk settled in around her. Cars honked, people on the street shouted, but between it all there was a silence, a space for her. The buzzer blared. “Hello?” “It’s me. You weren’t answering your phone. I got worried.” She let him up. And then he was, standing there in her apartment, his brows all scrunched with worry. He placed his large hand on her check. “You’ve been crying … Noreen, what is going on with you?” She let her body fold itself into his embrace. It was so natural. She cried a bit more, into his shoulder, and her body grew lighter. He smelled so comfortable. Maybe the same laundry detergent? When he kissed her, she kissed him back. The hands that were mostly still her hands, ran themselves through his hair, along his cheek. She kissed his ear. She thought of Alice, but didn’t shy away. Noreen reached for the
freedom that lay within making a bad choice, in doing what she knew was wrong. There was a power in it, she could see that now. She dug her talons into life. She bit and clawed and made space inside herself. She became the moon. Sometime later, her eyes fluttered open. It took her a hazy moment to realize the brown shoulder and black curls on her bed were not the usual ones. They belonged to Luis. It took even longer to realize that she was Noreen. She slipped from the bed. “I’ve really messed this up,” she said to the mirror in her bathroom. She said it calmly. She examined her naked body for changes. Her pink stubby toes were the same and she still had the long jagged scar across her right knee; earned in childhood, falling from that old pine with its scratchy bark and crystal clumps of sap. Her breasts were the same small, clear shape. There were one or two wispy hairs, curling from each nipple, thinner than a paper-edge. She hadn’t noticed those before, but they were probably normal aging. The Marilyn Monroe beauty mark was the only clear sign. She looked back at her reflection, pressing a finger to the spot. And there in the mirror was Alice, clearly visible in the last bars of afternoon light. She hovered behind Noreen as a shadow, attached somewhere along her third rib. Noreen looked at Alice for a long while. She didn’t say she was sorry, because it would have been cruel. “It wasn’t actually impossible, was it?” Noreen whispered at last. “I could have had a real talk with you. What would have happened, if I had at least tried?” “I’m not sure. I mean I really can’t imagine. I was afraid of you too, you know? You always had so much to say. Your eyes were always glittering.” “I was pushy you mean. Aggressive.” “No, not that exactly.” The shadow Alice moved closer, pressed her cheek against Noreen’s. It was smooth and silky. Noreen shivered. “But maybe we could try now?” “Try what?” “To have that talk, a real talk. Maybe we’ll both be less afraid, now that we’re together.” “Yes. I’d really like that,” confessed Noreen.
Kelsey Keaton holds a BFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. She resides in Chicago with a musician, a cat and a large number of ferns. She is currently working on an illustrated fairytale about a natural history museum. kelseykeaton.com • @milkofwildbeasts
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Linda Stonerock
T
hese photographs were combined randomly in a 40-year-old Canon AE1 camera. I shoot 24 shots of 200 ASA Fujicolor film. I then wind it back into the canister leaving enough of a leader exposed that I'll be able to easily wind it back into the camera at a later date. I make a note on the canister of where or what the subject is of those first shots. Sometimes quite soon, and sometimes years later, the film is wound back into the camera and re-exposed. I never know what images will be bound with what others. I then send them to a cheap mail-in developer, York, whose color balance, and discretion in cutting the frames has been wonderful over all these years. They just stopped processing and printing. I am enchanted by this serendipity, and feel I am only one player in this game of chance.
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LINDA STONEROCK
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LINDA STONEROCK
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LINDA STONEROCK
I am a self-taught, color film photographer; a deep lover of cinema and all visual art. I am a Taurus and adore the earth and its flora. My favorite plant is the palm tree. I am a California girl who lives in Boulder, Colorado. My idea of a vacation is to be in a new (or old ‌) city. stonelicht@yahoo.com
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Alannah Farrell
LES (Akeem), 2019, Oil and acrylic on linen, 24 x 30 inches
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ALANNAH FARRELL
Stephanie and Valentina, 2019, oil on canvas, 29 x 36 inches
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ALANNAH FARRELL
LES (1985), 2019, Oil on linen, 11x14 inches
Avenue B (Socks), 2019, Oil on linen, 11 x 14 inches
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ALANNAH FARRELL
LES (Candice and Duke), 2019, Oil on canvas, 24 x 30 inches
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ALANNAH FARRELL
Mulberry Street Sunset (Yuui), 2019, Oil and acrylic on linen, 24 x 30 inches
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ALANNAH FARRELL
JB, 2018, Oil on canvas, 36 x 25 inches
Alannah Farrell (b.1988, Kingston, NY) lives and works in the East Village, New York, NY. They hold a BFA from The Cooper Union, New York, NY. Their work was previously exhibited at The Painting Center, New York, NY (solo); Thierry Goldberg Gallery, New York, NY; Ghost Gallery, Brooklyn, NY; and Brilliant Champions, Brooklyn, NY, among others. Their work has been featured in New York Magazine, Elephant, New American Paintings, Office Magazine, Metal Magazine, Medium, Art Spiel, Art & Object, Flaunt Magazine, and others. They were recently one of the artists selected by Jerry Saltz to appear in the Northeast's competitive review for New American Paintings. alannahfarrell.com • @alannah.farrell.studio
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Vanja BucĚŒan Concrete Flowers
The Girl Playing Pinball, 2020
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VANJA BUCÌŒAN
Untitled, 2020
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VANJA BUCÌŒAN
The Floating Jar and Three Lillies, 2020
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VANJA BUČAN
The Plantain, 2020
Vanja Bučan (1973) is an internationally renowned Slovenian photographer, who lives and works in Berlin, Germany. She graduated at the Royal Academy of Fine Arts in The Hague at the department of documentary photography, however, she distanced herself from the straight documentary genre after her studies, and focused on staged photography instead. Before becoming a professional photographer, she studied sociology at the Faculty of Social Sciences in Ljubljana, and actively took part in environmental activism, which is evident in her artistic oeuvre. She views photography as an open medium, a realm where she can freely express her views and critique of society. vanjabucan.com • @vanjabucan
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Ginger gingerzine.net