Ginger Networked feminism
Summer 2017
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 1 • ISSUE 2 • ISSUE 3 • ISSUE 4 • ISSUE 5
KATHARINE PERKO
KAITLIN McCARTHY
HAYLEE EBERSOLE
AMANDA LÓPEZKURTZ
JAN TRUMBAUER
JESSICA LAW
SOFIE RAMOS
• ISSUE 6 • ISSUE 7 • ISSUE 8 • ISSUE 9
LAURA McMULLEN
MICHAELA RIFE RACHEL BRODY
GRACIE BIALECKI
EMMALINE PAYETTE
MARKEE SPEYER LAURA PORTWOODSTACER
PAULAPART
LIANA IMAM
JEN COHEN MARISSA BLUESTONE
CARLA AVRUCH
JACQUELINE MELECIO
NATALIE EICHENGREEN
NATASHA WEST JESS WILLLA WHEATON
SONYA DERMAN
LEYLA TULUN
MARIA R. BAAB
HALA ABDULKARIM REBECCA BALDWIN
JANE SERENSKA
KATIE VIDA
WOLFGANG SCHAFFER LA JOHNSON
ALEXIS CANTU
BRITLYNN HANSENGIROD
DELILAH JONES RACHEL WALLACH
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HARRIS BAUER
KATIE FORD TRACI CHAMBERLAIN
ISSACHAR CURBEON
NP SANCHEZ
HANNAH MODE
ALLI MALONEY
RACHEL ZARETSKY ANNIK HOSMANN
ENA ´ SELIMOVIC
ARIEL JACKSON
LAUREN ARIAN CAITLIN WRIGHT
YI-HSIN TZENG
DOROTEA MENDOZA
SOFIA PONTÉN
HERMIONE SPRIGGS
LAURA COOPER
NANDI LOAF
ELAINE HEALY
JESSE HEIDER FREDRIKA THELANDERSSON
IVY HALDEMAN
HANNAH NELSONTEUSCH ELIZABETH SULTZER
CLARE BOERSCH ANA GIRALDOWINGLER
COLLEEN DURKIN
MOLLY HAGAN EEL COSTELLO STEPHANIE VON BEHR
HANNAH RAWE
JACQUELINE CANTU
ABIGAIL HENNING
COURTNEY STONE MARTHA WILSON
ALEX CHOWANIEC
MOLLY ADAMS
CAROLINE LARSEN
LEIGH RUPLE
JULIANA HALPERT
JESSICA PRUSA
MIMI CHIAHEMEN
OLIVIA JANE HUFFMAN
LANI RUBIN
BRE WISHART
LEAH JAMES
NATALIE GIRSBERGER MEGAN SICKLES
KASIA HALL
SAM CROW
JOLENE LUPO
CLAUDIA GERBRACHT
LEANNE BOWES
JENNIFER WEISS MOLLY RAPP
EMILY ROSE LARSON
INDIA TREAT
AGROFEMME SARA LAUTMAN
ASHLEIGH DYE
BONNIE LANE
KATHERINE TARPINIAN
MARIA NIKOLIS TYLER MORGAN
TIFFANY SMITH
G I N G E R 3
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Issue NO 9 contributors Lani Rubin .... PAGE 07 Natasha West .... PAGE 09 Eel Costello .... PAGE 13 Ana Giraldo-Wingler .... PAGE 18 Olivia Jane Huffman .... PAGE 25 NP Sanchez .... PAGE 28 Sofie Ramos .... PAGE 33 Agrofemme .... PAGE 38 Leanne Bowes .... PAGE 45 Katherine Tarpinian .... PAGE 47 Paulapart .... PAGE 53
Co-founders EDITO R
Markee Speyer D E S IGN E R
Jacqueline Cantu
On the cover: collage 1, 2017, paper collage, 11 x 9�
G I N G E R 5
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Lani Rubin Grab Them All By The Balls
This work titled “The Woman King” reflects the necessary yearning for peace, as well as the necessary will to battle oppressive systems. This piece is not to be mistaken for a queen, as she wears the garments of a king. The piece is a reminder to women and the LGBTQ community to remain powerful and resist against these systems.
Lani Rubin is an illustrator and mixed media artist from New Brunswick, New Jersey. She completed her undergraduate studies at SUNY Purchase, and received her BA in Media, Society and the Arts (MSA). Lani works typically with two dimensional mediums (illustration, portraiture, collage, murals, etc) sometimes incorporating three dimensional elements. • @blister_wives
L a n i R u b i n 7
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Natasha West Empty
“Shouldn’t we call the police or something?” Gemma said, in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper. Parker leaned against the hood of the car, then quickly stood up and checked her butt for bloodstains. Thankfully she had chosen a side of the hood that was still clean, aside from the desert dust and a smattering of squashed insects, and she relaxed against it again. “We should definitely call the police if you wanna go to prison. Do you wanna go to prison?” Parker’s understanding of the law was fuzzy at best, but she wasn’t about to take any chances. “Do you really think we’ll both go to prison? I mean, you were the one driving.” Gemma’s whisper trailed off into a mumble, but Parker still caught every word. “Do you want to find out the hard way?” Parker clipped. She lit a cigarette, partly because her body was surging with anxiety and adrenaline that she was trying to hide, and partly because she knew Gemma hated it, and Gemma was pissing her off. “No.” Gemma said, defeated. “Okay.” Parker said, victorious, and took a long drag. Normally Gemma would have complained about Parker’s smoking. She hated the smell, especially the way it set into Parker’s clothes well after the cigarette was put out, she hated the sick, yellow
N a t a s h a We s t 9
tint to Parker’s skin, and she especially hated how cool Parker looked while smoking. But Gemma needed Parker right now, and the last thing she wanted to do was fight with her. She settled for merely wrinkling her nose in disgust as Parker blew clouds of smoke that disappeared abruptly once they escaped the glare of the headlights. “So, what do we do?” “Welp. I guess we should bury him.” “Here?” Gemma looked around. Nary a single car had driven by since they stopped, but the entire area was completely flat, aside from a few scattered shrubs, and if someone did drive by it would be pretty obvious what was going on. She decided in that moment that she hated the desert. “Well, I guess we could do a Weekend at Bernie’s type of thing if you really want, but we’ll have to use your sunglasses because I’m not putting mine on a dead guy.” “We don’t have anything to dig with.” Gemma said, trying to keep the smugness out of her voice. Parker’s cavalier attitude was not helping anyone except Parker. “Fuck.” Parker threw her cigarette down and crushed it with her boot heel before realizing she was just adding more DNA to the crime scene. “Fuck. Okay. I guess he goes in the trunk then.” Much to Gemma’s horror, Parker popped the trunk open and began pulling their bags out and throwing them into the back seat. Gemma was certain that her shampoo bottle had popped open with the way Parker was tossing things around, and she silently thanked her mother for teaching her to put all liquids into plastic bags before packing them. She tried to focus on this instead of the bile that was building in the back of her throat at the prospect of having to lift a bloodied corpse into their car. “All right. Trunk is ready for loading. Do you want the head or the feet?” Parker shoved her hands in the back pockets of her jeans to momentarily hide the shaking. “Oh, God, the feet.” They approached the body. Parker had hit him at 70 miles per hour, and it wasn’t pretty. The body had landed in the other lane, a fair distance from the actual place of impact, but Parker hadn’t been able to stop until they had passed it. A trail of blood marked the trajectory that the body had taken. Gemma felt the saliva building up in her mouth the way it does before you vomit, and she swallowed hard. Parker did the same. “Should we say a few words?” “We’ll say something when we bury him.” “Should we look for a wallet or something?” “I really don’t want to know anything about this guy.” Parker blinked back the tears that were welling up and set her face hard. “Okay. Hook your hands under his knees.” Gemma hooked
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her hands under his knees. Parker hooked her hands under his shoulders. One of them was dislocated. Fortunately for the girls, the man was emaciated. The girls would never find out why he had been walking across a two lane highway in the middle of the desert like some kind of ghost. The body wasn’t even cold yet, and was utterly limp, but somehow this was even worse than if he had been cold and stiff and already decomposing. It was all too obvious that he was a recently vacated vessel. He was empty. Parker gagged despite her best efforts not to, and tried to cover it by coughing. They swung the body into the trunk and Parker quickly slammed the lid down. Gemma vomited into the dirt, holding her long hair back herself. Parker leaned against the trunk, her entire body shaking uncontrollably, and tried to light another cigarette, but gave up, unable to steady her hands enough to strike a match. The unlit cigarette dangled from her mouth, which suddenly felt as dry as the pale dirt that stretched away from them on all sides. Parker wished she could throw up all her emotions, all her anxieties, all her fears, the way Gemma was throwing up everything she’d eaten that day. She wished she could vomit this memory from her brain. Parker slid herself down next to Gemma and they sat in the road, avoiding the blood. Still not a single car had come by. Parker’s hands had stopped trembling, and she was able to light two cigarettes. She handed one to Gemma. She took it without reluctance, desperately needing the comfort she’d given up years ago. “I’m sorry.” “Sorry for what.” “I don’t know. This. Everything.” “It’s okay. I still love you.”
Natasha West is a Los Angeles native and devoted mother to a scruffy wire-haired terrier. She holds a degree in film that she has found to be almost completely useless, and now enjoys telling people that she “hates movies” just to witness their reaction. Her passions include experimental art, intersectional feminism, destigmatizing mental illness, dying her hair, and Twitter: @barfbabe
N a t a s h a We s t 11
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Eel Costello Self Portrait 2017
E e l C o s t e l l o 13
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Eat Up, Ceramic
E e l C o s t e l l o 15
Synced Up By September, embroidery floss, thread, cotton quilt, and blood stains
EEL grew up in upstate New York before moving to the midwest, where she received her BFA from The School of The Art Institute of Chicago. She rode her bicycle to the west coast, settling in San Francisco, CA for two years, and now creates and resides in Los Angeles. She is a queer visual artist inspired by the female form and all of the beautiful humans in her life. A Jill of all trades she prefers working with her hands. • Eelcostello.com • @elleoco 16
Summer 2017
Ana Giraldo-Wingler Poems for September
Code “You” = Drummond B. Fielding
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Perfect Stranger Sometimes when I look at you And I feel my sluglike self, Someone else walks in. She’s taller and thinner. She has dark hair. She chops tomatoes precisely. She draws in shades, not lines. When you cry so much you laugh, When your head hits the wall, When you pace and pace and Something hard clogs your throat, She says the thing That settles the dust.
A n a G i r a l d o - W i n g l e r 19
Babies I just woke up from a dream. We lived in a treehouse. You were cold. You lit some fires in the leaves, In the branches, at the base. If you thought it was OK, It must have been OK. When I came back, Everything was on fire. You were tossing water on it. The water hissed and dissolved. “Where’s the fire extinguisher?!” I shouted. (The fire was loud.) It was sitting next to you And you handed it to me. I fiddled with the hatch, Searching for the instructions On the side of the canister. I began to spray, Erasing the fire in broad strokes. I sprayed over the leaves at the top,
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And over the crib we kept Next to our bed. It was a wooden crib. Out of the flames and heat flooated A picture of me in the crib. Then: a picture of us curled up In it, on our backs, legs in the air. “Strange,” I thought, “That we’d sleep in the crib When our bed was right next to it.” I felt ashamed about the first Picture: me, alone, grinning through The bars like a happy goblin. There was no more fire That we could see, And you began to walk away. I followed you. Then I thought of crackling Red embers, hiding Under piles of soot. My stomach dropped. We should have checked. We should have stomped around.
A n a G i r a l d o - W i n g l e r 21
Shoulder-Friend I talk to you every day. Walking through my mom’s garden, I’ll tell you, “Wow, these butterfly Bushes are so beautiful,” Squinting at the yellow inside Their tiny, purple bodies.
Ana Giraldo-Wingler is a Classically-Trained Writer who has never published anything and whose poetry is mostly confined to her secret Tumblr, which she occasionally shares with men from whom she wants attention. She co-runs a creative agency called Girlfriends • girlfriends.site • @awanderingorill 22
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Olivia Jane Huffman Consent
Domesticity Series; 2016; Fishnet Stockings, Clear Buttons, Silver Tacks on Drywall; 10” x 9”
Visual and Performance artist Olivia Jane Huffman exposes misogynistic fantasies embedded in our accepted behavioral norms and damaging propaganda. They assemble found materials with sentimental or historical context to critique social injustices. They are based in Brooklyn, NY. More of their work can be seen on their website or Facebook. • Instagram, Facebook, Pinterest: @ohliviajane •youtube.com/watch?v=8oe92pctVuQ
O l i v i a J a n e H u f f m a n 25
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NP Sanchez unnecessary letters for unburdened women
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N P S a n c h e z 29
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NP Sanchez writes, plays, draws & paints in Toledo, Ohio.
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Sofie Ramos Collages
More interested in materiality than image, in movement than resolution, Sofie focuses on creating colorful and chaotic sculptural installations that conflate the art and its space, resulting from an active and nonlinear process of accumulating, arranging, reusing and reworking layers of visual material. Small works on paper undergo a similar process on a smaller and more immediate scale. A core concern of the work and process resides in the shifting relationships determined by the juxtaposition of elements rather than in the identity of each or the overall object/ space they compose.
S o f i e R a m o s 33
collage 2, 2017, paper collage, 10 x 7�
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collage 3, 2017, paper collage, 14 x 8�
S o f i e R a m o s 35
collage 4, 2017, paper collage, 9.5 x 7�
Sofie Ramos was born in Cincinnati, Ohio in 1990 and now lives and works in San Francisco, CA. She graduated with an MFA in Art Practice from UC Berkeley in May 2015 and received a BA in Visual Art from Brown University in 2013. She has exhibited her work recently in Oakland, San Francisco, Los Angeles and Mechelen, Belgium. 36
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Agrofemme
Polaroid XXV, 2017, 3.5 x 4.25�
We become the ouroborus collectively, running trains on one another until flesh sinks into flesh. Now, to know myself, I scarcely need a soul, only to gaze into the gaping space of your loving body. Our bald skin, our fur, our cavities are caves of exploration. Like Plato’s cave, we see the shadows of those outside, and to rise from the darkness I crawl out the fire escape, chain smoking and drawing out wantonly tender stories from you, who follow. Could it be true that not every wound need remain secret, that not every laceration was shameful? Could a sore be holy? I remember when a touch hurt, like a flayed saint, the raw muscles, tendons, and organs, exposed to the midnight air. Only here do I have a new layer, borrowing the hides of my friends and lovers. You can even taste it, our mantle of skins.
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Polaroid X, 2017, 3.5 x 4.25”
Polaroid XXII, 2017, 3.5 x 4.25”
Polaroid XXVII, 2017, 3.5 x 4.25”
Polaroid I, 2017, 3.5 x 4.25”
A g r o f e m m e 39
A gesture of intimacy is radical. I’m here to turn up the volume.
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Cluster, Watercolor on paper with ink, 2017, 11.5 x 8�
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Polaroid XXI, 2017, 3.5 x 4.25”
Polaroid VIII, 2017, 3.5 x 4.25”
Polaroid XVIII, 2017, 3.5 x 4.25”
Polaroid XX, 2017, 3.5 x 4.25”
Summer 2017
Polaroid V, 2017, 3.5 x 4.25”
SO exquisitely empty.
Tif Robinette (b.1986) (aka Agrofemme) is a multi-disciplinary artist originally from West Virginia, and now residing in Brooklyn NY. Through the disciplines of drawing, photography, object making, and performance, she builds narratives of longing, erotic subversion, and radical intimacy. • agrofemme.com • @agrobabe
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Summer 2017
Leanne Bowes Punk Rihanna cover project single release
Good Girl & the Go Bads is a Brooklyn-based punk Rihanna cover project. Fronted and produced by bassist & vocalist Leanne Bowes, the songs preserve the structure and essence of the biggest hits from the Goddess of pop but add a layer of grit and angst. Leanne does not consider this project an improvement on these tracks, but rather a stylistic homage to what she considers pure pop brilliance. • @goodgirlandthegobads
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Katherine Tarpinian
Xania, 35mm photograph, 2013
Prague, 35mm photograph, 2013
K a t h e r i n e T a r p i n i a n 47
.MODERN DISSENT. NIGHT AFTER NIGHT I BARGAIN WITH THE CALLOUSNESS OF MODERN MEN AND THE TASTE OF MY BREATH AND MY LIFE LEFT TO LIVE IN THE ROOMS WHERE WE TAKE OUR SECRET LEAVE AND WASTE OURSELVES ON RIGHTEOUS FURY I YELL I’LL NEVER GO HOME AGAIN MY COUNTRY DOES NOT EXIST AND NEITHER DOES YOURS I DRIVE US ALL CROSS-EYED THIS WORLD IS A HORRIBLE CARNIVAL OF HOT-BLOODED CARNIVORES THIRSTING FOR PURPOSE I YELL IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT FOR YOUR NIGHTS AND YOUR LIVES? IS THIS THE BEST WAY FOR YOUR HEARTS TO SURVIVE? THEY SPEAK IN THE WORDS OF MY BRIDE OF ICE FORGOTTEN, STARVED IN AN ORPHANAGE MAYBE BUT DEFINITELY DEAD: TO WANT IS WHAT BODIES DO AND NOW WE ARE GHOSTS ONLY RUTHLESS LEADER SCULPTS AN ARMY FROM COMMON FLESH HE TAKES US DOWN DOWN AND SHOOTS US DEAD IN THE NAME OF HIS COUNTRY HE SAYS: DO THIS FOR YOUR MOTHER(LAND) AND DO THIS FOR YOUR FATHER (ME) MY SONS, MY SWORDS, MY NUMBERS STRONG WHO AMONG YOU IS CYNICAL, COLD-BLOODED AND BRUTAL? KILL THE BASTARDS FOR YOUR FUTURE! FOR OUR FUTURE! FOR ME PUT THE CHILDREN TO DEATH THEY ARE ALREADY DEAD THEY’LL BE SICK IN THE HEAD WITHOUT PARENTS NO MONEY, NO FAMILY SOFT HANDS WITH NO CALLUSES USELESS, JUST CRY AND CRY 48
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IN A HOME IN A HOLE IN A SUITCASE I LIVE NIGHT AFTER NIGHT UNCERTAIN OF WHERE I’VE LAIN MY HEAD FEAR GIVES WAY TO DREAD I WILL MYSELF BACK DOWN AGAIN BUT MY BODY WALKS DESPITE MY WANTING WHAT IS SOMETHING? WHO IS NO ONE? ARE IDEAS MORE IMPORTANT THAN BREAD? TO A GHOST AT BEST, I’D EAT BREAD TO FUEL THOUGHT AT WORST, I’D TRADE MY FREE THOUGHT FOR LESS WHY NOT HAVE BOTH? TAKE THE MONEY AND RUN TAKE YOUR HONOR AND WASTE IT, NOFRAME IT. HANG IT ON A WALL TO IMPRESS YOUR COLLEAGUES YOUR BROTHERS IN ARMS NIGHT AFTER NIGHT I BARGAIN WITH THE CALLOUSNESS OF MODERN MEN AND THE TASTE OF MY BREATH AND MY LIFE LEFT TO LIVE IN THE ROOMS WHERE WE TAKE OUR SECRET LEAVE AND WASTE OURSELVES ON EMPATHY MY SCREAMS: I’LL NEVER GO HOME AGAIN! MY COUNTRY DOES NOT EXIST! AND NEITHER DOES YOURS! FALL SILENT ON DEAF EARS
K a t h e r i n e T a r p i n i a n 49
.THE CONQUEROR. LEAVE THE EARTH AS SHE IS THE CONQUEROR STARTS TO CRY FOR EVEN HE WILL FEEL AFRAID WHEN ALL WE KNOW EVAPORATES INTO A THINNING SKY NOTHING CAN KEEP ME HERE HARD AS I TRY I AM NOT A BREATH OF AIR I AM NOT A DRINK OF WATER FEED ME TO YOUR GROSS MACHINE I’M NO ONE’S WIFE I’M NO ONE’S DAUGHTER BUT LEAVE THE EARTH AS SHE IS I DID NOT INHERIT THE EARTH FROM MY FATHER WHAT CAN I GIVE TO MY SONS AND MY DAUGHTERS? LIFE IS NOT A CIRCLE, BUT A SPIRAL AND WE ALL COME BACK AROUND CLIMBING UP OR SLIDING DOWN I WILL SEE YOU HERE AGAIN IN ANOTHER LIFE LEAVE THE EARTH AS SHE IS DON’T HURT HER ANYMORE LEAVE THE EARTH AS SHE IS CONQUERORS GET MORE THAN THEY BARGAIN FOR LEAVE THE EARTH AS SHE IS RECOVERING FROM YOUR HEAVY TOUCH
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.ROT. BELOVED OR BELITTLED AN OYSTER (WITH NO PEARL) WAS SERVED TO A GENTLEMAN ON A BED OF ARUGULA AND TORN APART BY HIS BACK TEETH THE BOTTOM LEFT MOLAR HAD ONE CAVITY UNTREATED AND A LITTLE PART OF THE OYSTER CAUGHT THERE AND STAYED TO ROT ENLIVENED OR ENLIGHTENED A LOVER (WITH NO SENSE) WAS SLIPPED BENEATH A BEDSHEET AND BROKEN IN IN THE MORNING SHE CRIED FROM JOY, MIXED WITH DREAD THAT THE MARKS ON HER SKIN WHERE HIS FINGERS HAD BEEN TURNING YELLOW-BLACK COLORS SHE’D NOT BEFORE SEEN WOULD SPREAD AND SHE WOULD ROT EXALTED OR INSULTED A SONGBIRD (WITH NO NEST) WAS LED INTO A GREAT ROOM AND FORCED TO SING SO LOUD THAT HER LUNGS GAVE OUT AND SHE IMPLODED, BURST AND FELL AND NO ONE CHEERED HER REMAINS WERE REMOVED PRESUMABLY LEFT SOMEWHERE TO ROT
KATHERINE TARPINIAN IS AN INTERDISCIPLINARY ARTIST BASED IN BROOKLYN TRYING TO STAY ALIVE EVERY DAY, SHE WAKES UP MAYBE THAT CAN BE ENOUGH YOU CAN HIRE HER TO SING YOU A LULLABY DMS ARE OPEN @HONEYTABOO
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Paulapart Om Shell
The Om Shell is an inquiry into spirals and their ability to maximize acoustic resonance. As a tube spirals in on itself, sound that plays through the tube becomes increasingly filtered, muffling the high frequency sounds and boosting bass frequencies, making shell shapes perfect for expanding sound. The human cochlea, or spiral at the end of our ear canal, employs this same phenomena to give us low-frequency hearing and completely change how we mammals perceive the world around us. Other inspirations for this project include, but are not limited to: seashells, horns (shofar), gramophones, roly polies, Uzumaki, Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind, and anti-aircraft acoustic radar.
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Paulapart is a sculptor fascinated by geometry, biology, the natural world, and our role in it. They are part of ECO AGE, an ecological collaborative with Emmaline Payette. Paula was raised in Miami, FL and studied sculpture and electroacoustic music at the University of Florida.• paulapart.com • Instagram: Paulapart • Facebook: Paulapart • Instagram: EcoAgeBK
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