The Public by IsabellaMedina

THE PUBLIC

ISSUE#1

THE PUBLIC Katherine Alexander Director of Special Projects

Calli Layton Vocabulary Consultant

Isabella Medina Editor in Chief Creative Director Photographer

Madeleine Edwards Editor at Large

Dylan Tibbetts Executive Managing Editor

Ann Corey Coordinator of Editorial Events

Colleen Works Executive Adviser to The Director and Publisher

Amanda Filloy Sharp Mentor Vice President of East Coast Television and Microwave Oven Programming

THE PUBLIC

Dedicado a mi negrita, Andrea.

contents the issue one

public 4

masthead

letter from the editor

editorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s choice

music

beauty (Lily 50)

Bond

Kate

a house a home nuestra casa (Tibbetts 13-18) (Martin 19) (Salinas Cassidy 20-21) (Adobe Abode 22-25)

56 66

in conclusion

short stories and poems (Epilogue 34)

journals, about the artist

drawn

I had a number seventeen roast beef, cheese, onion rings, wet in barbecue sauce.

letter from the editor The first issue of The Public(ation) is an observance of beauty. Beauty in order, in disorder, in kitchen cupboards, in short sentences, in large clean Didone typefaces, in the things that we love and the unapologetic bluntness with which we love them. The inspiration to make it came from a visit to my Managing Editor, Dylan Tibbetts’ house. (pg 12) His abode was like something straight out of the pages of House Beautiful. I went over one day, had some tacos, and then starting photographing. The project grew to include three more homes, a section of short stories and poems, an aggregation of photographs, and a collection of micro-memoirs. (they were some very inspiring tacos). After talking to some of my friends I eventually decided to say, look, I like you, I like what you do, let’s put it on paper. I think there’s an inextricability between self-expression and self preservation. When all is said and done, any art project is a self portrait. This magazine is mine, or at least a first attempt.

Regards,

Isabella Medina, EIC

contributors

okay, here we go again for lunch I had a grilled cheese, choqueque and boiled eggs.

Editor’s Choice: Magenta FIONI heel House keys Chamomile tea (reads: “There is a beauty in your prescence. Show who you are.”) Adele Live at Albert Hall DVD Black Micron .005 pen Leather Pencil Case Three buckle black leather belt Notebook made out of a tea box Silver and Tiger’s Eye ring Black safety pin 18-55mm Nikon lens CoverGirl foundation Wicked Grimmerie (photo by Henry Leutwyler)

A Distant Snore.

My decade long search for the world’s most.

t was a week after we’d moved into the shingle style vineyard house. Jonathon was in the shop, he’d been working ceaselessly on our linen cabinet for the master bath. I was in my slippers, a white flannel robe (my favorite, the one monogrammed with my initials over the breast pocket) and my hair, as I noted my reflection in the glass of the china cabinet, was pleasantly disheveled. I heard a distant snore. Our friends were visiting from Vermont, filling our guest room and the entire lower floor of our house with the fragrance of imported maple syrup. I pattered into the kitchen and reached for a Valencia. This particular morning warranted a batch of orange wedge scones. Jonathon entered, rolling up his sleeves to just above his elbows. “I heard you clattering around in here, d’you just get up?” He poured me a cup of dark roast from our French press and kissed my jaw. I picked some wood shavings from his hair. “Oak?” I ask. “Sugar maple,” he says, popping an unwrapped bear- shaped maple candy in to his mouth. “Speaking of,” he says through bites.

“You look like the Brawny paper towel man” I say, puffing up my cheeks. “Shut up,” he says. “Like a thin John Goodman from Roseanne” I say. “You bought me this shirt!” “I know, you look fantastic.” “Whatever.” We look out the kitchen window together. The house has been meticulously maintained. It is a rambling building with a wide rusticated stone porch, steep gables clad in shingles, multi-pane windows with blown glass. “You look like a clean shaven Paul Bunyan,” I whisper. “Fuck you D,” he whispers back, affectionately. I smile. “Fuck you too Paul, fuck you too.”

house

&home

The texture of this antique Malaysian oyster shell light fixture really brought out the flatness of this particular ceiling. Accents like this assert to your guest your prowess in antiquing and your passion for appropriately balancing a room from top to bottom. My life partner Jonathon and I found this piece while summering in Kennebunkport, and scouring the beach-side shops for delicious little treasures like this one. (£7,531)

I got this piece on holiday in Scotland with my great uncle Tiberius Tunnelwell in mind. ‘Ole Tib was good friends with the designer of this typeface, Ruben Studdertenwell. This character took Studdertenwell a particularly long time to perfect as he wanted it to evoke emotions reminiscent of the smell of rich oak soaked in bourbon and kumquats. My life partner Jonathon discovered it in an old family en suite high chest of mine that he was re-purposing as snuffbox cabinet.

My life partner Jonathon has taken up the hobby of painting photo-realistic fruits on to all of our free range fresh eggs. I adore all his artistic endeavors but lately I find myself standing in our kitchen ready to make my signature four cheese omelet, and then suddenly I’m yelling, “Dammit, Jonathon, (my life partner) I‘ve got yolk all over my cardigan and cutting board because you can’t be bothered to separate the egg cherry tomatoes from the tomato cherry tomatoes!” I digress. I wove this basket last spring from the remnants of the nests of African Swallows. by Dylan Lodge excerpts from his newest novel the sweetest grape on the vine

an autobiographical guide to home design

Paintings: acrylic on yupo paper Artist: Erika Salinas

The Tibbetts Household pages 13-18 The Martin Household page 19 The Salinas Cassidy Household pages 20-21

ANOTHER ROOM WITH A VIEW

Casa Terracota Villa de Leyva, Boyacรก, Colombia

The largest piece of pottery in the world, this ceramic house built by Colombian arquitecto Octavio Mendoza, mixes sculpture, architecture and interior design. The house is simultaneously cost, material, and energy efficient, all walls ceiling and furniture made entirely from cooked adobe.

Nuestra Casa

written & illustrated by A series of absurd dreams sewn together roughly from Grant’s notes August 16: Back in the palace, one of the Royal Servants thinks I’m a prince (even though the royal family only has two daughters...) He asks me to help him make milkshakes for the banquet. He says things like “Have you ever opened a fridge before?”

My actual mom is there, just sitting around, and I’m worried she’ll say something that makes it clear she’s my mom and I’m not a prince. Then, Sam Vitello is doing something at a desk where I left my metal engraving pen, but when I ask, “Can you hand me that pen?” He picks it up and pretends not to know which pen I mean. When we’re leaving, my mom says that she heard Olivia’s dad saying jokes, indicating they have a good relationship, rather than calling her the “spider queen.”

September 7th: Dad is looking down snowy treecovered valley, he says to me, “I wish Star Wars was real. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve wished I could fly around a valley like this in a Star Wars ship. Then we could do it together.” Then Grandma Nansi says, “Time to cut off the old Conch Shell.” Kirstin Stein switches back and forth between herself and a clueless lady. I get tired, quote Professor Farnsworth, and go to rest in the bonus room, Josh Trevisiol joins. December 9th: I dreamed about Super Smash Bros. Free-for-All again. Playable characters included Cave Johnson in giant robot space capsule, space core, “astronaut,” and more. Reese Witherspoon is in line next to us, and in my head I make the “Reese Without her Spoon” joke about five times. I talk to her, she’s really friendly, she asks what movie we’re going to see. I say Super Mario Galaxy 2, she says, “Oh yeah! What’s that about?” I say, “I don’t know.” And she says, “Oh wait, I’ve

seen it.” I make joke about eating my “complimentary nut,” then Noah Schoenfeld laughs. In “my house,” even though it’s different from my actual house. Get a new dog, it’s a dachshund. I’ve got a new fifth imaginary sibling-- this one’s clockwork, and has a miniature version that I slip in the correct gears and it starts up… I hold a baby for a while. Don’t remember why. I drive to a random house somewhere with friends for a CLUE murder mystery party. But, I forgot to bring character personality cards, and don’t really want to make them up. I check two different dictionaries, but no luck. Then I notice that the people whose house it is own Clue, but their game doesn’t have the cards for some reason. Anthony yells, “Mr. Martin should be Colonel Mustard!” but someone says, “I don’t think Mr. Martin is really here, Anthony.” But then in a few minutes he is. We get to a city, where the

parking garage is covered with jade Chinese dragons. As we drive in, the dragons start coming to life and flying off. I say, (in reference to the dragons and trees, in a semi-serious manner), “We’re in fiction right now. This is fiction.” At the zoo, I text Calli, saying “Come over here, the tapirs are just wandering around.” Bridget tells me her boyfriend is in the Changing Room Olympics in London. I ask if they know the Thompsons, who are in London. Then I say, “Well, I’m pretty sure they’re in London. Oh, yeah, I know they are because I just saw them there.” Bridget smile-scoffs at me. Later, at a group presentation, it’s revealed in a Powerpoint that this series of colonial statues all over the U.S. have been damaged by something recently, and the government expects ten or so people (including me) to pay $2000 to fix them. I ask, “Why am I required to pay this? I don’t own any land; I didn’t cause the statues to get damaged.” I grow a beard overnight. Later that evening it seems I’ve found Bowser Jr.’s magic paintbrush, but I don’t realize it so I keep using it as a toothbrush.

(At X-Men School) We argue vehemently with the principal, who is worried because we have so much power, etc. At the end, we come out more or less victorious, and dance around a bit just like normal kids. This really nice and friendly but nevertheless obnoxious gym-teacher kinda guy shows up and tells us he has the perfect name for our group, and he says the boys should be the “Something Guys” (I didn’t quite hear it), and the girls have their own girly name. He’s a nice guy, so we pretend to kind of like it. As we’re leaving, I talk to Anthony about that guy. “I’d hate to be the guy who has to ride on the kite.” I wait last in line for a while, and then when it’s my turn to go through the woman asks for my ticket. I can’t find it immediately, because I check my pants pockets and it’s in my raincoat pocket, and she gets upset and tells me to go buy another from the main counter. I rush over and do,

and when I get back she asks for my bottle cap. I say, “Why do we need a bottle cap?” and she says, “Look, this MerryGo-Round isn’t for people like you.” I keep asking why I need a bottle cap, but she doesn’t answer. She just says that she’s sorry, but I get upset and storm out. All the zombies start dancing, and I yell, “COLONIAL DANCE-OFF!” Anna Campbell laughs at this. I grab a try-corner hat with a feather on it from a corpse, and am now dressed like a pirate (I may have been the whole time). Then a shaved head gay guy grabs me and begins dancing with me, and I play along for a bit because I like dancing, but when he gets close I put a finger on his mouth and tell him I’m not gay. At dinner, I have him do a little dance. “We have potatoes, yeah yeah.” My lips suddenly dry together in a weird shape. I’m on a plane, and a Chinese couple in front of me. The man for some reason, in his sleep, keeps reaching back and grabbing something on my lap,

because that’s his natural comfortable position. Later I go skydiving while wearing very baggy white linen shirt and pants, and they’re so loose that they allow me to fly somehow. Dream Journal Grant Thackray

When does the horse head roll…? When after, paster through the door. The next church on the left, not the one before. You can see the stable boy sitting near it, hard to miss it, peering again once more. His ears are brown as following his frown as he nods his head in sadder. His arms are covered, with nobbled shoelaces bobbing, tickling the stones underneath the rain pour, as any boy does. Any heart can, feel something sad when a lost hyde ran. His horse wasn’t fit, as the head was slit, and rolled right past the moor. As he sits the preaching is bubbling, Sunday. Still not so untroubling.

POET. ANNA WILLS Body The wrinkles in your neck are your kindness And the crow’s feet next to your eyes They are your generosity. The way your hair dances in the wind is your childishness and the way it hangs when it’s wet is your genius. The way you bite your lip is your creativity. When I look at your body, I see who you are. Your skin and your eyes and your hair become material representations of your spirit Your skin takes the form of the soul that I’ve come to love.

POET. SONJA PETERSEN 28

poems and short cuentos 29

loss isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t always loss not knowing where to go from here or where here even isit starts in the pit of your belly in the sag of your breasts in the crook of that little smile that comes up when you have nothing left to say it starts

through those pits and crooks and sags and

makes you

feel

Jan 30: nothing comesthe sky remains still the moon continues to find its place iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m left here and nothing comes Feb 15: loneliness i canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t seem to see

Feb 19: this is just to say, that today i can feel the sky more than yesterday-today i can feel Mar 5: godless-the flowers bloom to an open universe

Photo: Gillian Younger

28.POET MIRA MASON READER

Mar 8: iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m weary of your voice give me something else i can hold onto-the flowers still bloom and i do nothing

The Funeral

It was five days after he died. Dawn came late, and I lay in wait For the alarm that would take me from bed To back seat, a car squished full Of tears and loud music while we blasted Taylor Swift next to Andrew Jackson Jihad And sang along to every word we knew, Making up lines when we couldn’t remember.

Box reflecting the grey light of another Hungover morning. We made promises The night before to sobriety, and as I scanned The crowded group of patched vests and dreadlocks, I saw the shaking hands and milky tears Of fifty needed drinks, whiskey preferred.

We stood at the edge of the lot waiting, Not brave enough to go in yet. We had no idea what we’d find, an empty Room, an open box, a crying mother Beyond comfort – where would we fit? Huddled in the back, where our black was Three hours from Huntington, Stained with coffee and burns? Tucked in a holler, known to outsiders The dirty punks wearing shame like a shield, As a hollow, mispronounced and unable Pushing ourselves away from the relatives, To capture an Appalachian place. Trying not to get caught in a line of apologies? I was the only outsider packed into the caravan, Where did we belong? My Oregon nativity placing me at odds From the deepening green that tunneled us in. The middle. The others were passing silently into the darkest I pick the middle. Place, where not just the weight of his death The absolute center where I fit between Pressed down, but the organic decay of Those who loved him as family Their home, the vortex taking another victim. And those who became his family. I could not know how much it hurt The black dress he wore at a party in October To lose another hope for West Virginia. Stretched across my sobs as I waited for The pastor he didn’t believe in to finish. The air was thick with tar and coal Then his brother, who asked if anyone knew When we pulled into the lot. Where he’d left his guitar. He was lying in wait inside, the silver

I hobble forward in a pair of heels that Will later sink into the grass next to his grave As I lean in and place the perfect poem In the tiger lilies and rhododendrons that spread Scent and pesticide across the coffin. I told them who he was then. Shaking, holding myself together with The thought of a Jack and coke later. This is where I tell them I’m sorry, Where we all are, Where we wish we could take back everything, Where we would go in his place if it meant That he would keep going because Life didn’t make sense when someone like him Would die alone on a beach At the end of his rope. I tell them he is singing along with us, That I can still hear him. That he hasn’t left. I take again my place in the middle And hear no more of the testimonies To his goofy grin and habit of calling Everyone buddy, like every person he met Was immediately a friend. I wait. It’s coming.

There had to be a breaking point when The tears started to slip beneath my skin And rot away the steel that lined my bones, My posture erect as I cried with restraint. It came at the grave. His father, Who I’d heard of, but never met, Bowed his head in prayer next to His new wife, who had shed no tears, Waiting for the amen while he tried To hold himself together. I stared At him then, watching his jerky movements As he approached his son’s final Stomping ground. His long hands were The same as his son’s, those that had traced me Now folded over a chest permanently sunken. He patted the cold metal twice, Resting briefly on a corner. As his body starts to bend away, The voice that leaves him sputters An all too familiar phrase. “Goodbye, buddy.” I turned and ran. “Goodbye, buddy.”

Delaney McLemore

e had noticed her. Not right away, but he had noticed her eventually. The platform had been as usual. Morning traffic, primarily commuters, people isolated from one another with things to read, headphones in place, bags forming barriers. Most people leaned or slouched. Individual and collective weights shifted restlessly, bored and impatient as the large clock ticked slowly, a compelling but temporary object of interest.There came the unmistakable sound of the approach, and the shifting got edgier, more competitive. Bodies lined up, vying for space, and that’s when he noticed her. She was not slouchy, but rather standing so still and straight that he looked twice to see what she was doing. She wasn’t doing anything, though, that he could see. No book, no newspaper, no headphones. No bag, not even a purse. He noticed her and wondered how old she was – 20s? 30s? Why so rigid?...but not really rigid, just serene. Too serene, it was mysterious, a puzzle to him, and he was filled with an ardent curiosity. He was totally transfixed when a familiar slap on the back interrupted him. “We meet again!” It was Eli, skinny Eli, who rode the red line with Judah. They were on the same train three or four times a week. “Eli, what’s up?” “Nothing. Nothing new. It’s like every day is the same day, you know? But hey, I’m maybe going to a show tonight, a friend’s thing, should be good. Then tomorrow’s Friday, but first!,” he sighed, although happily, “first I have to survive today. Today is going to be a long day at work, my friend. There is just too, too, tooooo much going on.” Judah loved Eli’s lively energy. His tall thin presence, his freckled hands that gestured emphatically at even the most ordinary conversation made Judah feel hopeful, young and happy. “Hey, I’m going to run down and try to get in the first car today. If I get out by the State Street stairs I save myself eight minutes. I’ll see you, man.” Eli

squeezed Judah’s shoulder and wove towards the front, switching his messenger bag front to back, back to front. As he squeezed by the blond girl she didn’t appear to see him. Didn’t move, didn’t make eye contact, never stopped staring straight ahead, calmly, concentrating on something invisible to everybody else. The train had arrived; everyone pushed in. Judah felt lazy and let others move ahead. He shuffled towards the car doors and knew they were sliding together, meeting in a commuter’s guillotine, separating the persistent from the uninspired. He moved left, looking at the next car, it was full and its doors were closing too. He glanced up and down the platform. A handful of others in his position, new commuters arriving, the waiting area would be full again soon, and for eleven minutes until the next train came. He sighed and watched the boarded train settle; he searched for the blond girl. What was it about her? Something nagged him. He thought he saw her through the window, but the train lurched back, and then forward, pulling away, out of sight, gone.

* * * Later the news shocked the entire city, Judah in particular being both shocked and traumatized. Days after that the newspapers revealed it was her, the blond girl, and splashed her picture, along with her boyfriend’s, across their pages to replace the repeating images of wreckage that everyone by now had memorized. Every story said she had been carrying a briefcase. At this, Judah felt unbearable rage. It was an anger he had never felt before. He had seen her. He had noticed her. There hadn’t been a briefcase. She hadn’t been carrying anything. ANYTHING! He was sure of it. Who else had seen her? Noticed her? Had any of the other passengers even realized what was happening? There was no one now to answer that question. No one left who might have seen her there, in the same car, setting down her briefcase. No one who might have heard the soft and gentle whir, or watched her faint smile as she breathed peacefully, listening for the final, tiny click. 35

about the artist

Eilidh Mote, Andrea Uribe, Dylan Tibbetts.

Drawn Artist Luis Medina creates larger-than-life photo-realistic pencil portraits.

IM: as a kid, what did you like doing, what did you want to be? LM: I liked designing soap box cars, I wanted to design cars, design houses. My dad was an architect, I worked with him as a draftsmen. At this time there were no 3D models, you had to look at something 2D and imagine it in 3 dimensions . . . but my dad was faster than a computer. IM: what other jobs have you had? I know there’ve been many... LM: I’ve been a cattle rancher, chemist, computer aided lace designerIM: you designed bras. LM: and other underwears. We copied the nice Italian designs, I’ve designed space toilets for NASA, I’ve been a seed certification inspector, a simultaneous translator . . . elementary dance instructor, a producer of soap, food, and cosmetics, additives, a chauffeur, a cook, now I’m a director of home operations. IM: of all those jobs which was the hardest? LM: . . . learning to deal with a baby that won’t stop crying at 3 am. IM: yeah, sorry about that.

music.

Artist Daniel Cespedes blends indie rock with bagpipe and foley to create a rich and emotional debut album. ‘Or, A Fool’s Fortune,’ is slated to be released June 2014. The Highland Habits’ inaugural tracklist mixes past, present, and future. His sound is a synthesis of the sophisticated and the primitive which, though a feat of eclecticism, is anything but incongruous. 45

Beauty de sang

the moon controls her like the waves of water it pushes back and forth it pushes de sang her moon never wanes it never leaves it stays in the pit of her belly shining over the stomach bile making waves pushing back and forth she can hear the music it creates in quiet rooms. the moon moves de sang it moves and pushes and pulses and bleeds out of her. it never leaves.

Mira Mason Reader 46

Modela Morena Andrea Uribe, pura Cali Colombiana with some added boricua americana spice, wears her long blue mermaid locks in a simple side braid.

par cera 47

spring set

Lily Rosenbalm Sign: Capricorn Favorite Month: April; the beginning of spring, The season of effortless romance (and I love wearing pastel colors)

MLABNESOR

ROSENBALM

AaBb

Alyssa Bond

irector, dancer, choreographer, sword fighter, teacher, actress, seamstress, (sometimes model) Alyssa Bond is anything but your classic Bond Girl. Despite her Femme Fatal looks, assertive posture, and penchant for using terms of endearment with people she’s just met, the woman is a born protagonist, not a supporting character. She’s doing all her own stunts, the latest of which is taking on the role of director and teacher at North Salem High, and single handedly bringing the school’s drama department back in style. After audaciously presenting the school’s first musical production in 17 years she staged Michael Frayn’s Noises Off, a farcical, three act, rotating set, play-within-a-play. At work Bond can show you how to stab a man without killing him, hit someone with a chair without maiming them, and then pull them by their hair across a stage while staying in your light. After work she’ll show you a pastel colored apron she’s recently sewed and a cute picture of a cat. After each encounter you’re guaranteed to be equal parts intimidated and enamored.

Bond demonstrates poise and perfection under duress. (surrounded in close proximity by three household propeller fans)

IM: Where are you from originally? AB: I grew up in Forest Grove, super exciting... But the baseball field at pacific university is named after my family, so we are basically small town royalty... and there is a James Bond way, way back in my family, when we were knights in England IM: Wait, seriously? AB: Seriously. * * * IM: Were you a theatre kid in high school too? AB: I actually started way young, as a towns person in the local high school production of the music man when I was 6. I stole the show. And before that I played an epic dying sheep at age 3 in the church nativity play. The dying part was my artistic interpretation. All through my life I was pretty heavily involved in theatre and music. Although I didn’t seriously study dance or fight until college. IM: At which point you decided hey, I could pretend to beat people up, and this is a viable career choice! Do you have a favorite fight move? AB: A totally impractical move called ‘Spanish sevens’ - it’s a flashy series of clashing swords that looks awesome but would make absolutely no sense in real life. * * * IM: Okay so how do you get your hair so glossy and fabulous? AB: I generally leave it alone... I feel like letting it do it’s own thing has worked out so far. IM: No strict regimen of love and affection, no bi-weekly follicle massage? AB: ...I brush it once a day (maybe) and generally wear it up, ha... It’s full of teenagers tears and cat hair. IM: In 15 words or less describe your ultimate day of indulgences. AB: Sleep in (past 7 am please) shopping for home goods, pedicure, dark chocolate and the BBC version of pride and prejudice.

“Professional wardrobe: yoga pants, thespian sweatshirt.”

Simply Irresistible Blonde Bombshell Lily Shellhammer wears her Twiggy-esque pixie cut unstyled and rattles off her thoughts: Bill Murray, spooky people, cheese curds, cosmos, pitbulls.

abso

More Thoughts: chlorine, road construction, space travel, anklebones, pesta単as

o lutely

HERE

GOES When I first saw Kate, she was in the makeup room of my high-school theatre getting ready for a murder mystery themed dinner fundraiser. “Damn,” I thought to my self. “Who’s that chick?” As it turns out, it was Kate. IM

FACE IN THE CROWD In the every-growing world of insta-fame photography, Katherine blesses the lens with the patience and calm of a natural, a professional. Our relationship, (somehow sororal madman and muse) like that of Testino & Moss, Burtan & Bonham Carter, Frued & Blackwood, Almodóvar & Cruz, reflects that spousal trust, and aesthetic obsession that only exists between the artist and subject. She is a true collaborator, one who’s stoicism allows me to casually ask her things like, “I need a picture of you in a river, will you wade into this river for me?” (in the middle of a cold October) or “I’m going to pour water on you now, try to keep still, and only look vaguely upset.” It’s easy lose track of time working with Kate, easy to forget that you are out in the rain, or in dark woods, or possibly trespassing on private property. You can forget that a five spread story was only supposed to be two pages. Kate never complains during shoots, she waits for me to remember that I promised her rice bowls two hours ago, she doesn’t bring it up. After a marathon length session, she’ll go months without asking “whatever happened to those photos we took...” Kate has an endurance for harsh lights, a passion for new ideas, and a weakness for late night pizzas. But also, she has the most amazing hair. I mean, really. Wow.

“She once glued gold leaf on my eyebrows. I don’t know how we became friends.”

IM: What do you think about when you have to sit very still for a photograph? Kate: How our universe might be in the black hole of another universe. IM: Least comfortable you’ve been in a shoot. Kate: Anytime your dad has walked in while I’m covered in paint... IM: That’s worse than being in a river? Kate: I was in that river for art. IM: Describe the atmosphere of one of our shoots in four words. Kate: (smiley emoji, nervous emoji, squirrel emoji, hamburger emoji.) IM: Thank you for your time.

“Sometimes even days later, I‘ll still be finding photo shoot related objects in my hair, like leaves, or glitter, or pieces of fruit. Small decorative birds...”

in con clus There was once dinosaurs. They died. Hanna McIntosh

sion

Anonymously they built their own trapeze. Regina Kurapova

Dancer. danced. dead. dancing. Alive again Sonja Petersen

The rain. Robot overlords are defeated. Areli Arredondo

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not inappropriate if itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s in Spanish. Nolan Kelly

I stand on my tiptoes every time I drink out of a glass. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a really good calf exercise because I drink a lot of milk. Kristen Beckman

Naci en lluvia ahora buscando sol. Madeleine Edwards