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KNACK is dedicated to showcasing the work of new artists of all mediums and to discussing trends and ideas within art communities. KNACK’s ultimate aim is to connect and inspire emerging artists. We strive to create a place for artists, writers, designers, thinkers, and innovators to collaborate and produce a unique, informative, and unprecedented web-based magazine each month.
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Will Smith Co-Founder, Photo Editor Andrea Vaca Co-Founder, Art Director, Production Manager Ariana Lombardi Executive Editor Jonathon Duarte Creative Director/Designer Sarah Rogers Contributing Editor knackmagazine1@gmail.com
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IS SUE ONE Artist Biographies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8-13 Ana Caro Villa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Michael Grace Martin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 Meg Zinky . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 Sebastian Johnson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 Leonardo Silva . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 Aaron Wolf . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 David Nakabayashi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63 ZoĂŤ Etkin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 Christina Quintana . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 Marco Perez . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91 Quick Looks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
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ANA CARO VILLA
Ana Villa was born and raised in northern Mexico. She had plans of studying music but found it was not possible. Villa then decided to study graphic design and started attending school at Universidad del Valle MĂŠxico (UVM) in Hermosillo, Mexico. After two years of study she had the opportunity to relocate to Santa Fe, New Mexico. She has been in Santa Fe for three years and is a senior at Santa Fe University of Art and Design. Villa is a co-founder of Hexagono, a graphic design collective. Contact: anacaro.villa@gmail.com, www.anacarov.com
MICHAEL GRACE-MARTIN Michael Grace Martin lives in Upstate New York with his wife and two children. Martin is a professional photographer and educational multimedia specialist. Martin has an MA in Psychology from the University of Santa Barbara. Contact: mgm@michaelgracemartin.com, www.michaelgracemartin.com
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MEG ZINKY
Magdalen Zinky holds a B.A. in Theatre from the College of Santa Fe. A native of Wisconsin, she currently resides in charming Greeneville, TN. She dedicates this particular contribution to the world of arts and letters to Vanessa, Laura, and Jonathan, lately of the Nerd Club.
SEBASTIAN JOHNSON
Sebastian Johnson was born in Milwaukee, WI in 1991, the third of four brothers. Growing up in a Dominican and American mixed ethnicity household led him to have a curious view of the outside world. Johnson attended catholic schools his entire life, until he enrolled at Columbia College Chicago. His goal is to move out west after film school to be closer to nature. Johnson is currently pursuing an M.F.A in Film/Video Production at Columbia College Chicago. Contact: sebastian.johnson@loop.colum.edu, 414-326-6236, http://www.flickr.com/photos/johnson_sebastian/ 9
LEONARDO SILVA
Leonardo Silva is 20 years old and lives in Brazil. He is set to graduate from Arte SĂŁo Paulo School with a degree in Game Design next year. He hopes to have a comic book published by this time. He extends thanks to his first teacher, Will Vasque, for his patience and shard knowledge. Also to artists such as Andy Warhol, Naoko Takeuchi, Jim Lee, Adam Hughes, Michael Turner, Alex Pardee and Bansky. Contact: leo_mcr@ hotmail.com, gotafever.deviantart.com
AARON WOLF
Aaron Wolf is a graduate of Bowdoin College where he double majored in Visual Arts and Physics. At school he concentrated most of his work on photography and architecture. Because of this combination, much of his non-photojournalist photography revolves around creating architectural spaces using shapes and shadows. Aaron currently lives in Chicago and can be contacted at abwolf89@gmail.com. His work can be viewed at www.abwgraphics.com/�www.abwgraphics.com.
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DAVID NAKABAYASHI
David Nakabayashi was born in Germany and grew up in Japan, Oklahoma, and Texas. He is a self-taught artist with a wide range of experience, working as a cook, a cotton chopper, a musician, a naturalist, a graphic designer, and an urban designer. His rootless childhood evolved into a lifelong exploration of the American landscape with its homogeneous sprawl, forgotten architecture, untamed nature and chance cultural encounters—all of which filter into his contemporary artwork. David uses multiple mediums to create his artwork including acrylic and oil, mixed-media collage, found object sculpture and site-specific installation. He is also an accomplished plein-air painter. David has had solo exhibitions in New Mexico, Oklahoma, and Texas, and has been represented in group exhibitions at El Museo Cultural de Santa Fe, the El Paso Museum of Art in El Paso, Texas, the Museo Regional in Chihuahua, Mexico, and galleries in Santa Fe and New York. In 2011 he was invited to the Zion National Park Plein Air Artist Invitational and won Best of Show at the 2011 Escalante Art Festival in Escalante, Utah. David lives and works in High Rolls, New Mexico and his work is currently represented by Zane Bennett Contemporary Art in Santa Fe, NM, the Cloudcroft Gallery in Cloudcroft, NM and the Overlook Gallery in Moab, Utah. To learn more about David’s work or to contact him visit his website: www.davidnakabayashi.com or send him an email: davidnakabayashi@sbcglobal.net
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ZOË ETKIN
Zoë Etkin is a Los Angeles based poet, teacher and postpartum doula. She has an MFA in Writing from CalArts and a BA in Creative Writing from the College of Santa Fe. She is the founding editor of Red Sky: A Literary Journal. Her work has appeared in Burning Word, Poetry South, Deep South Magazine and [PANK]. Her poem “The West” was recently included in LA Exchange: a photography and poetry art show, and she has been a part of the Sumarr Reading Series in LA. Contact: zoe.etkin@gmail. com, redskyjournal@gmail.com, http://redskyjournal.wordpress.com/
CHRISTINA QUINTANA
Christina Quintana (24) is a Brooklyn-based playwright and New Orleanian-transplant pursuing her MFA in Playwriting at Columbia University. Her plays have been developed, produced and/or workshopped in New York City, Santa Fe, New Orleans and beyond, by companies which include The Movement Theatre Company, Williamstown Theatre Festival and Southern Rep Theatre. She is currently developing a new musical, GUMBO, with composer Brett Macias. She received her Bachelor of Fine Arts from the College of Santa Fe (Santa Fe University of Art and Design) Contact: www.unabridgedCQ.com; contact: clquinta@gmail.com 12
MARCO PEREZ
Marco Perez is 27 years old and was born and raised in Mexico City, Mexico. He studied in the Escuela Activa de Fotografia, for photography and then in Centro de Capacitacion Cinematografica in Cuernavaca for film. After these studies he began to work on different film projects ranging from jobs as regular staff to Steadicam assistant. He decided to study communications specializing in linguistics then finally switched to Graphic Design and Art. He now lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico where he studies Graphic Design at Santa Fe University of Art and Design.
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ANA CARO VILLA GR APHIC
DESIGN
Good design is like good music. It’s creation depends on choosing the exact beats, the perfect flow and the right chords to for the most beautiful harmony for the canvas. I can say that most of my work (if not all) is inspired by music. I use color to create rhythm and density in my designs. The discipline of designing is not just placing images, but thinking about composition and how things relate. ...
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previous pages: Aminals, 2012, digital print Far, 2012, digital typography Wicked, 2012, digital print Life, 2012, digital print this page: Santa Fe II ,2012, screen print Slow, 2012, digital print opposite page: Frequencies, 2011, generative art
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Rune, 2012, digital print
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Variations of Static, 2011 handmade/digital print
Despite the Unknown, 2011 digital print
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MICHAEL GRACE MARTIN PHOTOGR APHY
Grass Rootus Festivus Trumansburg, New York hosts the annual GrassRoots Festival at its fairgrounds in July. It’s four days of music, drinking, dancing, eating, body painting, camping, conversation, and debauchery. For the first time this year (July 2012), I was able to attend the festival in July for a prolonged period. I shot almost two thousand photos over a day and a half; but my perspective fluctuated somewhat. I captured a mix of candid and posed photos, and my visual sense alternated between picking out purely candid expressions to noticing more artistic settings and compositions. Due to this dynamic and changing sense, I was able to assemble different collections of photos from this large set with little overlap between them. For this series, I focused on the more deadpan, enigmatic shots I captured. These are analogous to the intellectual arena of humor ...
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Grass Rootus Festivus #2 2012, digital photograph
Grass Rootus Festivus #3 2012, digital photograph opposite page: Grass Rootus Festivus #7 2012, digital photograph
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Grass Rootus Festivus #8 2012, digital photograph
Grass Rootus Festivus #6 2012, digital photograph
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Grass Rootus Festivus #12 2012, digital photograph
Grass Rootus Festivus #1 2012, digital photograph
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Grass Rootus Festivus #4 2012, digital photograph
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Grass Rootus Festivus #10, 2012, digital photograph
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MEG ZINKY
CR EATIVE
WR ITING
I’ve had to answer, to more institutions than I can clearly remember, this asinine question: Why do you write? Or some version of it—Tell us about what drives your artistic endeavors and similar nonsense. As any somewhat serious writer knows, this question is a trap, the Does this dress make me look fat? of the writing world. One writes because one is compelled, because one is not satisfied with simply observing a moment in time and then burying it willy-nilly in but must instead extend it to exhaustion on a sheet of paper. One writes, at the heart of it, because one must. Yet I know from having committed such a sentiment to such a sheet of paper that it is a bell that always rings false. No matter my sincerity— my voice is rendered out and the words become merely letters in sequence until some other voice picks them up to reconstruct them and who knows what sort of terrible sentiment that new voice will apply. To say I write because of compulsion is to cast myself in with all the other fools who have ever made the same claim. Because I am what? Sneaking? Ambitious? A born liar? — because I am some combination of those things, I cannot bring myself to answer with the truth. (But parenthetically I admit to you, dear reader, that once I saw a spot of blood on a public restroom floor, and I asked myself briefly as I washed my hands and hummed to the mirror what sort of people might have half a conversation upon seeing such a spot. There was no one with me, yet the conversation stayed. The rest I entrust to you— I wrote it because I had to.) ...
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THIRD IS THE NERD with the HAIRY CHEST The dude in front of them had obviously seen the first two movies. He was dressed in what, to the untrained eye, might have been a gorilla costume with two curved golden horns poking from the top of his head. Black hairs blew off in the brisker winds and clung to their jackets and backpacks and Divinia’s fleece headband. Clearly Larry wanted to say something— he was doing that jig that he did in gym class when they were forced to play cooperative sports— but the guy was several inches taller than all of them and seriously bulky. Though maybe that was the Kuwakki suit, Fiore supposed. Then again, maybe not. Besides, he was with a fat man who, despite the mustard stains on his hoodie, look capable of at least threatening to get his buddy’s back. They were already out of chocolate bars, and the reason they didn’t sleep last night was the same reason they no longer had any Dew Drop left. The last of that green caffeine pulsed in Fiore’s bladder. He’d been to the bathroom three times in the past two hours, though, and each time the same creepy security guard, the one with the hunched left shoulder and the sloping face, had hobbled past the restrooms and given Fiore the same knowing grin. “Are you bored?” he asked Larry. Larry stopped jigging. “What?” “I have to piss.” “You just went,” Divinia said from behind them. She had a half-peeled banana in one hand, and a banana string webbed two of her fingers on the other. “Too bad it’s not permanent,” Fiore said. She sniffed and rolled her eyes, pulled another string from her banana and let it dangle from her thumb. “Come with me, Lar.” “Why?” Larry said. His feet began a sideways shuffle towards the Kuwakki. “I told you. That guard.” “Right now? The doors are gonna open in, like, twenty minutes.” “I’m gonna blow, captain.” Divinia said, “You’re foul,” but her mouth was full of banana, so it was excusable to ignore her. “Fine,” Larry said. He planted one foot and stomped the other down on a trodden spot of gum. “Vinny, you watch the goods. I’ll kill you if—” “Yeah, yeah,” Divinia said. “Just go away.” She was only there in the first place because Fiore’s mother had insisted that he bring his sister, but at least this way someone was watching their things. No Kuwakki fingers all over their Green Ranger hoods and masks. And since Divinia didn’t seem to be capable of making any permanent friends— she was currently in a solo phase, as their mother called it— there would be only one fourteen-year-old girl with them. Not chattering dozens. And she’d agreed to stand behind them. They were getting in first, because this was their idea. Instead of being dismayed at this news, she responded with a smirk and a playground rhyme: “First is the worst, second is the best, third is the one with the treasure chest!” The security guard was nowhere in sight when they reached the bathrooms. Larry said it was stupid that he’d had to come along just for the ride, but in the same breath declared that he had a Martian preparing for a soft cotton landing. “Good thing you came with me, then,” Fiore said, and Larry said, “Don’t listen, pervert.” So Fiore used the urinal and whistled “Yankee Doodle” while Larry occupied a stall, and then he hummed an invented tune as he looked in the mirror. The sight, as usual, was distressing. His hair flamed out in wild orange curls, and his smatter of freckles mixed with small constellations of acne on his cheeks to give him a permanent blush. He was the epitome of jock bait, the textbook example
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of what not to look like in high school. His mother claimed— and his grandmother seconded— that he was a good-looking boy, but every expectation of dorkdom that he’d set for himself had been attained. He was a self-fulfilling prophecy, he told himself more than once. Then he would go out— to school, or the movies, or the arcade at the movies— and fulfill the hell out of that prophecy. “What are you doing out there?” Larry called. Then, when Fiore didn’t answer, “Nutcrust! Are you still there?” “Yeah,” Fiore said. “What are you doing?” “Popping a zit.” “Man, that’s nasty. You know what else is nasty? There’s blood on the f loor. Here, come here, look at it.” Fiore went into the next stall and bent over to look at the floor. Larry’s jeans were huddled around his scrawny hairy ankles, and next to the blue was a quarter-sized spot of red. “Nasty, right?” said Larry. “That smell you’re making is nasty. I’m gonna wait outside.” He felt faint at the sight of blood. Liquid life, as the Kuwakkis called it in the movies— and he wondered what the Kuwakki in line would think of that. Was he a truly dedicated fan? Was he the kind of guy who put red food coloring into his hot cocoa? The farthest that Fiore and Larry went was a couple of one-nighter camping trips with their nerdy compatriots, where they made Washa swords out of pine branches and beat on each other in the name of Green Rangers and Fraggi Rebels— though none of the compatriots wanted to camp out at the movie theatre to wait for the opening of the third movie. Donald said he’d go to a less crowded show with Angela, his girlfriend, and James and Boyd were out of town at an anime convention for the weekend. Hence Divinia. Hence stifled silence because there weren’t enough of them there to risk upsetting the Kuwakki. Divinia was pressed against the wall when they returned. Her eyes were wide and her freckles, darker and blotchier than Fiore’s, stood out like little mushrooms on her pale cheeks. For a moment he thought that someone had mugged her, but all their things were there— backpacks, Larry’s plaid scarf, the plastic grocery bag with extra socks and mittens that their mother had shoved into Divinia’s hand as they got out of the car. “What’s wrong?” Fiore asked her. She shook her head and moved her hands a little farther behind her back. He noticed the banana peel at her feet. “Seriously,” he said, and after a moment she pointed her finger towards the Kuwakki’s back. At first he couldn’t see anything wrong— aside from the fact that the guy was light-blocking and starting to smell. But then there they were, three white and sticky banana strings, hanging off the plastic hairs of the Kuwakki suit. “What did you do?” Fiore hissed as Larry doubled over in silent laughter. Divinia tugged him to the side. “I didn’t mean it!” she said. “They landed there.” “How?” “I was flicking them.” Larry was still laughing— howling, actually, in silent mirth. “Well, get them off.” “I was going to! But then he turned around and he told me to stop eating monkey fruit because it smelled like ass—” “Don’t say ass, Vinny.” “—So I dropped the peel but I couldn’t get the strings off!” Larry was now crouched over, pretending to smack the ground with his fists. The Kuwakki chose this moment to turn and face them. The mask was pulled up off his face, revealing, primarily, a large lumpy nose and a beard that appeared to be manufactured by the same people who made the costume. The horns were set back on his head, dangerously close to falling backwards and piercing the fat man in the temples. “What’s wrong with him?” the Kuwakki asked, pointing at Larry. “Something tickling your ass?”
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“Nope,” said Larry, as Fiore said, “Asthma.” Divinia said, “He said ass.” Fiore stepped on her foot. “It still stinks around here,” the Kuwakki said. His piggy eyes fixed on Divinia, a slight twitch bobbling his lower right lid. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I’ll throw the peel away.” “Thanks, sweetheart.” He sneered at her, revealing one yellow and pointed tooth. The banana threads swung like fringe as he turned back around. Larry mimicked the move, his hands splayed like stuffed gloves at his knees. He hung his tongue out of his mouth and let his eyes go dull. A rope of drool poured over the edge of his lip and stretched towards the sidewalk. Fiore and Divinia managed to keep their faces in line, but Larry couldn’t help himself and let out a snort, which sent the spit to splatter at his feet. “Is there a problem, son?” the Kuwakki said over his shoulder. “Nope!” said Larry, wiping his chin. Divinia picked up the peel and went off with it. Larry waited until the Kuwakki was back in conversation with his pudgy friend, then said, “What crawled up his rear and died?” “A Giganta worm, probably,” Fiore said. The image of one of the pink worms, its mushy head bobbing and hissing, turning on its handler— Kuwakkis were always in league with nature’s evils— was enough to break Larry down again. “Oh, that’s too funny!” he gasped. “It’s probably got its fangs lodged in his lower intestine— snack time!” Divinia reappeared, the banana peel still in her hand. “Why do you still have that?” Fiore asked. “I couldn’t find a garbage can.” “Did you check the bathroom?” “No.” “Why not?” “There was a line.” “Couldn’t you sneak past and—” “I tried, but there was a lady with one of those plastic Washa thingies, and she blocked the door and said that the uninitiated and unexperienced were not to enter here on pain of— stop scratching your penis, Larry. That’s gross.” Larry’s hand only furrowed deeper between his thighs. He grinned with all his teeth. “I’m just initiating myself for the experience,” he said, and he rocked his pelvis in the Kuwakki’s direction. The Kuwakki turned around again, his mask back over his face. An improvement, Fiore thought, but the thought was only to quell the sick feeling that rose within him as he noticed the lines of red paint descending from the corners of the Kuwakki’s mouth. This was not a man who dressed up as the bad guy: this was a man who dressed up as the king of the bad guys, the Life Drinker Kuwakki. “It still reeks,” the Life Drinker Kuwakki said. Divinia yelped and dropped the peel. “Yeah,” said Fiore, willing his voice not to squeak. “Bananas, you know.” “I happen to don’t know, actually, because I’m allergic.” If Fiore could’ve redone anything from that day— from those twenty hours of waiting in line behind a gorilla man with a penchant for fantasy and violence— he would’ve clapped a hand over Larry’s mouth before Larry was able to say, “Well, oopsy! We happened to don’t know that. Are you allergic to hot dogs, too?” And he yodelled the blood-curdling Kuwakki mating noise: “Aaaaroo-roo-roo-roo!” People were staring at them. People were turned around in line. The Kuwakki growled low in his chest. “I’m gonna battle you so hard, you little shit.” Fiore looked ahead and saw that, beyond acrylic gorilla suit, the front of the line was beginning to move. He reached down to pick up his backpack— if Larry wanted to stick around to fight this freak, so be it, but Fiore was going to don his Green Ranger cloak and he was going to see this movie. The Kuwakki swung out with a leather-palmed fist as Fiore pulled his cloak over his shoulders.
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Larry ducked, but barely. The blow missed his face and scraped along the top of his head. “Shit, man!” he said. “I just wanted to see—” The fist came again. Larry dodged it fully this time, but Divinia, looking down at her banana peel, did not. It caught her on the cheek and knocked her down. There was a moment of shining silence before she began to cry, and Larry gasped, and the Kuwakki moved to follow the line. Fiore saw the hunched security guard monitoring the crowd as they began to trickle into the theatre. He wondered if the guard had seen, if they were going to be kept out of the theatre for— for getting punched? Divinia’s cheek was bruising quickly, her eye swelling out of shape. Round tears squeezed between the lids, but even as Fiore watched they blurred from individual drops to thin lines of liquid down her cheeks. “Hey,” he shouted to the hairy banana-strung back. He picked up the peel from where Divinia had dropped it and flung it at the Kuwakki. It hit directly on target, a marvelous and lucky throw, hard enough to gain the Kuwakki’s attention once again. “You little punk!” the Kuwakki shouted, and when he saw the banana peel at his heels, he charged back towards them. They had the security guard’s attention now, rising from his chair to wheeze into action. Fiore sighed as he tugged his moss-colored cloak into place. It was the task of all Green Rangers to protect and defend the innocent, even if the innocent were stupid. He didn’t have light leather armor or even a pine branch Washa sword, but at least he had his two fists and the power of righteousness on his side. The Kuwakki was bearing down on him. The fat man and the security guard were bumbling in for backup, the security guard grinning in recognition. Larry and Divinia had mouths open in horror, and Larry had the presence of mind to say, “Move, Fiore! He’s going to kill you!” No, Larry, Fiore thought. I’m going to kill you. Then he called upon the strength of his green cloak, drew back both of his bare and determined fists, and punched.
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SEBASTIAN JOHNSON PHOTOGR APHY
My name is Sebastian Johnson. I have been taking pictures most of my life, starting with amateur videos in grade school and expanding to include 35mm photography and feature films in high school. I pursued this passion further when I enrolled in film school to study cinematography and documentary. Although my main focus is now on making films, I still carry my Pentax Spotmatic wherever I go and try to capture any image that jumps out at me. Beyond that there is no particular type of photography I’m most interested in. My favorite approach to taking pictures is wandering aimlessly with my camera around my neck, curious to see what the world shows me. ...
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Moon Home, Milwaukee, WI, 2010, 35mm, Minolta Talker Huskie in the Window, Milwaukee, WI, 2012, 35mm, Pentax Spotmatic
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Aberante, White Tanks, AZ, 2012, 35 mm, Pentax Spotmatic Milky Way, Kofa Wildlife Refuge, AZ, 2012, 35 mm, Pentax Spotmatic
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Balance, Kofa Wildlife Refuge, AZ, 35 mm, Pentax Spotmatic
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Untitled, Chicago, IL, 2010, 35mm, Minolta XG9
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Untitled, Chicago, IL, 2009, 35mm, Pentax Spotmatic Explore Lore, Ireland, 2009, 35 mm, Pentax Spotmatic
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LEONARDO SILVA STUDIO
ART
I draw because I appreciate ideas. I love the process of a thought translating a feeling into a graphic or drawing―something that people can look at and interpret for themselves. I get a lot of my inspiration from music--its lyrics or ambience, or from my dreams. I also am passionate about movies and they inspire my work as well. For me, art creates art. My favorite materials to use are pencil, eraser, nanquim pen, and paper. Sometimes draw freely and fill details then color in a simple. Sometimes it is the opposite. I enjoy drawing people. I try to respect the human body and draw it however it feels comfortable. I’ve learned that is not a wrong way to draw figures which are identical to real people and doing this does not make me less of an artist. This approach encouraged me to develop my own style. I work for my drawings to look like the picture I conceive in my mind. This doesn’t always happen, but I prefer to finish a piece then put it to the side and come back to it. Andy Warhol said “Don’t think about making art, just get it done. Let everyone else decide if it’s good or bad, whether they love it or hate it. While they are deciding, make even more art”. ...
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Cats In The Sky, T-shirt design inspired by my teacher’s company name, pencil, ink and Paint Tool Sai, 2012 “Give ‘em hell, kid!”. My homage to bullies, pencil and ink, 2012
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B, pencil and ink , 2012
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Aurora Boreal pencil and ink, 2012 Jared Leto, My idol, pencil, ink, and Photoshop CS5, 2011
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Smoke in my breath, T-shirt design inspired by a song from The Used, pencil and ink, 2012 A Punk, also a statement, pencil and ink, 2011
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Sing or Scream It! 3D, inspired by a song from The Used, Paint Tool Sai and Photoshop CS6, 2012
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AARON WOLF PHOTOGR APHY
Growing up in downtown Chicago, I was always cognizant of the surrounding architecture. What I found particularly interesting were the tall, steel frame buildings with their impenetrable facades; the patterns and intersections of lines that composed these structures greatly influenced my aesthetic sensibilities. I began my exploration of architecture with photography as I tried to find angles that would abstract buildings and flatten them into graphic and geometric compositions. In more recent projects, rather then flattening space onto a two-dimensional plane, I have chosen to create, and photograph, three-dimensional space formed from a single piece of paper. For each piece, I fold and cut a single piece of paper in such a way that directional lighting creates an abstract space. The shapes produced owe much to the ideas of Russian Constructivism and Precisionism. ...
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Bus Stop Reflections, 2009, digital print Ceiling, 2010, silver gelatin print
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Chicago Layers, 2010, silver gelatin print
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Florentine Apartment, 2008, silver gelatin print Four Corners, 2008, silver gelatin print opposite page: Sculpting Downtown, 2007, silver gelatin print South Beach Shapes, 2011, digital print
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previous pages: Printer Paper Nos. 1, 2, 4, and 5, 2012, silver gelatin print opposite page: Printer Paper No. 3, 2012, silver gelatin print
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DAVID NAKABAYASHI STUDIO
ART
In 2009 I began to use up my family photos in a series of collage pieces called “Family Reunion”. I decided that rather than keep the photographic documentation of my childhood, and my family heritage in a box, I would use it like paint. These works illustrate a strange universal narrative that has little to do with me anymore. That same year my mother’s husband, Albert, died. He spent his entire life in New Mexico except for four years in the Army during World War II. He also saved everything. As I’ve spent the last year sorting through his collection I’ve discovered inspiring materials from old documents, heirlooms and photographs to fishing tackle, hats, used wallets and broken watches. I’ve begun to reinterpret this material through my artwork, including works on paper and found wood, sculpture and installation, and in the process give new life to this otherwise meaningless history. I’ve blurred the past even further by including my own mementos with his. This continuing project is called “Memento”. I have come to know Albert, a very quiet man, more than I ever did while he was alive and for that I am grateful. ...
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Family Reunion 09, collage on wood, 4”x4”, 2010
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this page: How Convenient, collage on paper, 14”x11”, 2011 Service Award, collage on paper. 11”x14”, 2011 opposite page: Plant Food, collage on paper, 14”x11”, 2011
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ZOË ETKIN
CR EATIVE
WR ITING
My current work concerns itself with inner and outer landscape, the body, and different types of relationships. In some poems I deal with myth and spirituality, in others I take a close lens to a particular scenario. I tend to have a strong connection to image, and have been called by poet Amy Gerstler a “neo-deep image poet.” ...
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THE RED You are just a body bright arsonist Too full of openings to ask for anything but oxygen Too greedy for moisture not willing to suck it out— All the red in the world couldn’t fill you not the mountains lit on fire not the tongue-colored walls of a darkened room not poppies or any other fragrant thing Yet you are here— organic and holy strung together as slivers of light what is it to have a container what do organs look like on the inside No system of tunnels no dark stairs to descend just something pushing against the skin
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AT NIGHT I stand over you and stare as I did with my mother as a child swaying over her bed pupils wide waiting Does it surprise you that I am fully dressed that I sat in the other room unable to move Once I almost left you kissed your cheek patted the dog and said goodnight to no one Stood at the door a hand reaching— But no I crept back in the kitchen where you keep your bed removed my shoes my clothing and slid back in I tell you I am leaving now and you push out of bed Outside you light a cigarette an orange dot to follow but I have no need I allow myself to be led back to where everything has eyes
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A CRITICAL TRADITION OF BROKENNESS It was just one of the things you instructed me on how to make my knees bend—
What, did you think this was forever? No, I said Well, it could have been—
A deep, forgotten positioning of the self
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A critical tradition of brokenness of breaking down of being put into parts * We watched Larson’s film and during the rape scene you said, you like getting fucked like that, don’t you? I knew this wasn’t a question you needed an answer for In the dark of the living room I reached for your cock but you wouldn’t have it pushing me away
I don’t always tear my hair out like this I haven’t always punched bruises into my arms, legs or stayed home masturbating for an entire day It is your job to guess which of these are lies and which are true But guessing won’t get close to stopping me
as if my coming departure was the root as if I twisted us up
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WEIGHT His sheets roping me ropes of cum all over my cashmere sweater
asking that he shove his fingers in my mouth
Sometimes I need to do this feel something Even if I walk through heaps of snow to tap on the window and ask to be let in or let him shove porn in my face and say this is what I’m not doing right or what if I just like feeling overtaken No that’s not how I want it— My brain is turning on chemicals I never knew it had I’m asking that he do something he isn’t capable of asking and asking I’m asking him to press his lips somewhere near mine
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or hold the weight of my head sometimes In the bathroom I sit on the shitsmeared toilet and stare at my panties my sweater is ruined my panties are ruined Outside fat flakes rain down like ash
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CHRISTINA QUINTANA CR EATIVE
WR ITING
My plays are driven by a fascination with the in-between: the gray area of sexuality, race, career and relationships. My characters reside within the collision between external and personal identification. Most of our lives are spent in transition, yet limbo is perpetually uncomfortable. We yearn to fit within labels and simultaneously outside of them. People can easily discuss the black and white, but the grey is difficult to pin down. The unsung middle ground needs voices. I am one of those voices. ...
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THE GAY PLAY A Short Play by Christina Quintana
“It’s very dear to me, the issue of gay marriage, or as I like to call it: ‘marriage.’ You know, because I had lunch this afternoon, not gay lunch. I parked my car; I didn’t gay park it.” –Liz Feldman
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CHARACTERS: (All twenty to early thirty-somethings) A/CAMERON (M) B/CAROLINE (F) JESSIE (F) NOTES: “/” marks a cut-off & jump on the other persons’s line. Also, in the Columbia workshop production, Katie Naka (director) incorporated a pencil/ pen as the tool of control in “B”/Caroline’s mind. Of course there are plenty of other possibilities!
A woman, CAROLINE, a playwright, later “B,” paces her room and, at intervals, scribbles away in a notebook. As she scribbles, voices from her past emerge: JESSIE V.O. What they say is true: A “bi” man always ends up with a man and a “bi” woman always ends up with a man. “A”/CAMERON V.O. I can’t believe you invited your ex-girlfriend to our wedding. That’s kind of weird. JESSIE V.O. (Their break up) It was all a farce. (Beat) You never really loved me... did you? “A”/CAMERON V.O. I know, I know it wasn’t a choice. But I think you made the right one... Suddenly the world shifts-- we’re in the saturated world of Caroline/”B”’s mind, as sprung from her notebook. Caroline/”B” explores. Suddenly, “A” falls from the sky.
A Is this going to be one of those gay plays? I’d like to know in advance so that I know what I’m getting into. B It doesn’t feel particularly gay. But if you’re thinking of the archaic sense of the word, I do feel pretty good. A We are a man and a woman. So that decides it, doesn’t it? I mean men and women in plays equal romance, right? We’re obviously the romantic contingent.
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B Well, I lo[ve]... (catching herself) this playwright loves writing about love, so you’re right, we’re probably it. A Oh... but she’s a lesbian, right? B Maybe. But, even so, she does hesitate when it comes to writing gay relationships or love stories. A That’s fucked up. B Tell me about it, but it is what it is. (Beat) And I can understand it-- she’s thinking on a broader level. She’s thinking this relationship between a man and a woman is imbued with everything that a relationship with a man and a man or a woman and a woman has. Plus there’s the audience factor. A gay play: who wants that? A Gay people? B But then there’s the BTQI. “B” may pull out a chart to present this. A The what? B Of “LGBTQI.” Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer, Intersexual. A What exactly is an intersexual? B That’s beside the point. She throws the chart away. “A” thinks. A What’s your name? B I don’t have a name. I’m just “B.” A That means you can decide your name. Make it something really feminine. Like Ashley or Bianca.
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B I don’t like either of those. A You’ve got to decide. And I’ll be Butch. B That’s not a real name. A Sure it is. Doesn’t it make me seem strong and rugged? You wouldn’t think a guy named Butch is gay, would you? B (Not so convinced) Well... Suddenly a woman, Jessie, in a modern business suit enters, holding a briefcase; she’s not having this.
JESSIE What’s going on here? A Who are you?! How did you get in here? JESSIE I’m a representative from the playwright. She doesn’t like the way this is going. “B” recognizes Jessie, though we may not be able to tell right away.
B She doesn’t? A That’s not our fault. JESSIE Not to worry, not to worry. We can solve this. I’ve got notes. B (Snarky; It’s her play) Do the notes say what my name is? JESSIE I think the story is a little more important than your name right now. A But we’re trying to figure out if it’s a gay play or not.
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JESSIE (Suddenly VERY serious) This most certainly is not one of those plays. Jessie pulls out some notes, maybe a pair of reading glasses.
JESSIE CONT’D (Reads) Ah! Here we are. It says here that by this point you two should be kissing passionately. B But that doesn’t make sense. JESSIE And why not? B Well, it just doesn’t feel right. JESSIE Frankly, I don’t care. I care about the audience here. Look at them! They’re dying for some heat here! So go impose your own agenda somewhere else. A Okay. I guess we’ll try it. B No! JESSIE What do you mean, “no”? Let’s get this show/ on the-B You don’t recognize me, do you? JESSIE I... (almost slips) Of course I don’t recognize you. A Who are you, really? JESSIE I told you already! I’m a representative from the playwright. B (Calls her bluff) You are, are you? A (To JESSIE) I don’t believe you.
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JESSIE And why not? A Well, I’m not sure yet, but I have my reasons. B Jessie. JESSIE No! No, no, no! You can’t do that! Will you please just kiss him passionately? That’s the way we’re going to solve this. B But I know it’s you. Jessie ignores “B” and positions “A” and “B” as if they are manikins.
B CONT’D (To JESSIE) What are you doing? Jessie persists. “A” kneels down, in a proposal stance, and “B” has her hands on her face in an, “Oh my God!” expression.
A (Stilted) Will you marry me? B (Mechanical) Yes... Jessie sets “A” and “B” up eating breakfast.
B (To “A,” quietly while Jessie manipulates them) What’s going on? A (Also quiet) I don’t know. Jessie looks at what she’s done.
JESSIE There. Now, I think you can pick up from here and everything will be fine... A (To “B”) But if we’re in the kitchen eating breakfast together –
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doesn’t that mean we’re already married? B We live together. We’re not married / yet. A Oh... Jessie walks away.
B (Hands still on face) Hey! Where are you going? They look at each other.
B CONT’D Why are you doing this? JESSIE This is your decision. Nice and easy, laid out in front of you. B It was never a decision. You knew I’d been with men before. We weren’t working. JESSIE We were working fine until he came along. A Me? JESSIE (To “B”) I just think you need to choose one or the other, okay? One minute you’re gay, one minute you’re straight. I can’t keep up with you. B Why do you feel the need to label everything? He’s a person and you’re a person. I fall in love with people, not gender. A Are we---[together]? JESSIE What a crock of bullshit. He has a dick and I don’t! The facts are the facts. A So this is a gay play.
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JESSIE & “B” Shut up! B You’re so narrow-minded, that’s your problem. Why is it so hard for you to understand anyone who’s even the slight bit different from you? JESSIE Oh, that’s rich. Because I’ve got a problem with my exgirlfriend sleeping with a guy, I’m narrow minded? A Ex-girlfriend. Jessie glares at him. During the following, “A” positions “B” and Jessie toward a girl-ongirl kiss moment, but then surprise! He taps and changes it before the moment of truth to a Charlie’s Angels image, himself included.
A CONT’D Well, I just want you to know... (searches for a name) AshleyBianca, that I’m completely fine with the fact that you dated a woman. In fact, I think it’s kind of hot. (A moment of realization) So I am straight! Look at that! JESSIE (Under her breath) Oh my God... B What do you mean by that? A Well I mean it’s not like you were dating another guy or anything, so it’s fine. B And that suddenly invalidates the entire relationship? Jessie laughs. She suddenly finds this all very amusing.
A I didn’t say that. It’s just not as big of a deal. B I think a relationship with anyone for four years is kind of a big deal. A Yeah. Okay.
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B So if I were to leave you right now and just run away with Jessie here, you’d be fine with it. A Well, I mean, I wouldn’t be fine with it. But, at the end of the day, you want to be with a guy. It just makes sense. JESSIE (To “B”) This is what you left me for? A Now hold on. Don’t go making me into the bad guy here. I’m just talking about reality. Jessie, now I’m going to ask you to be completely honest with me here, if you had the choice, if you could, let’s say, be with a man instead of a woman, wouldn’t you be with a man? Wouldn’t it just make your life easier? Your family happy? Your Mom could see you prancing down the aisle in a long white dress and there he’d be, your future husband, waiting for you. Jessie really thinks about this.
B Oh my God. Yeah right. Come on, Jessie. You’re a dyke. I can’t even imagine you being with a guy--you love being gay. JESSIE But if I had a choice. A Yes? A beat.
JESSIE (Guilty) I’d probably choose a guy. B You’re kidding, right? A (Mimicking a game show chime) Ding, ding, ding! JESSIE I guess I should go. B No. Come on. Don’t leave. You can’t-- you have to tell us where the story goes from here.
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JESSIE That’s not for me to decide. B (Smiles; patronizing) But you’re the playwright’s representation! JESSIE No. I’m not. A Ah-ha! I knew it all along! B (To Jessie) Why are you here? JESSIE I just wanted to see you. A Well if you’re not going to represent the playwright, then I am– someone has to. JESSIE But you don’t know what she wants. A I know enough not to completely hijack the story! B But. This is the story. A But what about the proposal and the passionate kiss and all that stuff? Isn’t that important? JESSIE Yes, it is important. B (Referring to she and “A”) We’re in love. A We are? Jessie and “B” both nod.
B (Again referring to she and “A”) We’re getting married. Jessie pulls an announcement out of her briefcase.
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B You got it. I almost call/ed... JESSIE It came in the mail last week. Jessie hands the announcement to “A” and he reads it over. A Oh. (Beat.) You’re right. JESSIE (To “B”) Maybe it’s better this way. This one’ll count in all 50 states. B Oh my God-- this isn’t a competition! A So we’re sure this is the right story? JESSIE Yes. We’re sure. B You can’t speak for all of us. JESSIE Well, someone has to make / a decision here--A I have a confession. JESSIE For crying out loud... B What is it? A I’m gay. Jessie saw this coming.
B No, you’re not. Trust me, you’re not. We’re getting married. JESSIE (To herself) That doesn’t mean anything... A I’m calling it off.
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B But. I love you. A No, you don’t. You don’t even know my name. B Butch! Your name is Butch! A No. It’s Cameron. JESSIE I’ve always liked that name. It suits you. B So--but--what does all this mean? A Does it have to mean something? JESSIE I think it can mean whatever we want it to mean, right? A Do you think that’s what the playwright intended? JESSIE I think so. B Stop! Just stop, okay?! Stop pretending like you know what this is supposed to be! JESSIE & “A” But-- isn’t this what you wanted? B No... I just...I just want to figure my life out. JESSIE Well, we all do. Jessie and “A” go to “B” to comfort her.
B (Gesturing at them to stop)I just want to be alone right now. Jessie understands and moves to leave; Cameron/”A” lingers for a moment.
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JESSIE (Gently) Cameron. Jessie and Cameron/“A” fall away. Caroline/ “B” walks through the space, changed. At last, she returns to her room, to her notebook and pen. Her starting point. After a moment, Cameron enters in a raincoat. This is the real world.
CAMERON Caroline. We need to talk... Lights.
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MARCO PEREZ GR APHIC
DESIGN
My relation to my work is not based in what I can gain from it, but pure enjoyment of it’s existence. I enjoy whatever I can get from it. I have studied photography and film in Mexico. Now I study Graphic Design which has been similar to learning to read and write. I am studying the langauge of design in its fullest capacity. I get inspiration from colors, music, and feelings, though it is hard to say specifically what the source of my inspiration is. Inspriation is something we do not control, it just happens. We can only be aware and alert that is exists. This is the skill of an artist—the capacity to give oneself room to be aware of the opportunity and potential of the inspiration that makes noise inside of us. It is ironic that we need systems to live and at the same time creating new ones frees us of expectation. Surprise, conciliation and enjoyment are the answer for me and my work. ...
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QUICK LOOKS
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ROBIN ZINKY
Christina “Robin” Zinky is a high school senior at Youth Initiative High School (yihs.net) in the small town of Viroqua, WI. Contact: Robinzinky7@gmail.com .
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VIRGINIA ZIRKLE
Virginia Zirkle attended College of Santa Fe in New Mexico then transferred to Columbia College in Chicago,Illinois. Contact: virginia.zirkle@loop.colum.edu
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SUBMISSION GUIDELINES for KNACK MAGAZINE PHOTOGRAPHERS, GRAPHIC DESIGNERS & STUDIO ARTISTS
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Missed a submission deadline? Do not fear! K N ACK oper ates on a rolling submission s ystem. This means that we w ill consider wor k from any ar tist at any time. Our “ deadlines� merely ser ve as a cutof f for each issue of the magazine. A ny and all wor k sent to knackmagazine1@ gmail.com w ill be considered for sub mission as long as it follow s submission guidelines. The day wor k is sent merely reflec t s the issue it w ill be considered for. Have questions or suggestions? E-mail us. We w ant to hear your thought s, comment s, and concer ns. Sincerely, A r iana Lombardi, Editor
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SUBMISSION DEADLINES ISSUE 2 Wednesday, October 10th, 2012 ISSUE 3 Wednesday, November 14th, 2012 ISSUE 4 Wednesday, December 12th, 2012 ISSUE 5 Monday, January 14th, 2012 ISSUE 6 Wednesday, February 13th, 2013 ISSUE 7 Wednesday, March 13th, 2013
best,
Will Smith, Andrea Vaca, Jonathon Duar te, Ariana Lombardi
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KNACK NEEDS YOUR HELP! KNACK is requesting material to be reviewed. Reviews extend to any culture related event that may be happening in the community which you live. Do you know of an exciting show or exhibition opening? Is there an art collective in your city that deserves some press? Are you a musician, have a band, or are a filmmaker? Send us your CD, movie, or titles of upcoming releases which you’d like to see reviewed in KNACK. We believe that reviews are essential to creating a dialogue about the arts. If something thrills you, we want to know about it and share it with the KNACK community—no matter if you live in the New York or Los Angeles, Montreal or Mexico. All review material can be sent to knackmagazine1@gmail.com. Please send a copy of CDs and films to 1720 West Alameda Street Santa Fe, NM 87501. If you would like review material returned to you include return postage and packaging. Entries should contain pertinent details such as name, year, release date, websites and links (if applicable). For community events we ask that information be sent up to two months in advance to allow proper time for assignment and review. We look forward to seeing and hearing your work.
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