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E D I T O R S & S TA F F Andrea Catalina Vaca Co-Founder, Publisher, Editor-In-Chief, Artist Coordinator, Digital Operations, Photographer, Circulation Director, Production Manager, Business Manager Jonathon Duarte Co-Founder, Creative Director Ariana Lombardi Co-Founder, Executive Editor, Artist Coordinator, Writer Chelsey Alden Editor, Writer Fernando Gaverd Digital Operations, Designer BFrank Designer
Covers & Layout: Andrea Catalina Vaca First & Last Spread Photography: A.C. Vaca Photography
CONTENTS FEATURED ARTISTS
Artist Bios
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Leah May Lim-Atienza 12 Christa Capua
22
N. Miguel Santos
30
Peter Eleveld
40
Skylar Fray
48
Josh Stein
54
KNACK Magazine, Issue #62
Leah May Lim-Atienza is a 43-year-old artist from Cebu, Philippines. She is the author of Look to the Sky, a full-color poetry book containing photos and short poems depicting her journey through depression. She started writing professionally in 2000 when she joined as a news reporter for a local TV station, RPN 9 - Cebu. In 2002, she transitioned to writing news and feature stories for Cebu Daily News. Lim-Atienza is a founding member of a poetry group called The Stray Poets Collective, which was formed in October 2017. A year after, she became a member of the prestigious Women in Literary Arts – Cebu (WILA - Cebu), the first all-women literary group in the province which was founded in September 1991. E: leighheart@gmail.com
Christa Capua is an Asheville and Miami based artist working in multimedia and digital collage. She earned her BFA in painting and drawing from Bennington College in 1994, as well as graduating Cum Laude from Florida International University in 2005 with an MS in Counseling. IG: @christa.e.c E: christa@christacapua.com WEB: www.christacapua.com
When not toiling on the phone as a BPO (Business Process Outsourcing) manager, Miguel Santos spends his time in-between a book, thinking about his next snack, or practicing his next spoken word piece. His work has been featured in Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, based in Hong Kong. He works with The Stray Poets Collective, a poetry group based in Cebu, Philippines, which aims to enliven the local literary scene. E: littleblueworm@gmail.com
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Peter Eleveld, 70, lives in Olst, Netherlands. Peter’s awards include: 4x Nominee, FAPA International Fine Photography Awards (April 2020), 3 Honorable Mentions in the Monovisions Black & White Awards (2019), 7 Honorable Mentions in the IPA Awards New York (Sept. 2019), 3 Honorable Mentions in the 13th Pollux Awards (2019), to name a few.
Photograph by: Ilse de Vries, IG:@IlseDeVries
Skylar Fray is an actor and poet based in Albuquerque, New Mexico. She originally hails from Manhattan, New York.
Josh Stein is a lifelong multi-mode creative artist, musician, writer, professor, and adult beverage maker. With formal training in calligraphy, graphic design, and color work; more than two decades as a researcher, teacher, and writer in cultural analysis in the vein of Birmingham and Frankfurt Schools; and a decade and a half as a commercial artist and designer for multiple winery clients; he brings his influences of Pop art, Tattoo flash and lining techniques, and Abstract Surrealism and Expressionism to the extreme edge where graphic design and calligraphy meet the Platonic theory of forms. The resulting metallic inks and acrylics on canvas delight and perplex, moving between the worlds of solidity and abstraction.
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LEAH MAY LIM-ATIENZA My father introduced me to Vincent Van Gogh at an early age through the song, “Vincent” by Don McClean. My mother opened up the world of poetry, fairy tales, and fiction to me. At the age of two, my favorite was “The Owl and the Pussycat” by Edward Lear. In sixth grade, I started writing my own poems, inspired, in part, by my auntie. In 2017, I joined The Stray Poets Collective and I truly discovered my voice as a poet and a writer. With the help of other members, I improved and flourished in my writing and stuck to what I do best, minimalist poetry.
at this time at this time of my life when shadows are growing longer i remember a childhood of poems and stories of pussy willows, owls, and pussycats of rose white and red rose of a mermaid turned to foam of a girl and her grandfather up on the Alps
at this time of my life when dark days are plenty and sunlight is as fleeting as the life of a butterfly i remember a childhood when playing house became a game of knives and shattered plates when a cardboard box became a coffin
at this time of my life when sunsets are more beautiful than sunrises i remember a childhood of make-believe and wonder of cakes and soda on plastic tea cups and plates of strawberry lollipops and baseball games of rides up on Papa’s shoulders of bubbles in the rain
at this time of my life when remembering shifts from happy to sad in an instant i do my best to center on the sunflowers even as funeral wreaths color my nights
13
any old Sunday morning watermelon slices on a blue plate left out in the sun flies swarm the mango peels the toddler threw on the pathway
nowhere to go at the crack of dawn the rooster crows it’s tiktilaok the quiet the stillness in between sleep and wakefulness somebody curses his slippers make a sucking sound as he pulls them from the muddy puddles left by the rain last night i hear him swear again as he slips and lands on his ass with a splat i bet he needs to go back to his house to change i listen to him grumble until i could make out his words no more i lie in the cocoon of my corduroy blanket i stretch my toes pop my knuckles i breathe today is another day where am i going
a red cart lie on its side spilling sand onto grass mown this morning the fisherman wakes up late he came home the night before dancing the tequila song the fisherman’s buddy sings a bar song as he drives down the highway, his cargo missing a basket of watermelons
14
moments on a leaf, newly sprung a caterpillar crawls and starts to nibble on a bench nearby a toddler gets his first taste of lollipop up ahead, on a trail leading to the sea a couple rejoices over an ultrasound image to their left, on a toadstool, by some flowers an octogenarian sits as he smiles at a widow seated on the grass to their right, on a hammock tied to a mango tree two teenagers lie with fingers linked tight in the air, you can hear snatches of their conversations exclamations of delight a salutation whispered promises a giggle, a laugh all around, you can see the green of life on the leaves, the blooms, the trees on the faces of the toddler licking on the couple rejoicing on the octogenarian smiling on the teenagers lying together from a distance the first round of fireworks pops showering the skies with starbursts a balloon, and then two flies into the sky a celebration of some kind on the ground the caterpillar crawls onto a tree and starts making a cocoon
15
indecision i poured turpentine into a glass container that once held spaghetti sauce this morning i watched the clear liquid slip and slide over the brushes i used for oil paints the blue never washing off i tried my hand at watercolors again, the other week the instructor said to use gentle washes of hues i couldn’t get my hands to go light with the colors i dabbed at the paper to get a textured effect she said i ought to try acrylics instead i turned to my typewriter it is pink in color its ink is black though the same as the font on my laptop with its blinking cursor similar to the marks on my journals the ones i never got to fill out there are mountains of crumpled paper on the floor today, i debated over picking a pen or a paint brush i held on tight to a book i was halfway through reading turned on my laptop, and watched Netflix instead
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paper plane i wrote your name on the paper i folded into an airplane that i let fly through the distance from where i sat mindful of the bees buzzing in my stomach and my chest beyond the fence that separates my yard from yours i watched the paper plane land on the rosebush you watered this morning its wings kissing the petals of an opening bud
playing at life she kept the butterfly in a case in her room she left it beating its wings of black and purple against the glass graceful in panic fierce in captivity eventually dying its life petering out as its wings lay tattered on its back she let the moth dance on her fingertips she allowed it to stay close to the candles she lighted last night she watched it flit closer to the flames, encouraged it ‘til one of its wings crumbled into ashes and it fell straight onto her waiting hands
when you find the plane would you show it the same curiosity as the dead bloom that crumbled in your hands would you notice the ink blots on the paper, the ridges made by my pen when i wrote your name next to the words i could never say or would you show it the same disregard you give to the dead leaves you snip and throw away
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a walk down the city pier i walk through the streets of this city’s pier dust motes swirling up in the air displaced by vans, trucks, cars honking speaking to the vibrations on soles cracked from the cement’s heat i walk grime clinging to the sides of feet arms swinging crown of head warming under the morning sun the air drying off sweat on skin salt forming on creases of neck folds
inside elbows below knees i walk seeing faces wrinkled, weathered, unsmiling eyes averted brushing by bumping into bodies, warm smelling of armpits, hair fresh, unwashed pacing along feet in worn-out slippers, scuffed work boots shuffling towards the south, the north to directions unknown i walk among these people seeing tears, kisses on cheeks smelling breakfasts of eggs, dried fish on breaths
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stinking of goodbyes unsaid hearing tires screeching from a distance a 10-wheeler van hits a porter running late hurrying towards a docking passenger boat he falls hard into the dust amongst the sea of onlookers, i walk onwards tasting in my tongue the sour bile of torn test papers graduations missed babies unborn one-night stands morning afters hands on skin glass bones broken on the streets of the city’s pier.
mornings without… when you took a walk this morning did you know you’d end up in the grove of trees where you first held her hand her skin was softer then cool with sweat yet hot like cinders the moment you touched her fingers did you know you’d end up tracing the bark of the tree where you pressed her for that first kiss scratching her back a bit underneath her blue shirt her lips were softer then warm like hot cocoa salty like buttered popcorn when you took a walk this morning did you know you’d end up curled on the hard ground dry leaves for pillows the breeze for your blanket crying for a girl, a woman who no longer is her skin, her lips are part of the earth now all you have of her are snapshots in your mind of her smile showing a crack on a tooth of the sway of her skirt yellow like sunflowers of the wave of her hair flowing past her shoulders when you took a walk this morning did you know you’d end up here
19
Quarantine Shorts staying at home
quarantine
boredom
the square outside our house is empty, save for a jumping rope coiled by the acacia tree adorned by yellow handkerchiefs flying in the wind, creating prisms under the sun
the orange peeled with teeth and thumbs rolled off the table when a pitcher of milk was placed by mother who said it was from Bessie the cow slaughtered to feed a family of twelve so father could stay home
she stares as the broom swishes back and forth as the dust motes fly and dance with the purple paper her dog was chewing on earlier she stares as her pup scurries to and fro to catch the moving bristles, unmindful of how they tickle his nose as she sits and stares on
inside our house, silence reigns save for the occasional slap of running feet on wooden floors our little boy plays alone
summer vacation, in time of the coronavirus
quarantine effects
a kite caught stuck on electrical wire its thin plastic used by the kid who probably made it is fraying right where the wind hits it the hardest its tail flapping at every whiff of breeze starting to come undone, untethered
outside, brother Sun beats relentlessly on the earth grasses turn brown of thirst, the soil hardening and cracking like the soles of the farmer who tills his land, under the heat of Master Sun to bring rice, corn, vegetables to the tables of people who were asked to stay at home without work, they twiddle their thumbs, nibble on lips, crack at the seams, inside they fall prey to the same relentless beating but, this time, by Sister Moon
just below the kite a slipper was left on the street, quiet from the sounds of laughter, of children chasing after one another, of kids shouting to let out more twine so the kite would fly higher and higher it is summer vacation 20
love in time of the coronavirus now, it is no longer love is in the air it is the coronavirus you hide behind a blue surgical mask grateful that you can hide your mouth turned down since you relish the fog misting your glasses when you breathe it hides your eyes ready to cry at the mere mention of the old couple who died one after the other
you cry because you wish for the virus to steal your breath much like how he did when he smiled before he pressed his lips on your forehead you cry because the fever that claimed his body is unlike the fire in your throat you could not even dry the towelette on your forehead your temperature not the kind that brought him to the ER you cry because the coughs you expel are unlike the exhalations of spit and phlegm that came out of his mouth
you cry not because they must have held hands days before one expired from the illness that took the other’s will to live you cry because you are in boxed in quarantined from the rest of the islands making up the archipelago where you are
you cry because unlike the old couple his hands only had air to hold before he passed you were in your room your phone silent on your night table love is no longer in the air it is the coronavirus you wear a blue surgical mask there is no one at home but you
21
CHRISTA CAPUA My work is mixed media incorporating collage, digital photo manipulation, and image transfers. The subject matter explores themes of gender, sacred geometry, the life cycle and the collective unconscious. My work as a psychotherapist for 15 years and my work as an artist are intertwined in that both explore the subconscious; the meaning and symbolism we attribute to the events in our lives; and the process of suffering & redemption, of death & rebirth, that are experiences we all must share.
Moonman Map
Color Pop Moonman
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Spectrum Moonman
Divine Feminine
Opposite page: Color Burst Moonman 25
Icon3
26
Melding
27
Moonman In Bloom
Opposite page: We Are Stardust We Are Golden
Moonman Pinup
28
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N. MIGUEL SANTOS My pieces focus on relating my own memories in written form. I write mostly about mundane subjects and significant experiences, crystallizing the events leading up to a single moment. I like to tell stories that are both personal and relatable, sharing memories and metaphors and providing an avenue for the reader to project their own experiences.
there is always a price
just like love one-sided a loan that i never got paid for but i pay back all the same
love it’s like a box of chocolates you get what you get or it’s a room full of space of your stale breath your scent your stray hairs on the floor
i find that despite these uneven terms unfair conditions i sign, still three pens empty look the pages are black and the ink is dry but here this last page i left a space
it’s the imprint you made on the left side of my bed the small letters in my drawer or the faded photos in my wallet love it is a contract one i never signed but it is mine all the same
for your name love there is always a price and I have already paid
love in italics like terms and conditions i never agreed to but followed all the same love this agreement it’s unfair
love in italics
31
gravitas it would be right about this time right after dinner, right after slaving away in the backroom kitchen you grab a quick bite and sit on the cement-block stepping stone you’re still, and quiet towel transformed from sweat collector to swatter hands darting from side to side the flies buzz away yet you do not move i asked you one time as my encyclopedia lay open gravity and gravitas what’s the difference? gravitas the solemnity of manner your quiet loudness hands moving faster than vocal cords because we never knew you by your words scarce as they were i recognized you by your smile by your strong arms and gentle touch in the skill of your fingers with each slice and seasoning gravitas the dignity of silence because you taught me to love with my hands not with my mouth to care with my eyes and not with my tongue
i remember you never liked spicy food and you loved soy sauce liked you loved your wife and all that came after gravitas the stability and sobriety and isn’t it ironic how we’d always find you with a bottle and you loosened up and your words are plenty again and it was nothing but love but laughter but good intentions but better weather and best wishes i had come to fear the day when i became a dandelion because the wind swept me away from your side gravitas and gravity i can hardly tell the difference the way you pulled us close yet never move an inch from your sitting spot it was quiet confidence and sheer force of personality we were drawn to you sunflowers to sun when your body failed you and the funeral guest book lie full to bursting, i knew there was never a difference
32
to mr. walker There’s something about the way the ice clinks as I slosh this glass around. Arbitrary sniffs of scotch whiskey whilst making a pungent face, saying how it smells of oak and bullshit. Call me out on my problem. Call me out by shot. Call me out by every single slurred syllable synonymous and synchronized with awkward gestures and eyes glazed and bloodshot. Call my name while I reach for the umpteenth bottle and I’ll down every goddamn gulp with clenched teeth, weak knees and forgetting to breathe and I’ll gyrate like I’m irate at a world that cannot relate to my hate of every single time I have to fake-smile and speak words that carry no weight. Call me again in the morning. Call me again at the bottom of this stained-glass bottle recovering from headaches as subtle as the Bible. And when the disciple of archetypal self-harm and denial come calling, then I’ll get up. Bleary-eyed and unreligious, I’ll get the fuck up. Caged in this prison called conformity and expectations, I’m already fucking up. Chained to this foreign land, on a city built on sand with absolutely no idea if I slept with just you or the entire band, I’m already fucking up. Awake. Astir. It was all a fucking blur. At this point, I guess it doesn’t matter.
33
the day after
i haven’t dreamt of you in a while back when our bones were still growing lips still pressed wondering and wandering under this dimly lit sidewalk we promised it was forever and a day and ever after after the dusk and the dawn and the waning hours we said yes yes to our scars yes to the sobs after laughter yes to the sullen silence sleeping surreptitiously seen and not heard
but never could, or never would because some things should never leave this tongue so my jaws are clamped shut forever and a day over and over cycling through our bullshit like an infinite loop of love of hate of regret of saying the wrong things of hurt we never meant over and over of sorry-not-sorries of misguided forgiveness and every day i fall in love, again i haven’t thought of love in a while because remember i told you i pictured love as you, ten years later a little worn, worse for wear but happy and with me and all those plans all the children with names picked out all the dreams all those wishes on eyelashes all those 11:11 whispers all those paper thin prayers and promises
yes to finite forevers yes to finicky and fleeting feelings and the fading footsteps of me walking out your door i haven’t dreamt of you in a while not since our hearts crashed followed by our bodies our minds our stubbornness we didn’t know if this would work but we tried anyway
we’re past that
i haven’t written to you in a while piles of letters half finished sitting in a corner of my mind messages i should have sent
because it’s the day after the day after forever and we’re at a fork in the road
34
you give me one last wistful smile and go left, and i don’t follow i haven’t thought of you in a while it’s been one million nine hundred and fifteen thousand two hundred minutes since i last took a step time stopped for me that day and the day after i take the next step burying our goodbyes carving smiles into trees whisper i love you, one last time in between the leaves i haven’t walked this path in a while the last time i did, i followed your trail and i came to the fork and on the day after i follow the unmarked path the unknown through the undergrowth i turn right and leave “us” along the roadside like the fairy in the mountain leading us home just a little longer i can make it back home
35
crooked teeth the best compliment i ever got from you was you saying how you loved my smile my teeth are not in the right shape too big to fit in my mouth too crooked to look good too bent from abuse
teeth aligned and perfect sparkling like stardust making me believe in smiles again
but you loved it anyway
maybe i need to smile again because it’s been hard gums swollen from neglect because i forgot what it means to take care of me and i’m losing tooth after tooth and i do nothing and i let them clatter on the ground
maybe
i never told you that you taught me how to smile with my crooked teeth with my eyes with love it’s weird i don’t get compliments a lot and i’ve been riding that one high since 2012
like trash because men are trash and i’m trash swept up by the night cleaner because who wants the rubbish to feel sorry for itself
and i’m afraid of the dentist i’m afraid to lose all that makes me who i am a boy at the right place, at the right time
i never considered braces because i’ve convinced myself that someone loves these crooked teeth despite the fact that it gets worse every year because lockjaw is worth it when there’s sugar in the
it’s funny my health plan doesn’t cover dental but here you are
36
end and the rot is bearable, barely braces are barriers to the bigtime because who am i if not for my bunny teeth incisors rooted the wrong way molars, missing one in the back i’m afraid of the dentist because i need to set the record straight and i have to swallow pride as the grime is scraped away because the sweet tooth is not worth the cavity and the lockjaw is not worth the kisses and my smile is no longer yours i visited the dentist the other day took the x-rays had my teeth cleaned still crooked i’m told it would take three years to fix to realign who i am and fill in the gaps and smile again
37
exit wound i found it by accident your pink jewelry box top drawer on the left smelling faintly of detergent and iron
despite the the capacity of 5 but i was a kid then how could i have known
it wasn’t hard to open a loose clasp, morbid curiosity and five minutes in the dark that was all it took it was heavier than i thought that tiny 9mm, and that small box of bullets funny how i thought it’d be shinier i asked you about it but all i got were vague responses protection, against bad men against the monsters under my bed against harm i had too many questions but i bit my tongue because your answers never answered them anyway it hasn’t clicked until now the way the bullets were loose in the box and how the magazine was loaded with that single bullet
how could i know how close i was to an alternate timeline when i saw you take it out when you thought no one was watching i had questions then too and i’m glad i asked them before it was too late because things got better and you stopped taking out the box you were homeless, but smiled more i checked the box to make sure it was still there, bullets and all you asked me never to open the box and i never did i kept it secret, under your clothes top drawer on the left smelling faintly of detergent and iron you didn’t need it anymore, you whisper a smile dancing on your lips one found its way to my mouth as we locked the drawer for good
38
the sailor i come from a line of seafarers like my ancestors sailed across the world to get here full of hope they plied the waters as i ply the streets
or how this postcard, on the captain’s door just like all the others postmarked with vistas from elsewhere in the neat pen of my mother “i will be home soon” i was 10 and the deck of this ship docked in a new city speaking a tongue that never fit mine and each step forward, unsure i never found my sea-legs i was 14
i sometimes wonder what they thought of Theseus and i wonder if he ever got tired of his ship since people always think about replacing it’s pieces like changing shirts
piece by piece, the flotsam the wreck the loose cargo the bits of this sailboat life broken off and replaced the cracks sprouting leaks while the hold takes water
when my thoughts stray i identify with the ship because isn’t it sad that the broken pieces, are never good enough to keep it afloat like this piece, in the middle the mast of our ship, bound for ever after broke off and sailed for bluer waters because a wife, son, and another baby on the way knocked the wind out of his sails i was 3 or this piece, from the hull when we were left at port and she sailed away hoping to come back someday with a better life in tow i was 6
and here i am now, 27 some parts old, some new some still in tatters anchored by the docks wishes made on my starboard hopes on my port-side and different planks, old and new on the stern am i still the same ship? am i still worthy of Theseus? am i still allowed to sail? someday soon when we’ve steered clear of rocks and ruin, past the horizon maybe there-answers
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PETER ELEVELD Photography has always been my great passion and I made a career in photography for many years, analogue and digital, working with companies such as Rijksmuseum (Museum of the Netherlands) and Amazon. But I came to a point where I couldn’t feel the excitement and creativity anymore and decided to leave the corporate world in 2014 to fulfill my lifelong ambition to create from my heart and soul, not in assignment anymore. I bought a big 8”x8” wooden camera and started experimenting with the wet plate collodion process. The wet plate process is exciting and full of surprises: you only have one prepared wet plate and one chance to get it right.
Glass in Glass
Drowned
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A
Little Goat
B
A - Melon B - Fungi C - Trapped
C
Hogweed
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Poppy
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Flower Composition
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The Egg House
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Poplar Fluff
Floating
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SKYLAR FRAY When you come to the breaking point, positive or negative, remember: ‘everything is falling together, and that only happens with time.’
Stuck in a loop. Don’t be sorry, but I broke the glass. Don’t be sorry/
Stuck in a Loop, and I’m on the Edge
You are clearly uncomfortable. Don’t be sorry. You clearly didn’t expect this to go on for so long? Shall I so long? Farewell? Auf Wiedersehen? Good NiGood Morning! Hey. Is for horses I said good morning, But alright. You’re tired. You wanted this. I manifested you Prepared. With all my flaws I manifested you/ Shutdown I’ve been shut down. Don’t light the match, don’t burn the bridge be the light but the match is lit. And I want to drop it because it feels so good/ What did you expect? For me to be your pet? You’re birdie to come collect? How dare you. It was your bet/
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We’re Sick n’ Tired of Being Sick n’ Tired I’m sick n’ tired of being sick n’ tired My people runnin’ this race, their brow Sweatin’ They tired They brow is perspired Hearts always open Past the point of expired We sick and n’ tired. Mom I’m sick n’ tired.
this lot? So let me tell you - JUST STOP Little boy blue You better stop blowing your shot In case you haven’t forgot So let me remind you The people that you’re killing are the people that you FINE. YES! We pay our share And every year you’ve taken 2020 WE FIGHT BACK. Beware, yeah, you better be shaken You shook And my people still wakin’ up, walkin’, workin’ round the clock. And all we want to do is cast out our lot. ‘Cause Muthafucker
God O, God I can’t breathe Seein’ black deaths after deaths We under siege I can’t believe I’m living in times like these Now we up in arms I can’t even say FUCK THE POLICE. Cause I’m sick n’ tired of being sick n’ tired My people runnin’ this race, their brow Sweatin’ They tired Hearts always open Past the point of expired We sick n’ tired. Mom I’m sick n’ tired.
We sick n’ tired We sick n’ tired We sick n’ tired Of being sick n’ tired My people runnin’ this race Wiping they brows Perspired Yes, legs are tired Hearts always open & past the point of expired We sick n’ tired Ma I’m sick n’ tired/
I know it’s time we throw it back in their face. Yes, Yes I’m talking about that thing called race. I know we’ve had our fill I know our cups runneth over I pray to God and ask Him when will this shit all be over. How many names we lost How many souls were shot How many more years do we have to carry
Outta gas No pit stop We outta gas Runnin’ on empty Sweatin’ the sweat of
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Pain Fear Fire & tears We sick n’ tired Our souls are past the point of expired.
& forever & ever That new day is today People will say we took it by force So that our black brothers and sisters can stay the course To just sleep in our homes gahdammit jog down the road Go about our business Instead of living in fear Cause it’s like living alone.
White tears? White shock? Please don’t ask We’ve had enough. GOOGLE IS FREE. Check your white affiliations What black people need right now Is white circle’s communication About the BS that is flying To stop our black bodies from dying Being killed & murdered To not have our black mothers crying WE DEMAND WHITE ACTION That will surpass & stop The white agenda It will call out AKA The specific white vendetta
And the children don’t forget They don’t know from that age If they white or they black White parents Breed love, teach love Teach your children to see us So, if trouble comes They will step up & have our backs To see us. To lead with love It starts in the home And at the end of the day We all look different But XX, XY We have the same chromosomes You know what I’m saying But right now I gotta dip cause, shit I’m sick n’ tired So much I’m done That’s it.
Yes, Yes, Yes, Now that that I got your attention I’m sick n’ tired That history is repeating My people are sick n’ tired 24/7 And there hasn’t been no amendment/ So what we need to do We must come together Today Tomorrow
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Guard Down I let you in, I let you in, I let you in, It’s not a sin. I let you in, I let you in. Then you go and say you don’t know me. Don’t know me then. It’s not a sin I let you in/ It’s a wonder - the thought of love, the thought of a person that you take away. The leisure of a human gaze, their mouth. They know exactly what to say.
And Here We Are IN or OUT? Mixed signals Like a traffic officer on their first day.
It’s a wonder that it doesn’t go away. Like an imprint/
We’re all adults here... say what’s on your mind because it’s out of our control. So if you need space take it and the time. Remember you took mine.
I let you in, I let you in, I let you in, It’s not a sin. I let you in, I let you in.
Don’t. Worry. About. Me. Please/
Then you go and say you don’t know me. Don’t know me then. You don’t want to know me/
I am worrying about the Suns of June. Will I see them freely? Without walking on eggshells? And will I ever truly feel their full warmth without discomfort/
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Ouch, You Hit Me in the Heart Plans change and life still goes on. Ouch! You hit my heart And here we are 9 days down the road. It’s like breathing with you, simple Like daybreak and nightfall/ Nervous and shy we both caught a bad case of butterflies. And here I write the words leave my mind and paint the page. I. Want. You/
J O S H
S T E I N
My current work is driven by a key question: can platonic ideals be made manifest in ink and acrylic on canvas? I am attempting to reorient what “wine country� art can and should be. My work, in particular my movement into the use of metallics in various ways, stems directly from the life force around me in the Napa Valley, a place I have grown to know far more intimately than even most locals. The repurposing of mediums that are intended for mass production into singular pieces gives me joy, for metallic paints zing with a life force I have not found in other mediums. As such, these are primal works focusing on vision, order, and patterning, the metallics creating a deliberate shimmering effect, necessitating multiple viewpoints, and requiring an active participation in the art itself.
#80 Intersections I, 16” x 20”, 2019
#76 Folding Space 24” x 30” 2019
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#65 Wrent I 18” x 24” 2019
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#92 Four Elements VIII 24” x 24” 2019
Opposite page: #88 The Four Elements IV 24” x 36” 2019
#89 The Four Elements V 36” x 24” 2019
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#93 Mardi Gras 24” x 24” 2019
“...these are primal works focusing on vision, order, and patterning, the metallics creating a deliberate shimmering effect, necessitating multiple viewpoints, and requiring an active participation in the art itself.”
#MA28 Approaching Vegas at Night from the Low Desert 16” x 20” 2019
#48 Rise 16” x 20” 2019
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#MA42 Sonic Booms II 16x20 2019
#MA40 Sonic Booms I 16x20 2019
Opposite page: MA64 Sinnerman III 18” x 24” 2019 62
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