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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, Design
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KNACK ARTMAGA ZINE.COM K N ACK M AGA ZINE1@ GM A IL .C OM
knack magazine / issue seven
IS SU E SE VEN
Artist Biographies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4-7 Edgar Picazo Merino. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Mar Parden . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Sarah Cote . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 S. Otto Nicli. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Mohamed Kahouadji . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 Lukas Kucinski. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 Alicia Morris . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 David Mark Lane. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 Submission Guidleines . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72
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EDGAR PICAZO MERINO
MAR PARDEN
Born in El Paso, TX, Edgar Picazo Merino is a Mexican-American student at the University of Texas at El Paso, currently studying abroad in France in order to finish his studies to obtain a Bachelor of Arts in French. In El Paso, Edgar works as a freelance photographer, and during the last months before his trip to Europe he was the official photographer for local music promoter Late Nite Social Club. Other interests include writing, music production, languages and traveling. Presently, Edgar is working on a multimedia project that will include poetry, music, and of course, photography.
Mar Paden was born in Seattle, Washington and grew up north of the city with a view of the mountains and access to great outdoor activities. She received two Bachelors one in Art History and one in Interdisciplinary Visual Art from the University of Washington in 2008. Her energy and inner balance comes with spending time in nature, yoga, art projects, work, interning, volunteering and travel. Her work has been exhibited at Vera Project, Jacob Lawrence Gallery, Seattle Art Museum’s Volunteer Appreciation Artist showcase, a few local coffee shops, including window display art for a local business she worked for, and in 2012 she had the role of Chocolate Body artist for Northwest Chocolate Festival. Her playful style is both amusing and introspective and stems from her appreciation for performance art. You can shop for her work at: http://www.etsy.com/shop/MarEli and view her story-filled showroom at http://marpaden.blogspot.com/
www.edgarpicazo.com www.edgarsadventures.com info@edgarpicazo.com
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paden.mari@gmail.com
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SARAH COTE
S. OTTO NICLI
Sarah E. Cote is a mixed media artist from Maine, she attended the College of Santa Fe earning a self-designed degree Social Change Through Artistic Exposure, and is currently in Denver.
My name is S. Otto Nicli, I am a 20 year old student at New Mexico State University. I am currently studying abroad in England. I’m double majoring in Journalism and Creative Writing.
blueoilpaint@yahoo.com www.flickr.com/photos/blueoilpaint
ottonicli@gmail.com foxmouth.com
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MOHAMED KAHOUADJI
LUKAS KUCINSKI
Mohamed Kahouadji is a French neo pop artist.
Lukas Kucinski is the son of two artists. He was born in Chicago on March 6, 1989. He attended The Chicago Waldorf High School from 2002-2006 and later Eckerd College in St. Petersburg, Florida from 2008-2012. He currently lives in Chicago with his girlfriend while applying to graduate programs in anthropology and urban planning.
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22 rue Franรงois Villon 44600 Saint Nazaire France maxillaire@gmail.com www.thugsandprincess.com +336.72.07.57.39.
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ALICIA MORRIS
DAVID MARK LANE
Born in Syracuse, New York—lived there for many years—then in Baltimore and Santa Fe too. Graduated from Santa Fe University of Art and Design when it was still College of Santa Fe. Alicia now resides in Syracuse once again.
David Mark Lane, AIA, an award winning architect was born in Hartford, Connecticut. David currently resides in Santa Barbara, California. David received a Bachelor of Environmental Design from the University of Colorado, at Boulder. The focus of the Environmental Design Program was an approach to Architectural Design that was eventually to be known as Sustainable Design. The school’s curriculum foreshadowed the current wave of Green Design. Subsequently he has lived and worked in Vail, Colorado, Scottsdale, Arizona, Santa Barbara, California, and Paros, Greece. The Great Recession has had the effect of shifting David’s focus to his artwork. He has been working with the computer graphics program known as Photoshop for over 15 years. He uses Photoshop to paint, alter photographs and explore the infinite possibilities and combinations of colors and forms.
alicilam@gmail.com alicilam.zenfolio.com
e.davidmarklane.e@gmail.com www.davidmarklane.com
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EDGAR PICAZO MERINO P H OT O G R A P H Y
I have always been obsessed with the ephemerality of life. Moments, feelings, dreams, people... everything is in constant change and nothing lasts forever. Personally, photography gives me the opportunity to make an instant last, while at the same time allowing me to express myself by showing others, through images, the way in which I perceive reality. The collection presented in this issue covers a period of about three years that concluded this past January with an open house exhibition entitled Conexiones. The majority of photographs were taken with little or no planning at all; spur of the moment decisions made in everyday life while hanging out with friends, vacationing, or even just walking down the street. ...
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right: Christmas Lights
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below: Ana y AndrĂŠs
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above: Corporeal Lights left: Visual Music
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from the top: Puro Chile Marfa
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Leaves
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from the bottom: El De Efe Conexiones Shiny Disco Ball
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MAR PARDEN STU DIO ART
My works have become what I am trying to be at best—a playful, raw, exuberant person with introspective observances of the natural environment and human characters. My most recent experimentation has been in Photoshop; these works are an indefinite exhibition of the medium. I began these story-filled illustrations using pen and ink, watercolor and thread, and scanned them into the Photoshop program, an area I have never worked in before, but ultimately has become a new playing ground for inquisition and pure fun. ...
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clockwise from top: Bird man Om
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It’s All Literature, Part A
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left: Moon Arms below: Moon Quilt
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above: Fever left: Refurbished Fashion
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opposite oage: Mother Earth
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SARAH COTE P H OT O G R A P H Y
My artwork is an attempt at evoking from within myself, as catharsis, as exploration, as permission to be a witness, to engage and become engaged with the inner and outer worlds. It is a flexing of some strange organ, some bodily tissue in an effort to unfold, expand, learn, play. The focus of my attention is usually nestled somewhere between nature and body, although abstracted technological, city-lit scapes also tend to provide a substantial amount of fodder to burrow. My best work, as I’m sure most artists can relate to, comes out of pure channeling. I get into an excited state, I become excited about experimenting and then an entire day disappears and I have hundreds of photos to edit, poems to dissect, drawings to tinker with. Art is who I am, that is a very dramatic statement I realize. It’ is the most true thing about me. Art and emotion are fluid, it’s personal, when I go to my day job I think about the book I am writing right now. I think about the settings and characters that need to be drawn, worlds that need to be imagined. ...
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right: Form From below: All My Friends Can Fly Down Hills, Texture Play
opposite page top: Dragonfly Death bottom left: The Dirty Jaunt Against the Grain, Give me Splinters
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bottom right: Untitled, the Leaf
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left: January’s First Portrait below: Dreams About People With No Hands
opposite page top: How to Act in Times of Sand bottom: Roots
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S. OTTO NICLI C R E AT I V E W R I T I N G
I’ve been working on many different variations of this specific story for the last three years. After multiple revisions, I believe this version is the way the story should be told. I am hoping to write more, hopefully a novel, based on the events set fourth in this story. The biggest influence behind this story comes from the 359th episode of This American Life entitled Life After Death. The influence behind the format of the story itself, in letter form, came from the novel Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre ...
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To Be Lost in a Fire July 23, 2002 6:17 a.m.
To Whom It May Concern: This is the fifteenth time. My hand’s still shaking as I write. At least it’s not as bad as before. It’s raining outside. I can smell smoke and saltwater on my clothes. There’s a ringing in my ears. My head is overflowing with unanswerable questions and images of the fire. I’m not sure where to start. At least now I feel a bit calmer, I’ll have to thank Matthias when he comes back, hopefully he won’t mind I took some of his meds. I’m still shivering and my heart rate is through the roof. I won’t sleep for days and I doubt I could if I tried.
It’s dawn, the sun’s coming up now.
I’m writing this—I’ll try my best to recall every single detail of
what transpired last night—I’m writing this to prove that I had nothing to do with what happened to Vivian. I was only there when it happened; this was not a premeditated act. I hope whoever reads this believes me, I know it’ll be difficult to but I’m begging you. I never intended for any of this to happen, I swear.
I’ll just begin from when Matthias left, better to ease into it. Yesterday, it feels like months ago, yesterday my brother Matthias
left to spend the week with his long distance girlfriend. I’ve never been too fond of her but that doesn’t matter. It’s strange living in this small house with my brother, I moved in with him because he lives in the same city as my university. I’ve been in this city for about a year now. It feels so eerie and
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quiet being here alone. He leaves often so I’ve been used to the solitude, but
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now it’s so much more apparent. Yesterday, he left at around 6 o’clock, at the same time when my friends, Spence and Robin, came by to pick me up. They invited me to go see some play the university had put together and, since I had nothing better to do, I obliged.
It took me longer than I expected to get ready. I had never been to a
play before so I tried dressing up somewhat formally. By the time I gave up searching for the second dress shoe, Spence had honked his car horn four times. I rushed outside and forgot to lock the house, hopping on one foot as I tied my embarrassingly dirty boots. After struggling a bit with the car’s door, I entered Spence’s old Jeep and sat in the back window seat. I finished tying my shoes as I apologized to my friends for holding them up. I need someone to talk to. Maybe I should try calling them, but they’ve probably passed out by now. I wonder if they’re still at the party.
“What took you so long?” Spence asked me as he turned around
to back out of the driveway. He didn’t say it in an aggressive manner, he sounded genuinely interested. That’s one of the reasons why I enjoy Spence’s company so much.
I began explaining my attire dilemma to him, which caused
Robin to laugh. She was sitting in the passenger seat. Spence and Robin have been best friends for years, even before I met them. I’m pretty sure were doing before I arrived.
Spence drove out of my neighborhood, speeding as always. This
night was beginning to look like any other night I spent with them. But, as soon as that thought entered my mind, I was proven wrong. Robin turned around to speak to me.
“So,” she began, as she arranged her long wavy fringe aside so she
You down to go?
they didn’t mind waiting for me, it was simple to imagine what they
could see me more clearly. “There’s supposed to be this huge party at the Michaeli’s place after the play. You down to go?”
At this moment, I realized the play was just a ploy to get me to come 31
KNACK with them to the party so I could, as always, drive them home after were too drunk to walk straight. They often used me like this but I didn’t mind. Friends are friends, right? Nights like these always worried me. Since all three of us were a year or two under the legal age to drink, nights like these were a risk and, although we’ve never been caught or arrested before due to underage drinking, the thought that this could potentially happen perpetually frightened me.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Who are the Michaelis? I don’t even know them,
I doubt they’ll want some stranger there.”
“Come on, Dylan,” Spence implemented, as he looked at me through
rearview mirror. “It’ll be worth it”
“And Matt’s out for the weekend again, he’s basically letting you do
whatever you want,” Robin added. “It’s a party, no one will notice you.”
“But…” I attempted to formulate an argument that would exempt me
from going to the party but Nora interrupted me before I could continue.
“It’s in this mansion over Manchester Bridge.”
“Everyone will be there,” Spence said.
“Ok, ok I’ll go,” I finally agreed.
The play was one of the strangest things I had ever seen. It fo-
cused on a man who was deeply in love with a goat, which caused the man’s wife to get extremely angry with him. The ending was very predictable. But there was someone that caught my attention more than the play, a girl named Vivian Michaeli.
Since we arrived late, thanks to me, our seats weren’t the most
glamorous ones. I had been inside the university theater many times before, solely for orchestra concerts, but I had never seen it this full. We had to sit in the balcony, but luckily, found three seats facing the center of the stage. We were a few rows back and the stage looked like a miniature rep-
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lica of its former majesty but I didn’t mind. The scent of the theater was
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one I was deeply fond of and to share this moment with my two closest friends was more than I could ask for.
We sat down and waited for the play to begin. As I tried to look
down into the stage, a beautiful girl, a girl whom I had never seen before, stole my attention. As the theater lights began to dim, I noticed her trudging her way through to her seat; she was about four rows in front of us, at the very edge of the balcony. The first balcony row, she could lean over the barricade and look at all the people seated below. As she walked through the narrow aisle, I noticed her slender silhouette in the dark theater. Her hair was short and she seemed to be wearing some sort of dress. In that exact moment, the spotlight, which was above us, turned on. Whoever was controlling the spotlight had some trouble directing it toward the stage and inadvertently pointed it at the people seated in the balcony seats, flooding us momentarily with light. That’s when I saw Vivian clearly. She was the only one standing up and she paused for a second, looking into the bright light for some reason. Even though she was illuminated for no more than five seconds, I memorized most of her details.
“Look at those eyes” I said accidentally out loud, after noticing, in the
sudden flood of light, the rare hue of her irises.
Spence and Robin, who used the sudden light to quickly go through
the program in search of people they knew, looked up after my remark. They noticed who I was looking at.
“Who is she?” I asked.
“She looks like a Michaeli,” Spence answered. “Oh I think I’ve heard of
her. She’s a bit strange.”
“Strange?” I said, noticing her as she sat down. “Why haven’t I seen
her before?”
“That’s your problem to solve, Dylan,” Spence said. “If she’s who I
think she is, then no one’s ever seen her twice.”
I laughed at Spence’s hyperbolic remark. “This Michaeli girl sounds
more like a legend than an actual person,” I said after I was done laughing. 33
KNACK “If no one’s seen her twice, then how do you know who she is?”
Right as Spence began to explain to me whom exactly this mysterious
girl was, the lights dimmed and a man walked on stage. The play was about to start. The spotlight, which had finally found the stage, was aimed at the closed stage curtains and at the man who spoke, a little too quietly, and introduced the play to us. I disregarded what he said.
“Cherish this moment, Dylan” Robin whispered, leaning over Spence.
“You’ll probably never see her again.”
“I’ll tell you later,” Spence whispered. “Now going to that party sounds
more appealing, doesn’t it?” he added.
Robin snickered quietly.
They were drawn and the play began, but all I could think about was the
girl. Her darkened outline was in my field of vision. Strangely, about halfway through the play, Vivian stood up and left. Even though I was too distracted thinking of her to focus on the play, I stayed, hoping she would return.
The play ended and she never returned. It was still raining when we
left the theater and, as we were on our way toward Spence’s car, I was lost in thought. Among the post-play murmurings, I kept hearing people talking about the party, even more than about the play. This gave me some hope; maybe I would run into her later that night, I thought.
I was walking ahead of Spence and Robin when I suddenly paused to
think about Vivian and what I would tell her if I saw her again. Spence ran into me, which brought me back to reality.
“Come on, let’s go,” Robin said, she was pulling Spence by the
hand, leading him ahead of me toward the parking lot. “If we leave now, we might be able to beat the traffic. —And you might get to see your girlfriend again!” She added.
The party was rather far, in the north side of town, of which I wasn’t
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too familiar with. We had to cross Manchester Bridge to get there. The north
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side is full of beautiful and magnificent houses, where the wealthiest people in town live. As we drove through the resplendent streets, I gazed longingly at every single home, or mansion, and imagined what living in them would be like. Robin and Spence were having difficulty finding the correct street but I didn’t mind. I felt like a child in the back seat. The beautiful architecture and the breathtaking scenery dazed me. It felt like a sin to drive through here in Spence’s Jeep, this thought embarrassed me.
It had stopped raining which caused the streets to glisten in the
moonlight. We drove into the area of the hills where the houses were more secluded and separated. The higher altitude was saved for only the wealthiest of families. Trees and metal fences surrounded many of the houses most of which were complete obscured. “There,” Nora shouted, pointing at an illuminated sign about two block in front of us. “Leigh Avenue!”
The fence’s entrance was open so we followed the sound of muffled music and conversation
“Finally,” sighed Spence as he pulled into the side of the road. “I was
about to give up.” Spence decided to park a few blocks down from the actual street; this was his usual back up plan. In case someone called the cops, we could flee and run to the car, and leave unnoticed, without anyone catching us. Strangely, I hoped that something like that would happen. I wanted to feel a rush, to experience some sort of adrenaline tonight.
As I walked, following closely behind Nora and Spence, my expecta-
tions for what the house would look like grew. We turned a corner and saw countless cars parked everywhere. Some people were getting out and other cars were arriving.
“It’s just up ahead, if my memory serves me right,” Robin said.
And, as per usual, Robin was correct. She led us to what seemed like
another inconspicuous façade of trees but there was a fence that seemed to be made of gold, there was a large “M” situated atop the opening of the tall fence.
The fence’s entrance was open so we followed the sound of muffled
music and conversation. There was a large driveway, slightly uphill, leading 35
KNACK to the Michaeli’s house. It looked more like a dramatization of the Taj Mahal than an actual house. It stood at the edge of the hill, overlooking the city. Upon first seeing it, I couldn’t comprehend why anyone would live in there. It should be a museum or national monument, not a home. The driveway, as well as the house, was surrounded by acres of neatly cut green grass. Countless college students stood about, many laughing and talking loudly. It was dark and I couldn’t recognize anyone, only shadowy figures and the voices that belonged to them. We walked a few more minutes until we entered the house, the loud music increasingly louder as we got closer.
The details of what happened during the party don’t matter, just that
Spence and Nora quickly left to go find something to drink. I, being the responsible friend that I am, stayed behind and walked around the first floor of the house. Out of the kitchen windows, I could see the city lights far below.
People were sitting on the kitchen counters and laughing loudly;
the blaring music and flashing lights were beginning to give me a headache so I decided to go outside again, but this time I ventured into the backyard. The city lights and petrichor were more appealing to me than the stuffy interior. As I walked towards the edge of the backyard, I noticed someone leaning over the barricade. I approached the silhouette, hoping for some casual conversation.
I couldn’t help but laugh when I realized who the owner of the fa-
miliar silhouette was. I approached the metal fence that barricaded the backyard from the crumbling hills and the city below, staying a few feet away from her. I didn’t want to seem too obvious. We were far enough for it to be comfortable and close enough to have a conversation without having to raise our voices.
She noticed my arrival and before I could think of something witty to
say, she walked over to where I was and looked over the barricade with me. This was my chance.
“I always find these occasions riveting,” I said, looking over my shoul-
der and towards her house. Lights were flashing and loud music was sweeping its way in our direction. Thankfully, we were far enough away from the
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house to not be enveloped in the dreadful sounds. All the noise that reached
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us was nothing more than light and muffled.
“There’s nothing like a party,” she added, again joining me in
looking at her house. People’s silhouettes appeared through the wide windows, obscured by the blinds. Lights and sounds and strangers danced around, we heard them laugh and sing. I felt a connection with her, we both seemed to resent parties.
“I saw you at the play,” she said, turning to face me. I looked at her,
for the first time, up close. She was beautiful. Her eyes were a pale shade of green, like viridian. Her skin seemed soft and her short hair was in a shade of wild honey. “You’re Dylan, aren’t you?”
This took me by surprise. How did she know my name? I decided not
to ask, but instead said, “Is it that obvious?”
She replied with a quiet snicker, not answering, then she said. “You
were sitting with those loud people, right?”
I knew she was referring to Spence and Robin, both of who were sti-
fling their laughter during the play. They had the sensibility and maturity levels of middle school students. I felt even more embarrassed now that I was sitting with the disturbers of the play.
“Yeah, my friends don’t—I’m sorry if they annoyed you.”
“Dylan, it doesn’t matter,” she touched my hand as she said that.
It started to seem like Spence was right. She was appearing to be rather
strange. This realization allured me.
We continued to look at the city below; rain clouds were beginning to
gather above. Vivian’s placed her hand on top of mine; I was surprised by how soft it was. Suddenly, I felt her take hold of hand.
“I want to show you something,” she said as she pulled me by the hand
and led me to the side of her house. “My name’s Vivian, by the way,” she added. Vivian, Vivian Michaeli. I repeated the name over and over in my mind as she led me. What a beautiful name, so musical, like a haiku. She pulled me through the dark, pushing through crowds of people, she knew 37
KNACK exactly where she was going. I just let her take me.
She took me to a car garage, which was full of old vehicles, I assumed
her father might be a collector. Assuming this solely because of how wealthy her family seemed to be. Vivian walked towards an old red sports car with no roof. I worried about my friends for a moment but the worry faded away almost instantly, they’ll probably stay here all night. They’ll be fine.
Vivian got in the car and I followed, she drove out of the garage
and we left her house through a driveway on the side, the loud music faded away quickly.
After a few moments of silence, I decided to speak to Vivian.
“So, where are we going?” seemed like a simple enough conversa-
tion starter.
“I wont ruin the surprise,” She said. “I like your bow tie, Dylan.”
I had forgotten about the bow tie I was wearing at that moment, which
embarrassed me immediately. I loathed bow ties even though I had a collection of about 200, of every color and design you could ever imagine.
“Thanks,” I said. “My father made it.
This, for some reason, intrigued her. “Your father makes bow ties?”
“Yes,” I felt my face getting red. I was overwhelmed with embarrass-
ment, but for some reason I decided to tell her about my father and the first time I received a bow tie. I figured, why not tell her? There was nothing to lose.
“My father, Winston Wolcott, owns a clothing company named Wol-
cott’s Wardrobe over in Devon,” I began. “He sells all sorts of fancy and strangely conspicuous dressing accessories. Bow ties, pocket squares, and neckerchiefs with the most intricate designs, top hats, dyed leather shoes, blazers made of the oddest fabric, and countless other clothing garments only few individuals brave or crazy enough would wear. But what Wolcott’s Wardrobe is most famous for are the handmade bow ties. They come in
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hundreds and thousands of designs, colors, shapes, one for every occasion
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imaginable. My father spent most of his time coming up with new color schemes and patterns. He would often shout out things like “Velveteen Cornucopia!” during breakfast suddenly raising his spoon up in the air, throwing clumpy chunks of oatmeal everywhere. We, my brother and I, never got
Velveteen Cornucopia!
used to his sudden outburst. The smile on his face would quickly slide away when we all looked up at him in surprise. He would constantly apologize with a scurried “sorry,” only to quickly stand and rush to his workroom, often with a large clump of oatmeal clinging to his head. “
Vivian laughed, which implored me to continue with my story. We
drove on the freeway, which was completely empty of vehicles except for us. This solitude was calming.
“Well, Velveteen Cornucopia never made it to the shop,” I said. “Most
of my father’s breakfast time bow tie ideas lived a short and meaningless life. He would make one prototype, which he always asked me to wear, and immediately after I finished tying it he would say; “no, no, no, no” and rush back into his workroom to work on another idea.
“The first time my father had asked me to try on one of his bow ties
was when was about to turn 4 years old. It was during a quiet Saturday afternoon, God I remember it so clearly. He came up to me and knelt down on his knee to get on my eye level and handed me a small red box with a white ribbon tied around it. I looked at him in surprise. Is this an early birthday present? I wondered, since my birthday wasn’t for another couple of days.
“Happy birthday Rowey!” he said, addressing me with a nickname
only he used, ‘I made this just for you, you will be the only one in the whole world who has this. It’s yours and only yours, its called Fox’s Dream.’
“I looked directly at him, his hair hadn’t begun receding yet, but it was
starting to appear thinner and somewhat lighter in shade than usual. The eyes that hid behind his pair of old eyeglasses, were magnified, gleaming with excitement and anticipation.
“He did a good job of hyping up the present, I was so ecstatic and
eager to open it, but when I pulled the ribbon off and opened the box, my excitement was reduced to mild gratitude. There, crumpled up within the 39
KNACK shallow depths of the small red box, was a bow tie, the ugliest bow tie I had ever seen to this day, ugly even for a 4 year old. It was bright pink with green, blue, orange, and black polka dots along with silver pinstripes that appeared to reflect the colors of the rainbow. At once I knew it was too big for me. I would never wear it but to not sadden my father, I smiled and said, “Thank you!” with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. He took the bow tie out of the box and began to tie it around my neck.
‘I know it’s a bit big but you’ll grow into it soon enough. ’ he said as he
began to tighten to bow tie. ‘There let’s have a look at you!’
“So he picked me up and carried me to the nearest mirror. In the exact
moment I saw the oversized, absurdly colored thing that clung to my neck I began to cry. It was so difficult to feign excitement or happiness about this gift that I couldn’t help my tears from falling. Even through my teary vision, the reflection of the ghastly bow tie continued to terrified me. Then, for a reason I now know was completely nothing more than mere imagination, the bow tie began to feel tighter and tighter around my neck, as if it was a brightly colored snake strangling its next meal. This horrible feeling of suffocation prompted me to cry harder, I attempted to pull the bow tie off my neck but it was futile. My father put me back down, a look of confusion appeared on his face, his brow furrowed.
“After I calmed down a bit, he wiped a few tears away from my face
and said, ‘Oh, Rowey, don’t worry. You only have to wear it for tonight, then we’ll throw this one away and I’ll make you a new one you’ll really love. What do you think about that?’
Of course I nodded yes and hugged him, even though I felt extremely
bad for my outburst. I tried saying, ‘I’m sorry’ but my voice was probably too shaky for him to understand. With that, he picked me up again. I clung tightly to his neck and closed my eyes, hoping I wouldn’t catch a glimpse of the bow tie’s reflection across the many mirror, as a few more tears fell from my face.”
“Did he make that one too?” She asked referring to the bow tie I has
beginning to loosen.
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“Yes, it’s the only one I still like to wear.”
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“Rowey, Rowey,” she said in a sweet tone. “Why did he call you Rowey?”
“My middle name is Munró. Dylan Munró Wolcott.”
“What do you think happens after we die?” she said, seemingly ignor-
ing my question.
I sat there, in the old leather seat, and looked up into the cloudy night
sky, a cool summer breeze caressed my face.
“I’ve never thought about it much, really,” I began. “But I guess we go
to heaven or something like that.”
“I think we get reincarnated.”
“Maybe we do, I guess we’ll have to wait to find out.” I laughed at my
own remark for some reason, probably because of my nervousness. Thankfully, she gave a slight laughed as well. This calmed me.
“And we’re going to this old lighthouse my family owns. I like going
there on nights like these, I hope you don’t mind coming along.”
I didn’t mind, strangely, and I even if I did I wouldn’t want her to turn
around and drive me back to her house. I had begun to feel extremely calm in her presence, as if nothing could go wrong, and I had only met her no less than twenty minutes prior.
The road we took went mostly downhill, and since the vehicle had
no roof, we were travelling through a pleasant summer night’s breeze. Vivian drove through vacant streets, away from the richly built houses, until we drove through the forest. One had to cross through the forest in order to get to the rocky coast.
After about five minutes of driving through the forest, we arrived at a
high road, situated on a cliff facing the coast. Vivian parked the car on the high road; she said we had to walk down a steep path in order to reach the rocky coast and the lighthouse. I felt the cool ocean breeze as we made our way down the path. I was thankful for wearing my boots tonight carefully worked my way down the rocky incline. Vivian was a few feet ahead of me; 41
KNACK she was skipping her way down the pebble-ridden incline. Obviously she had
Finally we arrived at the coast; I noticed a tall shadowy building in
the distance, the lighthouse. Vivian began skipping toward it and I followed briskly. The rocky coast made it difficult to walk but I didn’t mind. I turned around to see how far down we had gone. The high road was many feet up; it appeared like a behemoth wall, shielding the ocean from the forest above. Only the tips of tallest trees were visible, they swayed in the ocean wind. We arrived at the lighthouse quickly. I noticed that there was a cabin attached to it. That was where she led me.
We went inside the cabin and I stood in the darkness for a while
“Let me start a fire,” Vivian said as she walked ahead of me into the
veiling shadows. I heard her rustling about with the clanking of metal objects and then I heard her striking matches, there was a small flash of light. I saw the outline of a fireplace and Vivian kneeling next to it. I walked carefully toward where she was, accidentally hitting things in the shadows.
“Almost got it,” she said. “There!”
Slowly, the flames began to lick at the multiple pieces of wood. The
fire began to slowly light the room, that’s when I first noticed all the books. The walls were full of books, thousands upon thousands. I looked behind me and noticed there was a big couch close to the fireplace, probably what I kicked on my way over to Vivian. She stood up and sat on the couch, I joined her. After a few minutes, the warmth crawled over to us. We stared at the fire licking the ashen wood, the flames danced to the sound of popping cinders. The warmth caressed my face, I felt as if I was blushing. Then Vivian rested her head on my shoulder. I wrapped my arm around her and pulled her close.
“I need to die,” she whispered, gazing at the fire. “If I don’t, they’ll
kill me.” This was the first moment I realized something was wrong. I didn’t know what to say or what to do. Why would she say something like this to
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me? I just met her and she’s telling me she wants to die, what have I gotten
“I need to die,” she whispered, gazing at the fire. “If I don’t, they’ll kill me.”
done this many times before. She didn’t seem to fear falling or hurting herself.
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myself into. I sat there, in the dimly lit library, and said nothing for a few minutes. I finally thought of something to say, which was, “Why would anyone want to kill you?” But before the words could completely exit my lips, Vivian leaned over and began to kiss me. This, of course, took me by surprise. She pushed on my back. We rested on top of the couch and, after some time, we fell asleep there, with the warmth of the fire keeping us company.
I began to dream in the tranquility of the still night, it was an odd
dream. Odd because of how relevant it was to the events that happened after I awoke. In my dream, Vivian and I were sleeping on the shore of an unknown beach. The sun had just dipped below the eternal horizon, which left the sky a muted green, blushed like Vivian’s eyes, the spectrums changing with every passing second, faster than usual, countless stars revealed themselves to us. In my dream, I woke Vivian up; I decided to take her on a twilight stroll through the beach. She declined my offer and told me to go alone. I stood up and left.
I walked slowly in the night, which was completely dark. I couldn’t see
anything ahead of me, I felt blindfolded. For some reason, I turned around, hoping to see Vivian. I noticed her body in the distance, glowing red, luminescent. She was lying at the shore. Waves began to crawl around and over her. Eventually, she was dragged into the ocean. After a few seconds, her light fades away into the horizon.
A sudden raise in temperature caused me to wake from my dream.
The cabin was drastically hotter than before and the sound of the popping cinders in the fireplace had grown in volume. I was still lying on the couch but Vivian was nowhere to be found, the comforting pressure that her body created was gone. I stood up from the couch and saw, to my dismay that the cabin had caught fire. The flames licked at the piles of books that surrounded the cabin. I was confused, extremely scared for my own life. I didn’t know what to do. I shouted Vivian’s name, but the raging fire drowned my voice out. I couldn’t leave the cabin without her but the smoke was beginning to make it harder to breathe. I had to leave the cabin or else I would die 43
KNACK in there. I ran towards the door and grabbed the metal handle and it burned immensely. I exited the cabin and ran as far as I could, coughing harder than ever before. After a few yards, I stumbled over a rock and fell. I lay there looking at the cabin. The fire was visible from the windows; it wouldn’t stop, since there was so many books which kindling. I stared at the cabin, feeling defeated, lost, scared, and angry. I stood up from the rocky shore and began walking toward the steep path; my leg had gotten hurt from the fall so I had to limp. The fire was still raging on behind me but I couldn’t stop to look, I could hear the flames crackling maniacally.
Climbing the rocky path was more difficult this time, but I trudged
on, trying to get as far away from the fire as possible. Finally I reached the high road. I leaned over the barricade and saw the cabin, the light from the fire illuminating the night. I was exhausted and in terrible pain, my leg had been cut open on a sharp rock when I fell. My lungs still found it difficult to breath. I reached into my pocked and retrieved my cell phone, calling 911 to tell them about the fire. Since I had no idea where I was, the only information I had to give them was that “the old lighthouse was on fire.” The woman on the other end told me to hold. The cabin was so far away from me now. The fire had now reached the lighthouse, I noticed it crumble and fall on top of the cabin. Millions of cinders flew all around. In that exact moment, it began to rain. I sat on the asphalt and leaned my back on the barricade. Even though I almost lost my life and my leg was still in pain and bleeding profusely, I felt eerily calm.
It was at this moment, in this calm state, that something odd took me
by surprise. Vivian’s car was missing. Had someone stolen it? Or had she driven away before the fire started. I closed my eyes, feeling more exhausted than ever before. Thousands of questions flowed through my mind as the
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sound of sirens and flashing red lights came my way.
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The fire was still raging on behind me but I couldn’t stop to look, I could hear the flames crackling maniacally.
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MOHAMED KAHOUADJI STU DIO ART
“The work of Mohamed Kahouadji oscillates between humor and irony. Constantly playing with the legendary personalities that haunt us – rockstars, politicians, cartoon characters, these paintings are never mere caricatures, let alone the mechanical reproduction of a situation. Something like a surge of love through them, like a desire to heal the wounds of the same Pop Art and turn-up against the cynicism of his approach. And if, like that wanted to Narrative Figuration with the manufactured object, painting by Pop found its share of humanity, and thus, the meaning of his vocation?” (Frederic Charles Baitinger, Artension) ...
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Disco Inferno
Disco Science
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Talkie Walkie
Here Comes the Hot Stepper
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Purple Rain
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left: Notorious below: Galvanize
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Partir de Cero
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Margarita Frozen
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LUKAS KUCINSKI C R E AT I V E W R I T I N G
Even though I was conceived by artists, I do not consider myself one. I have identified neither with the persona nor the culture. My personality has always been more academic in nature. In college I attended The Ford Scholar Program while studying philosophy, anthropology and psychology, and have always viewed myself as more of a scholar than anything else. Writing is something that I find great pleasure in doing, along with playing music, and I have employed both to alleviate the stresses of academic life. The following is a meditative and imaginative exercise written, at the time, for no other audience than myself. Now that is being shared with others I hope it conveys both the context I was in physically, mentally and emotionally, and the inherently narrative qualities of music and the human imagination. ...
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Visions of Peace and Comfort, with a Hint of Music
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I am in Kappa Field on a brilliantly sunny day. It’s hot but not unbearably so. Wearing flowery blue and white swim trunks and a grey sleeveless shirt I stand barefoot in the soft, thick green grass of this central location of Eckerd Campus. I can see students wearing a minimum amount of clothes lazily wandering in front of dorms in the distance. They are a mere curiosity for me given the intentions I have in being in this field. They do not distract me in the way that fellow Eckerd students normally do; “Do I know these people? Is that girl hot? Where do you guys come from?” might be just a few of the questions that would pop up in my head when observing my peers of the Eckerd College world. But not today. Today they are an undistracting part of the Eckerd Campus backdrop that puts my mind at ease. All of my insecurities come down. In this moment I feel peaceful in this space, despite the somewhat sickening way comfort is created by academia and ocean surrounding and separating me from the harsh realities of the world beyond. I live in my head sometimes. Eckerd and this field have become an extension of the head in which I sometimes dwell. Through time the external has converged with the internal, and my consciousness balances comfortably on the precipice of this convergence. This is a place of true peace. Nothing can break my concentration here beyond the disappearance of one of these worlds; so, death or disaster.
Music breaks the silence. Self induced music, meaning my mp3
player and those new Bose headphones I got for Christmas; light-weight and high quality. Like putting my ears into an alternate dimension of sound; like entering an invisible room created between eight inches of plastic and copper wiring, a room with moving walls of visually 57
KNACK imperceptible but aurally vivid waves of sound. My imagination enters this room and, at first, there is emptiness; just the scene of field and campus before me. But then, like the intimations of a dream falling, I move slowly into a tunnel of faint white lines that reverberate to the two and four snare hits of the drum line of my mental music room. Color in the form of large amoeba-like blobs takes the backdrop of the white-lined tunnel. The campus is soon enveloped. The colors change in sync with my pre-expectations of the chord changes to come. Harmonies build, a bass line creeps in and musical counter rhythms are created to set a flat stage for the melodic entrance of a synthesized trumpet. Like a man on the bow of a ship bobbing in the waves, he shifts his weight from side to side planting exotic riffs of sound with each step so that he can stand straight. Moving forward upon this tilting bow of undertones and rhythms the melody builds; a visual form growing in size and intensity, the melody reaches the helm of the ship, takes in a breath of the cool crisp air and jumps. The climax ensues in the fall. A symphonic conglomeration of rhythm, harmony, and melody embrace a moment together, but it is fleeting. The three distinct musical features fade in intensity and are soon transparent to the green and blue background of Eckerd Campus again. The ocean of emptiness supporting this musical vision recedes and like a heat mirage the scene before me shimmers; a blur of reality still affected by the moving residuals of music and imagination. I am centered and clarity beyond any visual or physiological description pours over my senses. An audio-visual
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mystical experience.
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ALICIA MORRIS P H OT O G R A P H Y
I get very excited about vividness/color, strong contrast- in color or composition, movement, reflections, balance, water, texture, etc. I see heart shapes a lot. I really like obscuring images. It’s difficult to make any kind of statement about the things I make or take- it’s based on more on my feelings and aesthetics than my ideas. I just like to make more of what I like to look at. ...
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above; Looking at People Looking at a Sunday Afternoon on the Island of the Grand Jatte
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left: Slothbear Bonoboshow
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left: Asheville Pooltime below: Spread Love, Montreal
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Red and Blue Blendy
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Passion Pit
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right: Sky below: Niagara Falls
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DAVID MARK LANE STU DIO ART
My digital artwork endeavors to explore what I like to call the ‘Colorful Resonance’ between order and chaos. Much of my work is fanciful, and yet some of it attempts to comment on political and societal themes. Many of my digital explorations include the manipulation of photographs, graphics, and symbols. My technique often flows from pushing the filters in Photoshop to uses that I suspect they were not intentionally designed for. My process… could best be described as trial and error… sprinkled with continuous refinement….and often ending with a happy accident. ...
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above: Spot Dots Pinch
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left: Amazing Batik
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right: Alice Keck Park below: Horse Hair
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4 Mir Ă“
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PHOTOGRAPHERS, GRAPHIC DESIGNERS & STUDIO ARTISTS Up to 10 high resolution images of your work. All must include pertinent caption information (name, date, medium, year). If there are specifications or preferences concerning the way in which an image is displayed please include them.
WRITERS K NAC K se e ks writing of all kinds . We will eve n conside r re cipes , reviews , and essays (although we do not prefe r any thing that is ac ade mic). We se e k write rs whose work has a distinc t voice , is charac te r drive n , and is subve rsive b ut tastef ul . We are not inte reste d in fantasy or ge nre f ic tion . Yo u may submit up to 2 5 ,0 0 0 words and as lit tle as on e . We acce pt simultan e ous submissions . N o cove r let te r n e cessar y. All submissions must be 12pt, Tim es N ew Roman , do uble -space d with page numbe rs and include your nam e , e - mail , phon e numbe r, and ge nre .
ALL SUBMISSIONS: KNACK encourages all submitters to include an artist statement with their submission. We believe that your perspective of your work and process is as lucrative as the work itself. This may range from your upbringing and/or education as an artist, what type of work you produce, inspirations, etc. If there are specifications or preferences concerning the way in which an image is displayed please include them. A brief biography including your name, age, current location, and portrait of the artist is also encouraged (no more than 700 words).
*Please title f iles for submission with the name of the piece. This applies for both writing and visual submissions.
ACCEPTABLE FORMATS IMAGES: PDF or JPEG WRITTEN WORKS: .doc, .docx, and RTF
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EMAIL: knackmagazine1@gmail.com SUBJECT: SUBMISSION (PHOTOGRAPHY, STUDIO ART, CREATIVE WRITING, GRAPHIC DESIGN)
knack magazine / issue seven
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 submission 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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KNACK
ISSUE 10 SUNDAY, JUNE 9th, 2013
ISSUE 11 EDITOR’S ISSUE!!!
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ISSUE 12 SUNDAY, AUGUST 11th, 2013
knack magazine / issue seven
KNACK is requesting material to be reviewed. Reviews extend to any culture-related event that may be happening in the community in 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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