KNACK Magazine #72 by KNACK Magazine

KNACK Magazine is dedicated to showcasing the work of artists of all mediums, and to discuss trends and ideas of art communities. KNACK Magazine’s

ultimate

aim

is to connect and inspire e m e r g i n g a r t i s t s , w o r k i n g a r tists and established 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 art magazine each month.

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES PHOTOGRAPHERS, GRAPHIC DESIGNERS & STUDIO ARTISTS: 10-12 high resolution images of your work. All should include pertinent caption information (name, date, medium, year). WRITERS: You may submit up to 2,500 words and as little as one. We accept simultaneous submissions. No cover letter necessary. All submissions must be 12pt, Times New Roman, single or double-spaced with page numbers and include your name, e-mail, phone number, and genre. KNACK seeks writing of all kinds. We will even consider recipes, reviews, and essays. We seek writers whose work has a distinct voice, is character driven, and is subversive but tasteful. ALL SUBMISSIONS: KNACK encourages all submitters to include a portrait, a brief biography, which can include; your name, age, current location, awards, contact information, etc. (no more than 125 words). And an artist statement (no more than 250 words). 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 your work is to be displayed please include them. Please title files for submission with the name of the piece. This applies for both writing and visual submissions. *PLEASE TITLE FILES FOR SUBMISSION WITH THE NAME OF THE PIECE. THIS APPLIES FOR BOTH WRITING AND VISUAL SUBMISSIONS.

EMAIL: KNACKMAGAZINE1@GMAIL.COM SUBJECT: SUBMISSION [PHOTOGRAPHY, STUDIO ART, CREATIVE WRITING, GRAPHIC DESIGN] ACCEPTABLE FORMATS: IMAGES: .PDF, .TIFF, OR .JPEG WRITTEN WORKS: .DOC, .DOCX, AND .RTF

REVIEWS

KNACK Magazine is requesting material to be reviewed. Reviews extend to any culture related event that may be happening in your community. 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 Magazine. 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 Magazine 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 4319 N. Greenview Ave, Chicago, IL 60613. 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.

EDITORS & STAFF Andrea Catalina Vaca Co-Founder, Publisher, Editor-In-Chief, Artist Coordinator, Digital Operations, Photographer, Designer, 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 Benjamin Smith Designer Curtis Mueller Editor

Front Cover Art: Ike Edgerton Front & Back Cover Design: Andrea Catalina Vaca First & Last Spread Photography: A.C. Vaca Photography Magazine Design: Andrea Catalina Vaca

CONTENTS 10

Artist Biographies

FEATURED ARTISTS 32 16 26 Capri Landi

Jordan Nishkian

Prabhinder Singh Lall

Chetna Sinha

Mark Blickley

QUICK LOOK ARTISTS 52 54 Rini Rose Mathew

Srushti Palkar

KNACK Magazine, Issue #72

ARTIST BIOGRAPH Chicago native, Capri Landi, studied fine arts at Columbia College. She soon discovered her life’s purpose, teaching and creating art. Since 2003, she has taught secondary visual arts in Phoenix, and earned her master’s degree in education at Arizona State University. Capri’s recent artwork incorporates mystical tones, exposing layers of brushed paint through an abstract landscape. Her artistic influence is the spiritual modernist, Agnes Pelton. Residing in Scottsdale, Arizona, she enjoys volunteering at the Phoenix Art Museum, traveling with husband Craig, and exploring the desert with her black Labrador and trusted painting assistant, Marlee.

HIES Jordan Nishkian is an Armenian-Portuguese writer based in California. Her work has been published in Overachiever Magazine, The Kelp Journal, the New Plains Review, and The Yellow Arrow Journal. She is the editor in chief of Mythos literary magazine, and has recently published her first novella through Ink and Quill Publications.

Chetna Sinha has a passion for reading, writing, and calligraphy, and an attraction towards creativity. She enjoys connecting with like-minded individuals such as writers, designers, and painters. In 2019 she was nominated for Author of the Year on StoryMirror.com, where she often writes poems and short stories. Sinha has earned a master’s degree with a specialization in English literature, and lives in India. email: chetna7sinha@gmail.com

Prabhinder Singh Lall graduated with a master’s degree in applied art from Chandigarh Panjab University in 1979. His works have been in collections and museums such as Lalit Kala Academy of New Delhi, Chandigarh Museum & Art Gallery, and the Museum of Punjabi University, and others. He was awarded the 2012-2014 Senior Fellowship from the Ministry of Culture, India, in the field of painting for his project, “Rural and Urban Environment Art & Architecture of Eastern & Western Himachal Pradesh, India.”

Mark Blickley grew up within walking distance of the Bronx Zoo. He is a proud member of the Dramatists Guild and PEN American Center and the recipient of a MacArthur Foundation Scholarship Award for Drama. His videos, Speaking in Bootongue, and Widow’s Peek: The Kiss of Death, represented the United States in the 2020 year-long international world tour of Time Is Love: Universal Feelings: Myths & Conjunctions, organized by esteemed African curator, Kisito Assangni. Blickley’s latest book is the text-based art collaboration with fine arts photographer Amy Bassin, Dream Streams.

Growing up in Chicago, winters last for what seems like an eternity. It’s gray for months. After years of constant gloomy weather, including the Blizzard of 1999, I was drawn to the warmth of the Southwest desert. The organic shapes and subtle colors of the Sonoran Desert continue to inspire me. The open skies, astronomy, and cycles of the moon are elements I work with in my compositions. One of my favorite places to visit is Papago Park in Phoenix, a popular hiking spot. The curved lines, earth tones, and unique rock formations inform the visual components of the work. Painting is a meditative practice where I’m able to process emotions and quiet my mind. Through color and form, my paintings represent interior states of consciousness and being. My aim is to create a sense of calm and serenity for the viewer. Though my usual medium is acrylic on canvas, currently I am experimenting with watercolor on hot press paper. I use graphite wash pencil to lay down the shapes, then add opaque watercolor, using a bamboo brush for texture. As the paint dries, the graphite lines emerge underneath creating a soft, ghostly effect. 16

Opposite Page: Embrace, Acrylic on Canvas, 36”x24”, 2020

Capri LANDI

Previous Page: Wave of Mutilation, Acrylic on Canvas, 24”x36”, 2020

Untitled, Watercolor and Graphite, 22”x30”, 2020

Lean on Me, Watercolor and Graphite, 30”x22”, 2020

Ride, Crash, Watercolor on Paper, 22”x30”, 2020 20

Saffron Waves, Watercolor and Graphite, 30”x22”, 2020

Warm Desert Night, Acrylic on Canvas, 30”x24”, 2020

Tamarind Moon, Acrylic on Canvas, 30”x30”, 2020

Like a Phoenix, Acrylic on Canvas, 30”x40”, 2021 23

Cardamom Dreams, Acrylic on Canvas, 30”x24”, 2020

Solace, Watercolor on Paper, 30”x22”, 2021

Jordan NISHKIAN Growing up with a multiracial background has left a mark on my writing. I often create concepts that explore duality. In recent works, I dive deeper into the complexities of my own cultures and build themes that question default American culture. My goal is to challenge the reader to come to their own conclusions and potentially question aspects of their own lives.

Wild Daughter

In grief, we keep.

By the time Grandma died, her house had become a museum. This morning, when we pulled into the oil-stained carport, Mom hesitated before turning off the ignition. During the four-hour drive it took to get us into the valley, she and I had mostly ridden in comfortable silence, and now I saw her want for words. The corners of her lips were pensive, tinted with a practical berry lip balm. The new matriarch. We exchanged looks. I saw the creases under her eyes route themselves into her cheekbones. We were both tired, running off the sheer determination that oldest daughters are born with. The low rumble of her SUV ceased with a large exhale that came from her belly. You don’t have to say anything right now, I wanted to tell her. She rubbed my shoulder. “Ready to work?” I nodded, reminding myself that the house wouldn’t smell like Crisco when we walked in. There wouldn’t be food waiting for us in the oven. Grandma wouldn’t be peeling apple slices over the kitchen counter. Although orderly, my grandma hoarded memories. Mom and I volunteered for the first, most intensive round of getting the house sorted: I was an archaeologist, she was a Capricorn, we both liked scavenger hunts. I pushed the door open with my shoulder—it always gets a little stuck in the summer—while Mom unfolded a piece of paper from her purse. “I think we can find most of these things by lunchtime,” she said, scanning the list she made from Grandma’s will. “We can get enchiladas.” We were greeted with stale, still air. Morning light trickled through the gaps in the curtains, but it was enough to capture the movement of particles swimming around us. “I’ll open some windows,” I offered, watching the sea of dust part as I broke through it. The sounds of my heels against the linoleum, of the rushing curtains, of the street and the next-door neighbors’ pool broke the unsettling quiet. I reached over the sink to open the kitchen window as my mom opened the sliding glass door on the other side of the breakfast counter. There was a small dish and a paring knife in the basin, and the roll of paper towels would soon need replacing. “The roses look great,” Mom said. We both looked out to the backyard, and if I unfocused my eyes I could see blurs of a bounce castle, a slip’n’slide, a family reunion dancing in a circle. Memories of throwing chopped walnuts to the blue jays on the grass, chasing squirrels along the fence, and squishing fallen, soft apricots in between my toes flooded the front of my mind. Now the lawn was crisp and brown, and the apricot tree hadn’t produced fruit in years, but in the shade of an Oregon Ash, eight rose bushes had reached the peak of their blooms. “You loved running around barefoot out there,” she told me. “The little burrs would stick your feet, but you kept your shoes off anyway.” I smiled and made my way around the counter to turn on the kitchen lights. Mom was still lost outside. “Remember you’d stay here for weeks during the summer?” “Course.” “You’d be so brown by the time I picked you up. You haven’t been that dark in a long

time.” She rubbed her hand across her pale arm. “I haven’t either.” Over years and loss, the rooms had become subtle, inadvertent shrines. There were tracks in the vinyl where my grandpa would drag the legs of his favorite chair. Figurines of angels were perched on the TV stand in front of where my aunt’s hospice bed used to be. A shadow box on the wall next to my grandma’s bed encased her mother’s pearl hairpin (I planned on keeping this; Great-Grandma Sira was my namesake). I cleared some space on the kitchen table and peeked at the list she was holding. “You’re getting Auntie Joy’s silverware?” Mom let out a small laugh. “Everyone gives me their silverware.” “I’m getting a ‘large red box and its contents.’” “Do you know what that means?” “No, what does it mean?” I asked. “I don’t know. It’s very cryptic.” She shrugged and opened the china cabinet drawers. “I’m going to start packing these dishes for Rosie if you want to start looking around for the other things.” The first three items on the list: my grandmother’s cross pendant (left to Allyse, my younger cousin with a proverbs tattoo), Grandpa’s bibles with the notes in the margins (left to my Uncle Warren, now a preacher in Hawaii), and Christmas ornaments (left to my mom, whose tree branches bowed heavy with her already-impressive collection). “You get the ornaments too,” I told her. “I know,” she said under the gentle clacking of plates as she wrapped them in old dish towels. “Sometimes I wonder who will take all of mine when I’m gone.” “I will.” She threw me a face. “You’re not sentimental.” I thought of the boxes full of photographs and birthday cards that lived under my bed. “I could be.” “Maybe your brother will. He’s more traditional anyway.” “Mom, I’ll get a tree once I have space for one. I’m not anti-Christmas-tree.” “Ok,” she dismissed. “If you find more old towels by the bathroom will you bring them back?” “Sure.” I headed toward the back of the house where I’d find the bibles and the necklace. There were three bedrooms: the small pink one with a vintage vanity was my aunt’s, the white one with the red ‘80s stripe around the wall was my dad’s, and the master with the two single beds pushed together belonged to my grandparents. One side of the dark, narrow hallway that led to my grandparents’ bedroom was decked with a row of family portraits—the other side was brick. I ran my finger on the mortar the way I used to when I was younger. My grandma said I liked to live in the in-between. The light in their bedroom seeped through gossamer curtains. The sliding glass door offered a side view to the backyard, and I saw the place where she used to grow calla lilies. In that soil, I caught pill bugs and buried a lizard the cat got to—one time I found a bird skull 28

next to the drainage pipe. The bookshelf near my grandpa’s side of the bed was full of thick bindings, but it was easy to remove the three bibles he used to study. “Hokis, Armenia was the first what?” he would ask me. “Christian nation,” I would answer. A cloud of dust puffed up from the blankets when I placed the heavy books on top of them. I sat on the side of the mattress, then eased onto my back, twisting and resting my spine inside the crack where the two beds met. On the popcorn ceiling above my head was a small light with loops of plastic crystals. So much in the midcentury home hadn’t been altered since they first moved in. Grandma’s silver jewelry box on her nightstand pulled my focus. The springs creaked as I shifted my weight and swung my feet to the other side of the mattress to lift the tarnished, heart-shaped lid. Inside were a few mismatched pearl earrings, a thin gold chain, and a white

“That’s where Papik and I will go, vayri aghjik.” It was the first time she called me wild girl. gold cross necklace decked with family birthstones. I lifted it out of the box and watched the light catch the different colored stones; the surfaces were cloudy and in need of cleaning. When I found my small piece of aquamarine close to the center, the chain slipped through my fingers and collapsed on the carpet under the bed frame. In a flash of movement, I slid off the side and onto my knees to reach the necklace, clutching it in my closed, warm palm and pulling it into my chest. My eyes started to burn and my throat felt thick, mostly from the dust. I panned my vision under the bed. The fabric from the box spring had dilapidated over the years and stretched into the floor. The space, aside from the stalactites of string, was kept clear, except for a red paperboard box by the wall. I reached for it, trying not to send its dense layer of dust flying as I pulled it into the open. I set the cross necklace onto the bed and let my hands hover over the lid. It was sizable, like the shoeboxes that boots come in, and where my fingers had cleared the gray, a vibrant red peaked through. I hesitated, watching a young, pale silverfish dash off the top. I’d been on three excavations before, one in an ancient burial cave in Madrid. When I was six, my grandma drove through a cemetery to get me to fall asleep for a nap. She slowed the car to a stop as my eyes were closing and pointed out the window. “That’s where Papik and I will go, vayri aghjik.” It was the first time she called me wild girl. Years of training—the patience, the ginger handling, removing dirt with brushes and dental picks—escaped me as I folded back the lid. There was a note taped to the inside, and in

a nest of shredded kraft paper rested a blue velvet ring box and a scattering of seashells, dried petals, and assorted rocks. Four small mason jars, the kind she used when she made jam, were burrowed in the paper. Their gold-toned lids were labeled: one for my grandma, one for my grandpa, one for my aunt, and one for my father. I opened the small tri-folded note: Vayri Aghjik, I trust you with the old ways. Utem kez, Tatik My brow furrowed. The closest we’d ever gotten to “the old ways” was rolling dolma and playing backgammon. I let out a huff of air and picked up the navy ring box. Inside, a swirl of gold sat on top of a coiled chain. I held the pendant close to my face: it was the eternity symbol for Hetanism, the Armenian faith before Christianity. I researched it a few years ago when I was getting my master’s—the dissertation I wrote ended up getting published but I never told my family. I peered over my shoulder at my grandparents’ wedding portrait. Her dark eyes were shining behind her cheeky smile. I studied the pendant; the edges were worn and rough in some spots and one side was more tarnished than the other. A gray hair was caught in the clasp of the chain. A sense of warmth rushed out of my shoulders as I eased the necklace onto my lap. I lifted the jar with my father’s name on the lid out of its paper nest. A cascade of shells and pebbles beat against the bottom of the box, but I was too struck by the contents of the jar to notice. Through the glass, I counted all of his baby teeth, a dark curl of hair secured with a ribbon, and something I guessed could be a dried umbilical cord. I looked at her cheeky grin, then back to the jars. Each had teeth and hair, and she added nail clippings to the ones marked for her and my grandfather. I placed them back into the paper, searching for more instructions or reasons in the process. Without luck, I stared into the eight swirling arms of the pendant. The half-eaten lizard in the old calla lily bed and the feeling of damp dirt under my fingernails crossed my mind. Grandma watched while she hung up the laundry to air dry, and turned on the hose for my hands, knees, and feet when I was done. “That’s good for a lizard,” she said and kissed the top of my head as I scrubbed out the soil. “Because it’s an animal. People need to be closer to nature.” Hetanism gives its dead back to the elements. They’re cremated in fire, then the ashes are split into three: one portion is buried for the earth, one is thrown into the wind over a gorge or the top of a mountain, and the last is sprinkled into the sea. Quick footsteps approached the door and I closed the lid of the box. “How’s it going in here?” Mom asked as she walked into the room. “You ok?” “Yeah, it’s just dust.” “My eyes are bugging me too.” She nodded. “You found the red box?” “Um, yeah, but I’m not ready to open it yet,” I told her. She pointed to my lap. “What’s that?” 30

I lifted the gold necklace. “I found it in her jewelry box with the cross necklace.” “Oh,” she smiled. “You should keep it, it’s pretty.” “Thanks.” She picked up the stack of bibles on the other side of the bed, “I’m going to pack these up for Uncle Warren. Did you happen to find any more towels?” I shook my head. “Sorry, I haven’t looked yet.” “It’s ok,” she said, holding the books to her body. “Bring some out to me when you’re done?” “Yeah, I’ll go check the bathroom now.” I stood up and placed the box on the bed. “Don’t forget that cross for Allyse.” Her eyes caught the glimmer of birthstones. “I was a little sad she didn’t give that to you.” The emptiness of the house grew heavy in our silence, and I could see the corners of her mouth start to quake. I waited for sound to escape the barriers of her teeth while I slipped the eternity symbol into my pocket. “Would you want some coffee?” I asked her. “I can make some once I’m done in here.” “That would be really nice,” she answered, flipping the light switch before making her way back through the hallway.

Chetna SINHA I am an optimistic person and believe in the full freedom of the people around me. I enjoy writing about the facets of human life relating to either grief or joy. My writing style is simple and realistic. My forte lies in understanding the sorrow and misery of the person next to me. This world is full of misery but very few can actually relate to it.

Sorrow Today my mind is drenched in sorrow and thought, To witness the grief spread all around; I am bound. But what strikes me the most Is the patience of Man to strive against all odds; Today my mind is drenched in sorrow and thought, To hear the wails and cries of orphaned children; What is left behind is a void. The feeling of loneliness gives rise to this sinking feeling, Man has faced several challenges and struggles, And yet He has not learnt a lesson. The future is likely to witness more sorrow If Man does not stop its unwanted ambitions If Man does not learn to love Nature and nurture, All would be lost... Today my mind is drenched in sorrow and thought.

The Compassionate Tale Of Medhavi Medhavi had always been brought up as a timid and reserved girl in a nuclear family of urban India. Medhavi enjoyed her childhood with her younger sister but not without restrictions. Being the eldest child in the family also came with a lot of responsibilities. She was sensitive by nature but mature beyond her age. She always wanted to question her mother for the norms laid down for her and her sister as being distinct from that of boys. Medhavi was often told by her mother, “Do not play after sunset.” Even though her friends in the neighbourhood continued to play in the dark, the two sisters were not allowed to play in the dark. Her mother would often fall sick and be admitted to hospital for months. The two sisters were often left unattended, aggravating their misery in childhood. It is not that their father did not look after them. In fact, when the mother was unwell, Medhavi’s father used to get up early in the morning and prepare breakfast and lunch for his daughters. He used to make them ready for school as well. One fine day, on a Saturday, Medhavi’s father took his daughters to meet their mother. Medhavi was cheerful on seeing her mother and putting her hands around her neck said, “Maa I missed you everyday. You know, I regularly do my homework and look after my sister Sandhya as well.” Medhavi’s mother was full of tears and just kept on hugging her daughters for some time. The emotional bond between a mother and a daughter is ethereal. It is one of the most emotionally enriching relationships existing in the modern day world. The two sisters spent some time with their mother in the hospital and bid adieu to her with eyes full of tears. The mother’s condition was such that she would often visit the hospital for her disease left undiagnosed for several years. The daughters grew on their own under the protection and care of their father. Medhavi soon hit puberty at the age of 12 years. She was in school when immense pain started in her stomach. She just could not imagine the real nature of her pain as it was completely new to her. The nature of the pain was unfathomable for Medhavi. She reached home and told her father about it. Her father reflected on the situation for some time and explained to her the real nature of the pain. Medhavi started sobbing incessantly. Her father decided to make her visit a gynecologist who would further help alleviate her fear and pain. That night Medhavi found it difficult to sleep. She was missing her mother terribly. It was the 90’s decade when mobile phones had not ventured into our lives. Nonetheless, the support and unwavering guidance that a mother provides to her girl child is extremely delicate and essential. The bond of the two sisters was such that each consoled the other with love and affection in times of sorrow. The sisterly bond of Medhavi and Sandhya was amazing which neither Mother Earth 34

could decipher nor the Blue Sky could discover. The two sisters embraced each other and slept together wishing the next day to begin with hope and cheer. The next morning also Medhavi was feeling immense pain. Medhavi was distraught by the onset of periods as if one part inside her had become numb. She found it difficult to come to terms with the monthly ritual. Gradually, months passed by and Medhavi slowly and steadily learned to handle her condition. She also imbibed the maturity that she will have to familiarize her younger sister about the blatant truth of life. Medhavi had once again matured beyond years. She had no friends to discuss the thoughts coming to her mind. Her best friend, her mother, was in the hospital fighting for her life every day. Their father made it a point to take his daughters to the hospital to meet their mother. The health of the mother improved and the doctors advised her to go home. The daughters were elated on hearing this news. The two daughters made arrangements at home along with their father to welcome their mother home. When the mother came home from the hospital, Medhavi and Sandhya hugged their mother and said, “Welcome home mother! We have prepared your favourite masala bhindi for lunch.” The mother was frail and weak but it was the love and affection of her daughters which kept her so strong all through these tumultuous years of her life. The mother had her separate room set-up with the time table of medications to be taken during the day time. Their father arranged for a maid—caretaker for the day. We all have heard about God’s benediction. The return of Medhavi’s mother back home was nothing less than a miracle. But as destiny would have it, the very next day, Medhavi’s mother suffered a stroke and was rushed to the hospital. The two daughters were once again left alone. While Medhavi accompanied her mother to the hospital along with her father, Sandhya stayed at home to continue her studies. The doctors apprised the father of the grim situation. The mother was kept on the ventilator with the best medicines being administered to her. The family prayed for recovery. It was indeed a dark night for the family. The mother breathed her last while Medhavi stood outside the room watching the doctors trying to revive the frail creature. The father was heartbroken. He did not know how to console his children. He was surprised to see Medhavi standing firm at his face. It is indeed not easy for any individual to bear detachment from one’s loved one. But, Medhavi, a 12 year old girl, stood firm recollecting the time she had spent the previous day at home with her mother. Her mother had conversed with Medhavi at length the previous day urging her to remain firm in the face of adverse circumstances. The mother had told her: “Medhavi, you are the eldest child and you have to be strong and take care of your sister like a mother. Your father is there to protect and care for both of you. But always try to do things on your own so that you do not remain dependent on others.” To this Medhavi replied, “Maa, I have always obeyed whatever you have said. I will certainly look after this house, my father and Sandhya. I have also learned the hard ways of life and will remember your words.” The recollected words made Medhavi a little teary-eyed, but she controlled herself, standing firm sensing the situation. Medhavi grew to become a strong, independent girl making her parents proud. She always looked after her younger sister, fulfilling the final words of her mother. 35

Prabhinder Singh LALL My artistic journey spans over three decades and my medium ranges from humble pencil, to painting, to complex art programs on the computer. I find painting to be a journey. This journey can span a few intense hours, or absorb a few involved days before the painting is born. I am inspired by anything around me. It may be a conversation, a train journey, or images on the silver screen. Any seemingly mundane incident can weave itself into one of my paintings. Innovation is important to me. My forms are often abstract, but always rooted in the tactile. In my works are vast landscape scenes containing both environmental and urban forms. Isolated houses sit atop mountains. It may be cloudy up there, or storming, or there may be a cool breeze under a wide sky with graded tones. Lately, female and male forms enjoying the ecstasy of each other’s company have made their way onto my canvas. I am excited to see what makes it onto my canvas next.

White Cloud 20cm x20 cm 2019

Black Clouds Acrylic On Canvas 90cm x 90cm 2021

Clear Space Acrylic On Canvas 90cm X 90cm 2019

Clockwise From Top: Achromatic Fabric Acrylic on Craft Paper 60cm X 60cm 2020 Craving Acrylic On Canvas 90cm X 90cm 2021

Cupid’s Bows Acrylic On Canvas 75cm X 75cm 2021

Vermilion Petals Acrylic On Canvas 60cm x 60cm 2020

Serenity - Clear Sky, Acrylic On Canvas, 90cm X 120cm, 2019

From Left to Right: Serenity - Clear Sky, Acrylic On Canvas, 90cm x 90cm, 2019 Urban Serenity, Acrylic On Canvas, 36”x48”, 2020 Isolation - Clear Space, Acrylic On Canvas, 30”x36”, 2019 Golden Clouds, 90cm x 90cm, 2019

Mark BLICKLEY Viewing François Truffaut’s film The 400 Blows at age 29 changed my life. It inspired me to seriously try and become a writer because it taught me that one could turn childhood trauma into a positive work of art. Because I began my professional writing career as a playwright in my early thirties, the great collaborative nature of theater taught me the importance and thrill of working with, and within, diverse art forms. I’m a firm believer that content dictates form, and since I consider myself much more a storyteller than a writer, I enjoy exploring different writing genres with which to present my tales. If the story is externally driven, I consider writing stage and electronic scripts; if it’s internally driven, I choose prose and poetic narratives.

The Broken Dumbwaiter

The dumbwaiter broke for the ninth time that month. This meant that Arnie would have to run the family’s trash down five flights of stairs, depositing it on top of a row of garbage cans to the left of his building. Arnie hated the chore but his sisters were too young for such a responsibility. He flung his jacket with the New York Knicks insignia over his shoulder and grabbed the bag from his mother. “Goddamn dumbwaiter,” hissed his mother, “we don’t have enough around here with sickness, we need filth, too!” Arnie looked up at her and shivered. It had been a long time since he could remember her smiling or when her voice wasn’t sharp, angry at him. He wondered why her behavior was normal only when she communicated with the tall skeleton lying on the living room couch. She hates me, thought Arnie, just because I hate this stinkin’ garbage. When Daddy gets better things’ll be good again. He’ll help out with the garbage and everything will be fine. The garbage cans overflowed, spotted with vermin. Arnie threw the bag onto the pile and watched with a smile as three days of his life spilled onto the sidewalk.

The crashing of baby food jars as they rolled from the sidewalk and into the street made Arnie cry, and he quickly covered his face with his jacket. He did not want any reminders of his mother spoon-feeding his father from those jars. Ever since the hospital released his father following his third stomach operation, life had become crazy. Daddy was like a six-foot three-inch child, and Arnie a four-foot seven-inch adult. “Like a stupid midget,” sighed Arnie. His mother depended on him to do everything and he was rewarded by her snapping at him like the turtles he caught up at the lake when his father was healthy. Five weeks had passed since the hospital dumped his father into the fourroom apartment with the broken dumbwaiter. Sometimes his speech could be understood, but his existence was mostly incoherent phrases and the sucking of air between gnawed teeth, swallowing pain. Arnie was sitting in the chair opposite the couch, reading, when he heard his father mumble. He looked up from his illustrated Grimm’s Fairy Tales. “What Daddy?” His father slowly turned his head until he could peripherally see his son. “Soup,” he whispered. Arnie begrudgingly closed his book and stood up as mother scuffed into the living room and smiled down at his father. She tugged at the back of Arnie’s hair, propelling him into the kitchen. “You do what your father wants and fast, understand me?” she whispered angrily. “Are you such a stupid little fool that you don’t know he’s going to heaven soon?” Arnie slipped out of his mother’s grip and hurried out of the apartment. He raced down five flights of stairs trying to outdistance his thoughts, but failed. The past months were not spent waiting for his father to get better, to go back to work, or go back to the hospital. Going to heaven? Heaven is for skeletons? Hell is full of skeletons, not heaven. Arnie bought the soup with his own coins. He was walking up the tenement stoop when a movement by the garbage cans caught his attention. The nine rusty cans for five floors of families were completely buried by torn, greasy bags. It smelled the same way Arnie felt. He walked closer to the noise, careful of rats.

Suddenly, a large head covered with red blotches, chewing on the remains of a day-old TV dinner, popped up out of the garbage. Arnie jumped back and froze. “What’s the matter, pal? Never seen anyone enjoyin’ their lunch before? Want some?” Arnie pulled the can of soup out of his pocket and cocked his arm defensively. “Soup. Well, you are a good lunch companion. Oh dear, it’s mushroom. Doctor says I can’t eat mushrooms. I have a tendency to hallucinate, but I do appreciate the gesture,” he smiled, rising up from the rubbish heap and stretching to his full height, a head taller than Arnie. Arnie giggled and pocketed the can. “What’s your name?” The man blew a fly off his nose and scratched under his eye with a long, jagged fingernail. “People call me Decay Dan.” He extended his hand as Arnie withdrew a step. The man laughed. “You look good in garbage,” giggled Arnie, pleased at being able to retort with an adult. Dan nodded in agreement, walked over to the curb and squatted. “Garbage has been good to me, too.” “Why are you called Decay Dan? Sounds like a toothpaste commercial.” “Because I give hope to people,” replied Dan. “You’re crazy,” said Arnie. “Naturally. But to get back to your question, I’m called Decay Dan because I offer the promise of life after death.” “Say what!” exclaimed Arnie, his fingers tightening around the can in his pocket. “You tryin’ to tell me that you’re God or something? I look stupid, huh?” Decay Dan shifted on his haunch and squinted at the boy. Arnie noticed that Dan’s ankles were swollen; his shoes housed sockless feet. “What I’m saying is that garbage is important because everyone makes it. When people see garbage they’re disgusted because it makes them think of their own slowly rotting bodies and the death that awaits them. Understand?” “I think so,” said Arnie, “but why do people get hope from you?” “Just a second,” answered Decay Dan. He walked over to the garbage,

“Naturally. But to get back to your question, I’m called Decay Dan because I offer the promise of life after death.”

rummaged through some bags and returned to the curb with a soggy, half-smoked cigarette. After a frantic search through his tattered shirt and pants pockets, he found a book of matches and tried to light the cigarette. It was too wet. Decay Dan grumbled and ran the flame under the cigarette, slowly rotating it at the filter. Thirty seconds later he tried to light it again. A brown stained smile recorded his success as he filled his lungs with smoke. “What’s your name, boy?” “Arnie” “Arnie, the way I have it pegged is that when folks see me scrambling around the garbage they get comforted ‘cause the only life usually found in garbage are maggots. A human being rising out of the decay makes them think of the resurrection of the flesh. Understand? Decay is not the end. It’s the supper. And as you can see by my gut, not the last supper, either.” Arnie stared at Decay Dan and shrugged. Although he wasn’t sure what the man was talking about, he felt a certain comfort from his tone of voice, an old familiar comfort, like when his parents used to explain the reasons why it was important for him to excel in school. “My mother told me that my father’s going to heaven soon.” “Is he now? Well, I suppose it’s a damn sight better than living in garbage.” The two sat in a prolonged silence. “My mother is upset and angry at me all the time for nothing. I haven’t done nothing.” “Your old man’s pretty sick, huh?” Arnie nodded. “Cancer.” Decay Dan was about to put his arm around Arnie’s shoulder but retracted the motion. “It’s the decay, boy. Don’t worry. It’s not you, it’s the garbage of disease. She’s scared, that’s all.” Arnie glanced down at Decay Dan’s swollen ankles and then looked into his eyes. “You don’t sound all that crazy. Why are you in garbage?” “Because there’s so much of it and nobody fights me for it. Now mind you, I’m only talking about American garbage with its bright sanitary packages and Grade A meats.”

“I’d like to do something for you, Decay Dan,” said Arnie. Decay Dan smiled and spit. “You can, Arnie. Next time your mom forces you to eat something you don’t want and she tells you about all those starvin’ people all over the world, just smile and agree with her. When she leaves think about old Decay Dan and scrape your plate into the garbage, okay?” “Deal,” grinned Arnie and the two shook hands. A scream pierced through their new friendship and they both looked up at the fifth-floor window where Arnie’s mother’s face was pressed against the window grill. “Arnie! Arnie! Stop talking to yourself and waving your arms around like an idiot! Get the hell up here, now! Your father’s been waiting for that soup! Hurry up! Run! Now the neighbors will know I got mental sickness to put up with, too! Get off that curb! Now!” She slammed the window shut. Decay Dan winked at Arnie and scampered away. Arnie climbed slowly up the stairs. He paused at each flight to run his hand over the banister and think. His mother had not seen Decay Dan even though Dan was right next to him when she shouted down at him. There’s going to be trouble, big trouble, thought Arnie. He stopped in front of the muddied welcome mat outside his door, drew a breath, and clicked the key in the keyhole.

Quick Look Rini Rose Mathew I am a language tutor by trade. My interest in writing and voice modulation has taken form as creative documentaries. Currently I reside in India, the land of diverse cultures, teaching a group of passionate learners across the country. My poems and articles found in international journals are a testament to my experience and dedication to language as an art form. These photographs rekindle the unpredictable and precarious nature of life. The ability to find peace with the self, irrespective of the pace prevalent in this world equips one to enjoy little moments in life. The splash of colors captured in a frame represents the wonder and mysterious conversation with the self and the other. Each photograph has a story to tell with unique vibrations of thought and analyses about how to find meaning in this short span of life. Every rigid terrain prepares me to bloom gracefully, imparting positivity to those around. Art through photography is the meeting point of those images satiating the aperture of my camera lens and my inner aspirations as an artist. email: rinilinesh1528@gmail.com

Was the forbidden fruit ‘green’ or ‘red’

Intricate Strife yet beautiful Life

Bridge the lost, cut the edges, and mend the wedges. Judge none!

I can see that I am blooming!

Srushti Palkar Srushti Palkar is an introvert, born and brought up in Mumbai, India. She is currently pursuing her undergraduate studies in English literature after exploring writing in 2017. Palker has contributed to many anthologies, including The Great Indian Anthology Vol.I.

All About Weave Ever since witnessing her mama beautifully loop colorful tulips on white chiffon, a soft corner grew in Lia’s heart for sewn and embroidered craft. But Lia’s time with her mama was only for a small duration, as she had passed away when Lia was only seven. It was then that her maternal aunt, Mrs. Aster Thompson decided to provide for her darling niece. Years passed, Lia was now fitted to be a lady. Being one made her take up delight in every other thing like every other woman. Be it perfecting the technique for baking lavender scones and saffron buns or simply intriguing herself in leisure. But her heart always longed for needlecraft. So she thought taking up the same would help her pick up the threads of her mama’s legacy. Hence, her beloved aunt put her through Miss Elena Spencer who owned the Sophistic Sew and Lia, similarly moved to Eden to fulfill her desire of becoming a seamstress. Months wore on and by now the citrus notes and jars full of raspberry jam, cranberry coulis, and dried apricots faded in the blink of an eye. Closely autumn arrived and it ablazed the town with its orange, red and purple tints. Along with it, Lia was also proudly styled as a prodigy for having mastered the variety of stitches. But after this time, news of the Escapee of Eden started to flood the town. The Orchid Press, a local newspaper, reported about a notorious killer on the loose who mostly hunted young girls. Terror scattered among the people of Eden due to the arising murders. Everyone with fright and panic refused to leave their houses. This is why it was decided that classes at the Sophistic Sew would be dismissed. Miss Spencer likewise urged her students to practice at home and decided that it would be best for her to cruise by their place just to check their last assignment.

The whole of winter slipped by and Lia got her fingers to tease the thread and needle to prep her final piece of work. Days later, in mid-afternoon Miss Spencer made an early visit to Lia’s house to check on her. Most importantly to know how she was doing amid the time of chaos. She did the very same to her other students and helped them wrap their heads out of the fear of the killer. The bell rang and Lia answered the door. Much to her surprise, she welcomed her teacher in. And after a brief talk, Lia went to the kitchen to prepare something for the two. “Perhaps some tea?” asked Lia. “Perhaps,” replied Miss Spencer. “And how about some freshly baked muffins?” “Sure, why not. I would love some,” answered Miss Spencer. Hours later, Miss Spencer popped the question about Lia and her handiwork. Lia politely asked Miss Spencer to follow her to the basement where her creation awaited. At first she was hesitant but anyhow went after her. While making her way towards the basement, a faint odor started to fill up the air. The stench howsoever grew, reeking up Miss Spencer and her nostrils. Regardless of that, Lia seemed unbothered about the putrid waft. She slowly twisted the doorknob and opened the door. The lights flickered and Miss Spencer’s stomach churned. The sight of the room did not make her believe her eyes as there were bodies – naked and piled up on each other. However few faces looked fresh. They somehow matched to those Bakers twins, little Ruby and the elder daughter of the Edwards from the newspaper who were reported missing days ago. While most had their hair lacerated from the skull, others rested with ears cut, pulled teeth and gouged eyes over a prop gently stitched by Lia to bore a resemblance to her dead mama.

Untitled i. You sat on the veranda inhaling the air of innocence. You are eleven. Eating idlis – soiled with chutney and wrapped in banana leaf. ii. The woman next door prepared them. Her hands carried flavor, and bruises too. Smeared in violet and indigo hues. Painted by her drunk spouse. iii.

A blue-feathered parakeet housed outside. It reflected her agony.

iv. On a certain afternoon, she invites you at lunch. She made green beans that floated in yellow coconut curry. Your favorite. v.

Accompanied, was a plate full of oranges.

vi. She introduces you to Bharatanatyam. She adorns your palms and feet with alta. It was red. Similar to the blood that stained hers, last night, when she bludgeoned her husband to death. vii.

The world around you is a rainbow.