L’Allure des Mots
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Contents 8 Juju by D.L.W. Pesavento 9 Style over Substance by Ivan Jenson 10 Endearing by Alley Smith 11 On second thought by Ivan Jenson
34 Artist Feature: Jonathan Kane 46 Messed Up by Kristen McNair 47 She’s France & I England by Alexander of Lawrence 48 Let’s go, go go go photography by Sam Beasley 56
12 Weekend Seminar film by Katherine Villari
unskin me with your neck of knives
by Graham Tugwell
14 Ménage a Trois by Shea R. Van Rhoads
61 Riviera by Katherine Villari
15 Only One Morning Person by Shea R. Van Rhoads
62 King’s Crossing photography by Daniel Clavero
16 The Morning After photography by Wolf189
68 Artist Feature: Maria Lankina
26 House on a Hill J.P. Christiansen 33 Saliva Manifesto by Alexander of Lawrence
Letter Issue 2 It’s mid summer and we have certainly been feeling the heat. With record-breaking highs throughout the U.S., we’re sure many of you feel it, too. We spent our summer vacation so far enjoying the works we are about to share with you. This issue, we present short stories we feel will get into your skin and stay there. Poetry you can almost taste. A short film to disorient you. Photo stories you’ll wish were tactile. Artwork you can stare at for hours. Also this summer, we tried very hard to stay on the planet. But that’s neither here nor there. So pour yourself a glass of iced tea (standard, or of the Long Island variety) and seek solace from the sun’s rays with a bit of fiction. Katherine Villari and Sam Beasley Editors-in-Chief
Contri butors L’Allure des Mots || Summer, 2011 || Issue No. 2
Ivan Jenson’s Absolut Jenson painting was featured in Shea R. Van Rhoads is a writer, teacher, researcher, Art News, Art in America, and Interview magazine. humanitarian, entrepreneur, mother and dog-lover. His art has sold at Christie’s, New York. His poems She holds degrees from Harvard and Simmons. In have appeared in Word Riot, Zygote in my Coffee, 2006, Ms. Van Rhoads co-founded the nonprofit TemCamroc Press Review, Haggard and Halo, Poetry wani Children’s Foundation to help build a primary Super Highway, Mad Swirl, Alternative Reel Poets school for orphans in Zambia. Her recent poetry Corner, Underground Voices Magazine, Blazevox, and book, Quarters, explores the nuances of heart, mind, many other magazines, online and in print. Ivan Jenspirit, and culture. son’s novel Dead Artist has been published as an eBook for the Amazon Kindle and the Barnes & Noble Nook. Daniel Clavero lives and works in New York City. You A paperback is planned for August 2011. can see more of his work at www.danielclavero.com. www.ivanjensonartst.com
J.P. Christiansen The writer is Danish-American, the poet isn’t; the writes resides in America, the poet doesn’t. The writer is of this place, then is of that place, everywhere looking for the poet.
Alexander of Lawrence emerges organically in a synthetic-based society.
Graham Tugwell is a PhD student with the School of English, Trinity College Dublin, where he teaches Popular and Modernist Fiction. The recipient of the College Green Literary Prize 2010, he has work forthcoming in Kerouac’s Dog Magazine, THIS Literary Magazine, Jersey Devil Press, Anemone Sidecar, Plain Spoke, Sein und Werden, Pyrta, The Quotable, Battered Suitcase, Thoughtsmith, Anobium, Lost Souls, Rotten Leaves and Red Lightbulbs. His website is grahamtugwell.com.
Kristen McNair is a Miami-native. She is studying at Florida Atlantic University in Boca Raton, Florida where she will receive her MFA in Creative Writing.
Alley Smith lives in Canada’s Vancouver Island with family. When she’s not out enjoying the Pacific shores, she’s turning over new scenes to reveal in a mixture of poetry and fiction. She first discovered her passion for writing as a child, when she realized her stories were a fun way to help people connect with her.
Wolf189 loves mathematics, physics, poetry, beautiful women, good people, photography and cinema. …among many other things. www.wolf189.com
D.L.W. Pesavento poetry-dreams from the Heartland’s deep wellspring, Ulysses-like fastened to a mast, enraptured by Siren-seductive sultry voices nocturne-calling him nearer in the night.
Katherine Villari and Sam Beasley || Editors-in-Chief Cover by Wolf189 info@lalluredesmots.com
Special thanks to... ...every single one of our contributors. We love you all.
Poetry:
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Juju by DLW Pesavento Sandalwood-sauna mist saffron-incense suffuses your skin Sentient sweat-sizzling dark-animal cinnamon scents Crimson soft-breathing beneath the red silk kimono Gold-emblazoned organza dragon tongue that slow-flame Tingle-itch licks scarlet-orchid honeydrip lips Blossoming wildflower-wanton damp sassafras Spearmint-leaf surging through your snow-melt wreath Portabella-embracing my mandrake-root blood mystery Smackdown-fishnet black rim slapped magenta Fuchsia-tight against your garter-cinched mastering thighs. Show me your power, you whispered And from a Black Oak moaning-forest midnight; Bonfire-blazing pianos: resounding blue‌ Fire-wire harp plucked cacophonies, incantation-conjuring Carnal shapeshifting nighthawk-winged rustling silhouettes Convulsive feral-coupling in summer-thick wet grass, Shooting-star streaming across a diamond-scintillant cosmos Exhaling your ultra-violet female Universe Coming to rest, Purple-swallowtail kiss in my ear.
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Poetry:
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Style over Substance by Ivan Jenson Everyone knows life is so much better with a fedora hat and people like people who pick up the check for cheesecake and coffee so enter a room with an ear-to-ear grin of a 1930s film star and leave with one to three new phone numbers and don’t wait too long to call and invite someone new to share in the feel of your leopard print sheets you Mod devil you
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Fiction:
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Endearing by Alley Smith My friends make a circle of chatter and escalating excitement as I lean back, absently listening to key words so as not to appear rude if later questioned. They jump from topic to topic, but it’s always a circle of recycled ideas. Music, book, video game, video. Politics leading to Drugs leading to Politics. “Well even if you don’t like Alicia Keys, you must admit she has talent..” Someone briefly catches my eye, so I offer “Talent or no, I never liked her music.” I have no idea who this woman is or what she sings, I’m distractedly thinking of Dita Von Teese and those amazing tits that can’t be real. At least I’m thinking about something music related. An extended hand offers me a lit cigarette, I accept with a smile. Is it even a smile? I don’t know, but nobody seems to be paying attention. I sink further into the couch and admire how the smoke pours from my mouth. I would have done well as a painting. I’m pulled from this reverie when the attention is finally turned on me. They watch me with mild amusement, probably because my lack of attention and social awkwardness has become the expected occasional distraction from an otherwise normal series of sentences. My absence of humanity is refreshing, if only because my face is expressive. Again, I wasn’t listening. A girl calls my name, grinning, I was staring at someone for too long. “Sorry, I was thinking about something.” No shit. It’s a bad habit, but I often forget when I’m lost in thought. I wonder how often Ed Gein sat with someone, replaying his fantasies, thinking about his mom. I wonder who has the bigger obsession, him or I? Again I’m interrupted. My oddities make me interesting, and I’m obligated to tell them what I’ve been thinking about. It’s only fair, as I’ve hardly paid attention these past few hours. “Serial killers. I was thinking about Ed Gein, you know the older guy who wore a trucker hat and made a woman suit?” Silence Of The Lambs. I think he inspired Buffalo Bill.. “Wow, that’s morbid.” Laughter, obviously it’s not a problem. I’m tempted to continue, but I shrug with a sheepish grin, as if I also think it’s morbid. Disturbed. The conversation moves foreword, on to changes that everyone hopes someone else will make. I distractedly wonder why they don’t see that something’s wrong with me? Then I remember. I’m endearing.
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Poetry:
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On second thought by Ivan Jenson After her fairy dust settled I realized she was no angel by then I already had a vested interest in her fibs and how she glossed up her stories and her lips and ever since she gently lowered my expectations like reading glasses I clearly see that she is simply your average, everyday floozy from Short Hills New Jersey who is still deserving of a slice of Sicilian on a sweltering Fourth of July
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Video:
Weekend Seminar a film by Katherine Villari
(click) 3 mins. 57 secs. Will open in new window.
Poetry:
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Ménage a Trois by Shea R. Van Rhoads We three— your lumpy throat, his stomach knots, my unbridled passion. Love’s largesse expended wildly, and unexpectedly, upon us. A vintage year, for ménage a trois— let’s see, what shall we uncork next? Yes, more wine— Why? Were you thinking of something else?
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Poetry:
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Only One Morning Person by Shea R. Van Rhoads Groggy, grouchy, exhausted but well-intentioned, I follow fast-forward you into the shower. I vaguely sense some scrubbing, splashing, suggestions, stimuli, but respond like molasses. I notice cold air, maybe the vent, or the breeze of your brisk departure. Your voice indicates a change of venue. I climb over the tub wall, grope unsuccessfully for a towel, find you back in bed. Are you clothed, unclothed, which should I be? Wet, fumbling with inside-out blue jeans, trying to remember underwear. You’re speaking, smiling— do I know this language—seducing, removing my pants. My mind leagues behind, still entering the shower; your lips swift, confident, depositing kisses. I can’t keep track of current events, sensations; my lips confused, too slow to provide feedback. Bored, you announce, let’s order potato pancakes! Every jar open, the tops off all my emotions, I’m back in my pants, curled up on the floor, crying. I cover my head, as if seeking shelter from a tornado. Vulnerable, trust, trying to keep up, I stammer; volatile, accusing you of cruelty, taunting me. Vulnerable, hurting, too, you say, trying every means, each seeming to fail, to show you love me. Emotions mollified, forgiveness sought, granted; we pack our overnight items into the same bag. Fully attired, having extinguished all but two desires: you, pining for IHOP; me, wishing I’d stayed in bed.
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The Morning After photography Wolf189 model Miss S
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House on a Hill by J.P. Christiansen I. Missing The Train. I walk in rhythm to music is the poetry of my life. The station-master tells me the only train of the day left a few hours ago. As he closes his ticket-window I ask him to store my sleeping-bag, bow, arrows, and back-pack with gear. The night is full of it is what I love most dearly bought with time’s sacrifice is a silent endeavor for few falling like that into it doesn’t ask ‘would you please?’ follow my voice your hear faintly that fateful question. Night is deep in trouble and assurance. In homes parents kiss children to sleep and “never mind the wanderer... his art of loss and gain isn’t yours”.
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II. The House. A lone, dark house stands on a hill; a single window is lit. I walk towards it. An old, rusty gate guards it squeaking as I open it, slowly. Crows complain on perch, asking ‘who is that human?’ A path covered by detrital seasons cracks beneath my feet. I see a woman’s shadow moving behind white curtains drawn guarding a story to embrace. The door-bell doesn’t work; I pull and release the metal knocker against its patinal base. I hear silence of ages, within; then cautious foot-steps in a front hall having seen no visitors for long.
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A soft, hesitant voice asks: ‘Yes?’ “Stranded in life’s night, a voice told me to go here; it told me of crows’ complaints, of gates guarding a mystery... of a house at path’s end. Led here by events beyond control I wish not the least, of, iron knocks on wood’s door. A soft, cautious voice answers, and it is yours.” ‘I’m alone, here; you’re a stranger, passing by my house, darkened... closed to time and event. Who are you, that I should let you in?’ “Missing one’s train is an omen; the light from your room, your shadow moving, is a poem I write. May I, please?” A heavy lock un-fastens. ~ What is a ‘door’... on what hinges my life of outer into inner, as I pass?
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When stars relinquished temporary possession of me in human form to live out my archetypes in such wandering, I knew not of origins, or power of means and ends. A life on Earth was the gift and place I got... my poet a guide for flesh and bone. I was without awareness, then, and waiting just for this. III. The Staircase. I enter through the door into an empty hall; ~ a wind sighs through it. As the door closes behind me, I turn to make sure it isn’t locked, and as I turn back around again, she is there, holding in her hand a torchere with lit candle. In its light I see a woman in a long dress of green velour hugging her figure. She motions me to follow. ‘Un-heated for too long, this ground floor of time leaves me cold; let’s retire to my rooms, above’. I follow her up a marble stair-case past portraits of ancestors with bemused smiles. ~ Stars also begot the Female...
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my other half, lost at conception. Each step, up these stairs, is my journey to full-fill a vision of creation. Does she know about this? On the landing, above time past, she smiles life’s invitation. From a room, a light glows through yet another door to enter. By it, she starts to sing a song from my future, with notes, of voice and melody, un-like any I’ve heard before. There’s no way back, from this. IV. Hymn. The song she sings segues into a hymn of time having been hard on her journey coming to this place in a room in a house on a hill secluded ‘yond all. Without looking at me or saying anything, I know to follow her inside to a sanctuary of her choosing where tapestries hang on walls echoing her refrains in motifs and memories committed to a journal I see
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lying open on a carved table we pass and as we do she closes it to my eyes seeking to know this woman now silently looking out a window with eyes in gaze of far away seeing what’s not for me to see but what it is are reasons and patterns connecting time and place in this vision which is hers, alone, and for no man, alone, but for all. Her ancestors willed it like this that she would see and I should seek for this moment in which I’m caught. I’m wary; never has respect for a woman made me feel man’s hesitation... never before has beauty meant this: that I must wait... that I’m in trouble, again... my journey of seduction filled with peril. V. Execution. A poet stands blind-folded against the wall of execution while a poetess sings a hymn the last beautiful notes of life as eve’s sun paints sky red.
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VI. Journal Entry. A visitor came today, in search of shelter. He told me fate had made him miss his train, that night led him to my house. I was writing in my journal when I heard his knock on door. Strange it is, but my pen had been silent just prior to his arrival... thought in search of word, poetry in silence, waiting; my heart was cold, having traversed ages with no-one listening. I led him to my parlor, up those stairs of time, past portraits of life’s caution. I didn’t heed; I knew his need, and it was me. His eyes, on me, told me everything. I sang, for him, my seduction.
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Poetry:
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Saliva Manifesto by Alexander of Lawrence Flung across the lake of life, a flint no longer admired for its spark, castaway like an empty shell spewed from the belly of the sea. Expelled from harmony, humming only to the echo of what once was; a sensual duet in a physical collaboration, witnessed only by the ghost planet, whose mortal curiosity lurks in the window of our passion “e v e r y - n a k e d - n i g h t”. Shadows continue to whisper the song of deceit. The ballad of malice, a score written to enchant, created to captivate, sung by the tongue whose chorus is tender, yet enriched with fiction. The pale face orchids turn away with disgrace as they wither in shame, for their roots need not water nor light only the deep breaths of modern romance. An adolescent hunger starving for an enlightened reality, awakens with no mare in sight, not a hair nor a scent only the crumbs of a promise sprinkled on virgin quills. Stung by desire, a nocturnal engineer chemically secluded; physically seduced by this Liquid Crystal Display. Each word a manifesto of saliva frozen in yesterday’s fire. Murmurs at dusk declare a distant touch, an alluring strategy by the feminine fowl; for she is game & I her prey. My eyes have felt the fiber of her parlor its mesh is thick with vile. Raped memoirs linger in the garden of my fascination, consumed by the nostalgic nausea that grows deep in my psyche. Beyond principle beyond respect, I will subject myself no longer to these telemetry tests of the heart. I stand as the victor in a realm of doubt, conjoined only by my shadow for our bond is true. At dawn I thaw & bow before my creator, for my life is destined for more than a game designed for me & riddled by you.
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Artist profile:
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Jonathan Kane Jonathan Kane is a photographer based in Naples, Florida. He can be found on the web at www.jonkane.com. LAdM: Are your figures real people, characters, just shapes, or something else? Kane: They represent certain women who I’ve known throughout my life. Not any particular woman at this point. They’re all blurred together and conceptualized. An amalgamation of how they made me feel: good and bad. And of loss and sorrow. Every artist needs an obsession. A recent show of yours was slapped with a huge “adult content” sign by the door. How did you feel about that? I felt it was a good thing. It certainly brought in more people. People seem to be more inclined to want to see things that somehow seem sordid or dirty although I view my work in the exact opposite way. I don’t want my images to evoke feelings of wanton sexuality. I want them to inspire pure emotion. I
L’Allure des Mots || Summer, 2011 || Issue No. 2
want to awe people with beauty. Also it’s fun to play with their expectations. Although I have to say that I’m not entirely sure what the word “adult” really means besides the legal definition so I don’t know if that’s really my ideal audience.
make changes to a collage after you affix something to it. You have to be more certain of what you’re about to do. Conversely, using computer imaging, I’m free to experiment a lot more because I don’t have to nessesarily live with any of my choices.
Is there a difference, creatively, in how you create physical collages versus computer compositing? I approach them the same way. It’s basically putting things on top of other things. With a computer, you’re dealing with electronic files so you don’t get to experience the tactile pleasures of handling the material. But on the other hand, it’s a lot more difficult to
What’s the strangest thing you’ve done to a Polaroid for an effect? I’ve done so many things. I’ve always taken a experimental approach to making art because it’s much more unpredictible and exciting. I like not knowing exactly what’s going to happen. Some of the things I’ve done to polaroid sx-70 film: shot it with a bb gun, cooked it on a stovetop, run over it in a car, injected
“Every artist needs an obsession.”
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just before the intervention
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Burnt Roomie
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one with a syringe and once I put one in my shoe and walked around on it all day. I’ve always wanted to throw one in front of a steamroller but the timing was never right.
even sure I have a choice in the matter. Making art is probably somewhat theraputic to me. I do it to make myself feel better about who I am. It’s also the closest I’ll ever get to being a god.
A large portion of your work mixes the human form with machinery. What are your thoughts on the Singularity? I just like the way flesh looks when it’s combined with machinery. Taking such dissimilar materials and making them one. I’m not tryng to make any comment whatsoever about singularity. Although I’m certainly not discouraging others from making those associations.
If you weren’t making art, what do you think you would be doing instead? I used to be a stockbroker. I was good at it but I hated it with a passion. I’m actually afraid to think what I’d be doing now. Perhaps I’d be an astronaut with extreme claustrophobia.
What inspires you to create? It’s the only thing I think I’m good at. What else would I be doing? I’m not
What are you currently working on? Besides some of the things I’ve been doing for the last few years such as my Big Hair series and my Mechanique series, I’ve lately been merging flowers with vaginas. Also I’ve been making
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more straightforward photographs of ideas that just seem funny to me. What are other artists that you admire? Of course there are so many! I’ll just name a few. Francis Bacon, Man Ray, DeKooning, Egon Schiele, Alexandr Rodchenko, Les Krims, Diane Arbus.. I could easily give you 50 other names. That’s just what I thought of off the top of my head. What piece of literature has had the most profound effect on your life? Les Chants de Maldoror by Comte de Lautréamont. I’ve only managed to read half of it and I’m not entirely sure I understand what it’s about but I love the imagery and the language. I find it very inspiring!
“I’m actually afraid to think what I’d be doing now [if I weren’t an artist]. Perhaps I’d be an astronaut with extreme claustrophobia.”
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when the well runs dry
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40 Embraceable You
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Scourge
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42 how to be popular
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essential characteristics of the universal hero
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44 I miss her sometimes
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scratching for feed in a gridded lot
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Fiction:
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Messed Up by Kristen McNair I knew I messed up when I said to my husband, Turner, “I could’ve did better. But you was the only one who treated me good,” on the night we drove to the gas station for some King Cobra beer to celebrate his promotion at the post office to head mailman. He got real quiet and I laughed it off—though I was being honest—and I looked over and saw his jaw grit, then harden, and he didn’t say nothing. I knew I messed up when I over-did it with the screams while we made love. I don’t know. I think the, “…oh, yeeaahhs!” didn’t mix good with the “yeaaahh, boy!” I copied from Flavor Flav. But he kept going until he finished, falling over into the space beside me, without mentioning an “I love you” or even a “Girl…you wore Mr. Willie out.” Nothing. I just knew I messed up when I whispered, “How them titties look? You staring hard enough,” when we went to Ain’t Nobody God But God Baptist Church for night service, after he gave a hug to some woman and held on a bit too long. Once we got home, Turner went into the bedroom and shut the door. I could usually expect the sound of his X-Box or even Sportscenter, but he decided to hush until I bandaged his boo-boo by telling him I was sorry—again…—for not understanding that he only thought the leopard-print blouse she wore was cute, even though her water balloons were pushed up to her collar bone. “That’s all it was,” he said, “All it was.” Then, there was that time I really messed up, putting a handful of extra-large Magnum and regular Lifestyle condoms from my annual at the clinic in my purse, a parting gift like lollipops at the dentist’s office, and when I sent Turner to get my mascara, he found them. After he asked about it, I snatched them away, then smiled and said, “Now you know what a Magnum condom look like.” Like a nappy hair strand of lightning that sprouts from the earth up unexpectedly, so did I meet Turner’s strike and made a backwards tumble onto the carpet, booty first, wind second. Nothing was going except the ceiling fan and the Love Jones Quiet Storm on the radio and I could hear him over it all, letting out sissy-yells about nothing and everything and my head was whirling, while he reminded me of my mess-ups: like how I cheated on him with Farrah back in 2005 (even though he asked to watch), that I never get my hair done no more, how I had gained forty pounds since we first met, that my mother never liked him and it’s my fault, and that I smack and fart and snore and make dumb jokes like the last one I told. And then he said I cried ugly. I pushed myself off the floor as Turner walked into our bedroom and closed the door. The slow jams went off, the sound of his X-box turned on, and I sat on the couch, touching with my fingertips the throbbing circle he left on my jaw, wondering what would be if I hadn’t messed nothing up, if I could be cemented, one, like when I made love without faking to the man who tasted like a warm King Cobra.
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Poetry:
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She’s France & I England by Alexander of Lawrence I’m the old man in the young jeans, which wants to run jump & steal every glance. Head like a stone no room for convincing, this well runs deep with conviction. Shadows & their whispers lurk where commonsense ends, somewhere on the corner of reason & Biscayne. She’s the old lady in the young skin that’d rather walk than run, for her trail is predetermined, her tale is an organic fable smothered in mothers pie. Make no reservations her pedigree is profound, her risks are minimal & her outlook is sound. She’s France & I England: Hungry with ambition is what I am; yet I walk with crack dice deep in my trousers ready to gamble my heart away. My addiction has lead me to dream beyond reason, to conceptually live through my unadulterated persuasions. Storms wash ashore with remedies in hand, but all those old ailments have been alleviated by the sands of time. Her portfolio is enriched with maps, graphs & vertical horizons, airtight with no room left for variables that can hinder perforated perceptions. Her love is an intangible showcase of fine wine & fair flesh, compliments of the maiden guard who holds the key to her throne. She’s France & I England:
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Let’s go, go go go
photography Sam Beasley stylist Katherine Villari makeup and hair Miriam Ross-Behar @ Ford Artists Miami model Kristin
bodysuit American Apparel
swimsuit Mikoh Swimwear
bikini stylist’s own boots BCBG
bodysuit and vest stylist’s own
sleeves Witty Kitty swimsuit stylist’s own
Fiction:
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unskin me with your neck of knives by Graham Tugwell She woke me. Her eyes are gold and amber oak, her shoulder rolls along her smile. Her back to me. Her hips and spine viola lines— the backless silver of her dress is wet in early dawning light, her shoulder blades are knives aslant, biting back upon her skin like unlipped mouths. “It’s happened to me.” “Look.” Fingerfuls of hair are lured aside, unspools a curl dyed Cobalt blue. “I prayed. I asked for this. And all my prayers were answered.” “Look. Look...” “It happened in the small hours of the night.” From shoulders bared in balustrades and from the fillets of her throat, from the soft spoons of her clavicle—a thistling of steel—a bouquet grown, a garland that is cold and cruel and beautiful—she’s been blessed with a neck of knives. She takes her time in turning and every blade is ice in light; her high and shallow breasts are held in afterthoughts of gauze and her bitten lip is a broken bulb, a heart of rose. She perches on the counter top and cloth is sheer against the fleshy thinness of her waist, the split in silver fabric grins a long mouthful of thigh. Sighing, she kicks an arc of unshod foot against the wood. Her tapping heelmeat a teasing thing. Teasing. “Touch them.” Her voice is wind along a blade, the singing purr of steely lengths languidly unsheathed. “Oh, I don’t mind.” “I’d like it so if you touched them.” She lifts her chin and angles it aside for me, holds that nest of edges there aglistening in the dawn. “Your fingers... along my knives...” “Please...do this for me...” And the thudding scratch of paws upon the garden door and that plunge and high of whining, is a wanting to get in. From somewhere deep and dark in me my voice is offered up— “Did you have to give anything?” She smiles, crinkles the freckled hatchet of her nose, half-hides her eyes in milk and jet.
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“Was anything taken?” “Was anything lost?” Teeth concealed in pursing lips, she brings her finger to her mouth. “—Shhh—” And there she dabs a beauty spot of blood that for eleven seconds shines until the tongue-end creeping slides it down between her teeth. “Just do this...” “Won’t you?” “For me?” And honey slow she pricks her points with finger pads and dull that metal shiver-thrums. I feel the quiver in my teeth. “I oiled them.” “Polished them.” “For you.” “I wanted you to see me... glow...” A noise, some way between a soft word and a softer groan turned over in my throat. “And we’ll be happy now, don’t you think?” Found myself saying. “Happy. We’ll be happy.” “Promise?” “I promise.” “And you like them, don’t you?” “I do,” I said, my mouth a smile. “I like them. You were made for this. And them for you. How long you wanted the neck of knives.” The silence in the kitchen stretched, become a humming wire in strain and slowly, eyes in amber fire and mouth a toying round of “Ohh” and tongue a flashing pink in passing, she presses down upon the sharp and fingertip is pierced for me— she proudly shows that blood in pulsing—wax in red, a garnet stud. “I’ve always...” “Wanted...” “This...” She leans to me in mantis, and bleeding finger fills my mouth and slow that living skin between my teeth and knuckle tongued I suck the bulb of redness from the tip. It rolls in me, a writhing. She pulls away and takes me with her, bites the finger I’ve just bitten.
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Says to me— “Your turn.” And there can be nothing in that space but us and our breath is in each other’s mouths and let the dog destroy the door. And I whisper: “I could lose a fingertip...” And losing half her eyes in lidding, she says to me: “Or more.” “Or more...” “Please.” The heel. The heel’s a whisper against the wood, softly up and softly down and framed there in the huskymust and darkness of my mother’s plants—licks of yellow on leaves of green and crumbled soil long needing wet. “Please.” “Don’t fret.” “They’re noiseless.” “Just watch—” And breathing in, she breathed out— and there I see chrysanthemums in chrome unclosing, twists of metal hair unbraiding, shows her stamen blades within her soundless cervical machine. Now fingers work in collar cloth and with no effort haul me close. “Touch. Them—” and there can be no argument. The metal cold— my fingers run her longest knife, feel her heartbeat through her length. “And it hurts you?” “Agony.” “Like I’m breathing fire.” “In.” “And out.” Knives slide inwards and outwards slide. “Fire... swollen... in the heart of me.” And points in passing prick a bead of blood upon a lobe. And she doesn’t flinch—she makes no move— and there are edges to her voice— “Kiss me, then. Kiss the metal of my neck.” “Just to see how sharp I am.” “How sharp the prayers at night have made me.” And I am even closer now— She smells of grease and powdered things, vanilla dense and smothering, and curve of her from jaw to ear a razor sharpened scimitar that slips a line of lights along and I would lose all fingers on that edge, I’d lacerate a limb for it— But words are fumbling, futile things. “I never knew... I never...” She smiles, and the gap behind her canine black and sways the scissor angles of her hips—
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softly, dully, hungry into mine, and wide the grin in silver splits and small and red her purring mouth: “Don’t you want to?” Her eyes are closed with lashes, and pale the dappled blushmeat of her cheeks, and finger strokes the hand I lay upon the counter top. “Oh... Don’t you want to?” I do. “I do.” And a thousand times myself is staring back at me from muscle stripped in metal struts and what’s that look upon my face? And almost don’t I know myself— My breath has fogged her metal dull, my tongue upon the lung-bleached steel is strawberry in snow—and I am lapping upwards, through the thrushwhite of my breath. The frigid cold takes all wet away and sticking dry my leather length, yet still I have her point to claim— “Please.” “Behind my ear. Lick the long one—lick the longest one—” And so I’m made to move from shoulder hilt to fuller groove, and dragging upwards, slowly up, I prick my tonguemeat on her point, and leave behind a ragged weeping scrap of me— And she’s a sighing angled yawn— her eyes in lurid indolence— “Tell me I was right to do this.” “Tell me I’ve been made the perfect thing.” And words I bully past my bleeding tongue – “You’ve become the perfect thing—and right—you were right, so right to do this”— and words are blunt and thickened things— exhausting—almost, almost worthless— Again my tongue is put to work: the cold and oil of steel, the smell of her, the scented curl of Cobalt blue across my face, the thud and whine of claws on wood, the darkness of my mother’s plants and slow bright of the dawning day and now her hands are clutching things, fit to rip the back off me, and pulling me— holding me against her neck— against those moving, meeting knives— A breath comes, breaks her lips apart; her eyes are folds of marble white— and I am doing this to her— “Oh.” “It’s taking me away with it.” And short breaths through her clenching teeth are streaked with softly gold unsharpened words. “I want this...” “To be...” “Always...” And she forces silver flesh to mine, so grins that split, that slink of waist, and night’s growth
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under chin and lip is lost and again I’m pressed against her and now I’m losing slips of skin—I’m shedding ribbons from my tongue— But I want to— I want to slash my face on her, I long to grate my face away, to stick myself, to be pierced and mounted by the throat of blades. Her gasps are curled, like tongues of air— “I’ll pray.” “I’ll pray for you.” “Pray so you may grow one too.” Her lips are fingers in my hair. The steel of her is in my mouth. That metal tang—the feel of grease between my teeth. And nails are sinking into me I slice myself in claret clean, ripping raw upon the knives that stab a puncture through my cheek, that rove across the soft rungs of my pliant palate flesh—and pumping from my severed lip, my neck is made to coruscate with glisten-strips of steaming red— my flesh is flayed and made a garland, strung in rags around her neck. A tooth goes. And another. And she laughs. And I want this. I want this. I love this.
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Fiction:
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Riviera by Katherine Villari Hearts still pounding, we found ourselves in the water. Speaking in whispers barely audible over the wind, it mattered not the words. Only the voices. Quiet revelry in the memories made only moments ago. Memories still being made. On a serendipitous raft, we drifted. We gently cleaned the beads of water off our skin with our tongues. Pressed our chests together. Made plans for an indefinite future. Impulsive laughter punctuated by gasps of warm salt air. Birds peppered the sunset sky.
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photography Daniel Clavero stylist Faustina Rose makeup and hair Allie Smith photo assistant Colin Berg model Eryn @ Wilhelmina
Artist profile:
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Maria Lankina Maria Lankina is an artist in Miami, Florida. For upcoming events and new work, visit her on facebook and her website. LAdM: What influences you and your work? Lankina: The things that influence me and my work are: The internal workings of my soul. The world around me. Places I visit. People I come in contact with. Movies I see. Dreams that I watch at night while sleeping. Helmut Newton, Avedon, Guy Bourdin, Bertolucci, Charlotte Gainsbourg, dub-step, my family, ambition, my purpose, Miami, New York, Paris, Lugano where I live part time, Saint-Petersburg where I grew up, London - city I love. Always discovering new artists’ works, new gallery openings, TON of art magazines that I read, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Cy Twombly, Sam Francis, Kandinsky, Bass Museum, Wolfsonian, Miami Art Museum. You modeled before you got into photography. Did that make the transition easier? Do you still model now? I rarely take on assignments now; mod-
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eling morphed into TV and film work in front of the camera. Every time I photograph models now, I try to outdo myself in being nice and accommodate everyone’s involved needs, knowing how often uncomfortable and strenuous days of a model can be. ANY life transition will be an adventurous one, if you dive into it without preconceived notions and embrace the challenge. The reward is a feeling of success–nothing can compare to it. Is your approach to your fashion photography different from your mixed media/fine art work? It’s very similar actually. It’s a sense of trusting in reason and the final result and letting the divine nature of an artist take charge. It is something other artists can relate to I am sure. Typically people search for inspiration. For me all it takes is to take the camera in my hands or palette knives and paints and inspiration appears as if out of nowhere. In painting, I feel more so as an instrument myself - creating a connection between music I listen to and canvas. In photography it is a collaborative process, where I take some of me, some
of the person I am photographing and letting the story be born. Regardless of how much planning goes into the shoot, there are always very pleasant creative surprises as a result. Have you been painting for as long as you’ve been taking photographs? Do you prefer one over the other? I have been taking photographs since 2004 and professionally embracing photography (as in treating it as a business) since 2006. I created surrealistic ink works when I was 14-15 and got back into painting now with abstract and unique to me mixed media process using my original photo works in January of 2010. I haven’t stopped since. I love both. I am in a process of taking it to a different level by incorporating my company. I as much enjoy art consulting/art direction in particular for music video productions/film productions and advertising. Having received Miami Ad School education made the transition from starting photographer to art consultant very easy. Describe the creative process for your fine art work.
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With Abstract works, I let the subconscious drive me. I have a good morning and head to studio. I turn on the music, typically it’s either classic or French girly chanson (that’s what I call it) - Charlotte Gainsbourg or put on Pandora station MARIA LANKINA’S LIFE JUICE - it’s mainly dub step and groups like DIE ANTWOORD. I cut my canvas lay it on the floor or pin to the wall (unless its already stretched) and let the uncontrolled nature I work in spurts of times, few hours then I leave to have a coffee with someone or just sit at a side street cafe and watch people, perhaps work with my interns– anything to switch up the activity. Then I go back to continue. I am very physical with the application of my paint to canvas. Sensual, even. My knife stroke holds aggressive force coupled with precise placement of paint. Do you know when you throw something in a basket without thinking how you should throw it without fail but instead trust the force and intuition and just toss is there and it goes straight in the can no matter at what trajectory? Well, thats what my creative process feels like. In my mixed media works, the process is more conceptual where I come up with idea first, and the photography and gel transferring to canvas is the laborious part of the whole process. After gel transfer is done and paper backing is removed, I treat the artwork with spray and create the abstract magic. Has being a tv personality affected your work or you personally? It had allowed me to expose my work and brand to a lot more people, which positively translated into growth of
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business and workflow. It had also exposed part of my personal life and allowed me to have a lot more friends in this world. I always had felt quite
open to people so that was not much of a change. I do however have a very private side to me that nobody knows of and it shall stay this way.
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What drove your decision to move from St. Petersburg, Russia to the US? I always felt very Cosmopolitan, as in not belonging to one spot on earth, a bit of a romantic nomad, perhaps moving a lot in my childhood having a very successful journalist reporter mom prompted me to feel this way and have it as part of my genetic make up to have no fear for moving. I moved from SaintPetersburg, Russia to London, UK and only after that to LA, USA and later to Miami, that I call home along with Lugano, Switzerland. What’s your favorite novel? I read all the time but my all time favorites are still Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky (“VIPER WILL EAT VIPER AND IT WILL SERVE THEM BOTH RIGHT”) and Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov (“What would your good do if evil didn’t exist, and what would the earth look like if all the shadows disappeared?”) and a new favorite that only I have read since it’s in editing prior to publication is a new novel by Angelika Lankina (my daughter)–working title is “Fate’s Daughter”. image credits page 74: stylist: Faustina Rose, model: Cat G, special thanks: www.napleshorsestalls.com
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“ANY life transition will be an adventurous one.”
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Section:
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Title by body copy
L’Allure des Mots || Summer, 2011 || Issue No. 1