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Contents 8 Revolutionary Minute by Dan Corjescu 10 Asia photography by Radilina Troeva
39 Dialectic by Dan Corjescu 40 Strike, dear mistress, and cure his heart
photography by Wolf189 18 Animalistic by Alexander of Lawrence
52 Artist Feature: Jeff Wack
19 Black Nazarene by Giacomo Lee
64 Locked Up by Eric Newcombe
20 The Place We Go in Dreams by Jarred Martin
68 The wildness about her, the wildness within
photography by Tricia Lee Pascoe 26 Artist Feature: Carola Perla 34 2:35 A.M. by Peycho Kanev 35 The Arrival of Death by Peycho Kanev 36 Test Subject film by Katherine Villari 38 Crane Legs by Berit Ellingsen
80 Soho Surprise by Gary Beck
Letter Issue 5
Will you be our Valentine? After a struggle with modern medicine, glimpses of a terrifying future, and willfully breaking our new year’s resolutions, we present to you another collection of beautiful works from talented people around the world. In this issue, we experience the visceral, journey to new areas, and feel a strength from within. We are glad to have you along for the ride. L’Allure des Mots is a labour of love. And to pour our hearts out to the world in the particular way we want to, there will be some changes coming. Changes for the better. You won’t see us for a little while, but we are still here, with eyes on the lookout for more innovative literature and artworks to share with you. See you in May. Katherine Villari and Sam Beasley Editors-in-Chief
Contri butors L’Allure des Mots || Spring, 2012 || Issue No. 5
Giacomo Lee currently writes and teaches in London. Other works by the author can be found in zines such as Poxymash, The Beat, and Quail Bell, along with the 2010 New Asian Writing anthology. You can read his writing at: http://elegiacomo.tumblr.com
Radilina Troeva is a model turned photographer. She loves to create and photography is one of the ways to pursue her passion for art. She loves minimalism, natural light, black and white tones and, most of all, expressiveness.
Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn’t earn a living in the theater. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway and toured colleges and outdoor performance venues. He currently lives in New York City, where he’s busy writing fiction and poetry, which have appeared in numerous literary magazines. Expectations
Wolf189 loves mathematics, physics, poetry, beautiful women, good people, photography and cinema. …among many other things. www.wolf189.com
Eric Newcombe. A seeker. Just desperate enough to care. But what do we do now?
Dan Corjescu is a Romanian-Brazilian poet living in Sofia, Bulgaria who writes verse in English as well as in other languages. Some of his poetry will be published in this Fall’s edition of ‘A Bad Penny Review’ and ‘Burner Magazine.’ He was also published in Mario Fratti’s Anthology ‘Thank you, Mr. Gorbachev!’
Peycho Kanev is the Editor In Chief of Kanev Books. His poems have appeared in more than 500 literary magazines. He is nominated for the Pushcart Award and Best of the Net and lives in Chicago. A new collection of his poetry, titled Requiem for One Night, will be published by Desperanto, NY in 2012.
Jarred Martin lives in Northeastern Arkansas and studies at Arkansas Northeastern College.
Berit Ellingsen is a Korean-Norwegian writer whose work has appeared in various literary journals and anthologies, most recently or forthcoming in Asian Cha, Thunderclap, SmokeLong Quarterly, Metazen and decomP magazinE. Berit’s debut novel, The Empty City, is a story about silence. http://emptycitynovel.com
Tricia Lee Pascoe is a 5’ 11.5” tall blonde usually seen wearing camo pants and a wife beater when shooting. She grew up on both sides of the camera, modeling and taking photos by age 16. She considers herself an artist foremost, with her current medium of choice being a camera. http://www.tricialeepascoe.com
Alexander of Lawrence emerges organically in a synthetic base society.
Katherine Villari and Sam Beasley || Editors-in-Chief Cover by Tricia Lee Pascoe info@lalluredesmots.com
Special thanks to... You.
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Poetry:
Revolutionary Minute by Dan Corjescu There is nothing in front of you or behind you are neither a warrior a savior a nun a barrister a monk armed with knives There is nothing for you There is nothing about you There is nothing that will hold you in your place for you have no place Only small bum time There is no God waiting on the other side There is no redemption in this life you think your own You are a man, if you like You are a stone Let the thousand million other ones carve you with their cares and cries anguished and alone
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stand with them, no stand in front of their knives with each slash of insanity of grasping kneeling fear stand in front of them as a small idol you are a modern cannibal everything has been killed to begin your jejune feast partially cut suns slip out of your mouths like feast days bleed for you die for you live for you Pick up a gun Take it into the shower Pollute it Blood is your strongest argument Look up! Here comes our Hit Man
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Asia
photography Radilina Troeva model Asia Redd
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Poetry:
Animalistic by Alexander of Lawrence Eyes never lie nor will they ever lose sight, once reality is lost in translation A reel-to-reel fascination hauntingly illuminates endless possibilities of alternative encounters between two souls & one fable This moment reoccurs in projection form, as Earth’s mistress slow strolls through the night sky in her gown of light Bright like the silence that adorns a room with its silhouette where no two words are spoken, nonetheless actions of hunger break into fashion Groped by darkness as two mouths feed on one breath Cannibalistic in motion when figures slither throughout inwards Bodies mumble the unsaid What hasn’t been swallowed, fibers will swallow A joust of the unjust on a 1000 thread count Steadfast tremors march down the corridors of her vacant heart Seamless are the stumbling footsteps of his diligence, whilst his lovers’ lust in a state of sate A Tango tamed by the taunting tics from the tongue of time
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Fiction:
Black Nazarene (Gravity’s Fool) by Giacomo Lee Manila, New Year’s In eight days the family would have been part of the procession, a throng thousands strong out in force for one man, dark and wooden, on a cross floated aloft. But tonight they pose for a photograph, out in the dark for another date as old as the stars. The last thing I see isn’t my family, nor the gunman aiming at me as we all go up in a second of flash, but the statue of our Lord and Saviour, black as death, looking down upon me as I fall upon my back in seconds’ worth of light and death, pulled down to the ground where I’ll stay, never to get up again... They won’t carry him on their many shoulders, mourning his death, he’s just one man, now gravity’s fool.
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Fiction:
The Place We Go In Dreams by Jarred Martin Miasma. That’s what I call it. The stench. That shit smell that permeates the open air, seducing it and transforming it into a rotting… well, like I said miasma. Only less of a seduction and more like rape. The streets are wet and sticky with what could be jizz (but it tastes less salty). It collects in the gutters and congeals. Steam rises all around giving that stench a physical presence that I try to avoid. There is a young, brown boy sitting on the sidewalk pulling the limbs off a squirrel, putting them in his mouth and chewing. He smiles as I pass and he holds out the rodent. Only one back leg remains, kicking furiously. I reach into my pocket and give the boy a dollar, which he wipes his mouth with and throws away. I’ve got to get off of these streets, away from the stench, away from this boy’s hunger. I need shelter. The neon sign above the funeral parlor buzzes loudly. A sort of comforting, electric warmth that promises some sort of safety (and if not safety at least I can abandon that shit smell. Leave it outside to be inhaled by people who don’t recognize it). Only the first three letters light up blinking “FUN FUN FUN”. I take the sign as a sign and immediately want to both kick myself in the dick and pat myself on the back. I look through the glass door and observe an eclectic smattering of characters, all with drinks in their hands and a vibrating sort of cheer that loosens my asshole slightly. I make the mistake of inhaling deeply, through my nose before I enter and immediately start to retch. A woman pushing a baby carriage stops to watch me. As I fall to my knees I pull the carriage to me and empty my stomach into it. The woman recoils and lets out a shrill scream, and then explains in a calm manner that she was unable to push her baby through a chain link fence earlier that day and apologizes to me while wiping the vomit off my chin. Bells tinkle melodically as I open the door and step inside. The air in here is warm and sweet like an oven full of gingerbread men; only the gingerbread men are drunk and at a funeral, crying icing tears. No one seems to take any particular interest in my presence. I stand in the doorway scanning the scene. On the other side of the room there is an open bar, and I decide that in order to blend in I should make myself a drink. I launch myself into the crowd and attempt to navigate my way to the alcohol. I’m stopped by an obese, middle-aged woman appropriately dressed in black. “Here to pay your respects?” she asks. “Well actually I’m just avoiding a smell, but naturally I offer my condolences and I’m saddened by the passing of…uh…the...um…deceased.” “Yes,” she says, “Aunt Gertrude was a marvelous human being and she will be missed.” “Undoubtedly,” I agree, “My fondest childhood memories were of Aunt whatever-you-said her-name-was. How was it that she came to pass?”
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“Oh, she was the most marvelous advocate of depopulation, she believed in the cause so strongly that she took her own life in protest, hoping to lead by example, you see.” “Ah, how altruistic.” “Yes, she was marvelously altruistic.” “Well, if you would excuse me I need to use the restroom.” I begin to walk away, but as soon as I turn I feel a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, young man, but you would find yourself better suited shitting off the roof as the toilets in this marvelous establishment seem to be inoperable.” “That’s okay; I’m only going to jerk off,” I say. “How marvelous, perhaps I’ll join you.” “I’d like that very much; I’ll leave the door unlocked.” And as I turn and walk away I can hear her say “simply marvelous.” I shuffle awkwardly through the crowd. I twist, turn, and stumble through a gathering of natives clicking furiously at one another. Their noses like little puppies carrying oversized bones. They stop their rhythmic clicking to stare at me as I pass. I grin sheepishly and make my fingers into little guns, shooting my way through them. As soon is my back is turned I feel a sharp pain at the base of my skull. My hand instinctively touches the point of discomfort, and I can feel a small dart sticking out of the back of my head. All the natives are doubled over laugh-clicking and the only thing I can think to do is ignore the dart, pretend it doesn’t bother me. This way they’ll think I’m cool. At the bar I’m comforted by the tinkle of ice in my glass every time I take a sip. I finally pull the dart from my head and stir my drink with it. The only other person at the bar is a grainy, sepiatoned man wearing an old timey tuxedo with ridiculous tails. He occasionally flickers and seems to be emitting a soft hum, like an unattended dildo buzzing beneath a pillow. I don’t know why, but I’m pretty sure if I reached out to touch him my hand would pass right through and out the other side. I’m debating testing this hypothesis when he notices me staring. “Life is cruel,” he says, “one day you’re all teeth, hanging on to the world, chewing the shit out of it as it’s dragging you through the dirt. You ain’t winning but at least you’re fighting. You understand? The next day, you’re sobbing in front of a mirror, wondering why your dick don’t get hard no more, and staring at your own sagging tits. Pleading to God to at least let you take a shit. I don’t know which is worse: having a useless cock or a small intestine full of concrete. Which do you think is worse?” “Definitely a coin toss,” I respond, staring into my drink. “I know we’re at a funeral, but you are one morose motherfucker, did anyone ever tell you that?” “Morose? I’ll tell you what’s really morose, Woodrow over there, painted like a whore and
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stuffed full of sawdust.” He gestures at the coffin. “That, my friend, is morose.” “Yeah, it really puts things in perspective.” “He was in pictures, you know.” “Like Polaroids?” I inquire. “No, mostly it was talkies. He defined the golden age of cinema. Back when they made quality pictures where women fainted, and men had to slap them in order to revive them. Hell, I once watched Fred Astaire slap Ginger Rogers across the screen for a full two hours. And when the film was over the audience stood up and applauded.” “I don’t know what a talkie is or who any of those people are, but I’m fascinated. How was it that Woodstones came to pass?” “Well, if you knew anything about Woodrow you knew he loved pickles. He finally got the role of a lifetime—he was gonna play a pickle in a movie about this great dinner party, he didn’t have any lines or nothing, he was just gonna sit on a plate, you understand. Woodrow was a method actor, one of the best, so he immersed himself in brine for six months to prepare. His skin turned green and bumpy, and when he finally emerged, damned if he wasn’t a kosher dill. On the day of filming he’s sitting at the catering table waiting for the crew to light his big scene. It was to be a career defining role, you understand. And lo and behold if some numb nuts gaffer don’t pick him up and eat him.” “What a way to go,” I mutter. “But if he was eaten, what’s in the coffin?” “Oh, Woodrow had a stunt double, looked just like him, so they killed him and stuffed ‘im in the box.” “Of course.” When I look around I can see a line forming that leads to the coffin. I decide that now is an appropriate time to view the contents of the box. My interest being far past piqued. I stand up to take my place in line while giving the old timer a grim valediction. Before I can abandon him I feel a familiar, if not foreboding, hand clench my wrist. “I couldn’t let you leave without offering some advice,” he says, his eyes going all cold and serious. “Which is this: you should leave right now. You’re not fooling anyone here, we know you don’t belong. I repeat, leave immediately. This will not end well for you.” My dick shrivels as his grip tightens. I manage a wan smile, which, no doubt, looks as artificial as it feels. “One quick peek, let me stay here long enough to clear my sinuses and honor the dead and I’ll be on my way. I promise. I’ll be dry heaving outside before you know it.” He shakes his head and turns his back to me. His silence is sinister and palpable, like the warm aftermath of a diarrhea fart running down my leg. Heedless of his warning, I get in line behind something resembling a half-melted rubber yeti with rows of fat, double D tits pulsating on its back. The nipples are mouths that sing some public domain song in a ridiculous falsetto. The line moves slowly and I hum along to the tune. Eventually I start to shimmy and do an awkward approximation of the lindy hop while shouting the lyrics to Camp Town Ladies, adding jazzy scat variations during the chorus. “Do DAH
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skittylti BOP a zuma DO dah.” Goddamn, I’m cool. Then I stop suddenly as I notice a peculiar thing: the walls are lined with cracks that weren’t there when I came in. As if to validate this observation I also begin to notice that smell creeping in. Reaching out to me with long stenchfingers, rushing at me through the cracks as if to say “You can’t hide from me, pal, I know where you are. I always knew.” It seems the cracks grow deeper with each step towards the coffin that I take. I figure by the time I actually get to see what’s in there, the whole place will be ready to crumble and fall on my head. Still, that’s a risk I’m willing to take. Metaphors about curious cats and Pandora’s box mix in my head. They are immediately forgotten as I realize that box and cat are sometimes slang words for vagina, and I giggle. The building creaks and moans, swaying with the pungent wind. I feel something nuzzling my ass, cold and gentle. I turn around and the ass nuzzler buries his face in my crotch. It’s a nude man wearing a dog collar and leash. A bright yellow substance is dripping from his mouth and asshole onto the floor and now, the front of my pants. I notice a thick trail of the viscous slime leading from the back of the line to where we now stand. Holding the leash, his owner, a haggard, dominatrix type grandma wearing a cape, is lightly smacking her palm with a rolled up newspaper. “He likes you.” “Yeah, but I think he’s leaking.” “Oh, he’s sick. It’s actually time for his medication.” She says, rolling the newspaper tighter. She pulls his head out of my crotch with effort and places a comforting hand beneath his chin, raising his head so their eyes meet. “You’ve been in the onion patch again, haven’t you Snoopy? Don’t look at me that way. I can smell them on you.” She raises the newspaper above her head with both hands and brings it down on Snoopy’s skull, shouting “How dare you! You know that’s how Colonel Barker died!” She beats him unmercifully with the vigor of an animal abuser half her age. All this violence is giving me a weird chub and I turn around fast so that no one will notice. So fast that I accidentally smack one of the singing tits with my erection. Not to brag or anything, but there is no way this thing doesn’t notice. It spins around with authority. All the glorious, fat-titted whimsy of it’s backside is equaled by the menacing, cock-eviscerating, horribleness of it’s front. This thing is a plague of matted hair and furious jaws full of ragged, mismatched, shark teeth; anticipatorily masticating. Before I can react, the funeral parlor thunders with the sound of splitting wood and cracking plaster. The entire room watches as a chunk of ceiling crashes down on the half-melted tit-yeti. The air is filled with an opaque camouflage of dust and amid the cacophony of screams, shrill cries of surprise, and confusion, Snoopy’s harrowing, canine bark mingles with a weaker sound of the beast’s tits gurgling in their death throes. As the dust settles all of the mourners are silent. Long men with short brooms moving with determined purpose lift the piece of ceiling from the crushed body of the thing that used to be a thing but is now just a mess. The body has mostly liquefied on impact. The long men go to work spraying the mass of viscera with aerosol cans. This spray transforms the mess into a fine, brown powder that is
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easily swept up by the gangly gentlemen and deposited into garbage bags. The mourners look on obliviously as smaller and less lethal pieces of plaster fall all around them. The mourners quickly queue up and I take my place in line; this time behind an oblong owlish sort of thing covered with shiny feathers that give it a disco ball kind of vibe. In his feather’s reflection I notice Snoopy’s owner—the fem dom granny—pulling chunks of her blue hair from her skull and fashioning them into sideburns. I peak around the disco owl to see that there are easily half a dozen people ahead of me. And when I say people I mean that one of them is an erotic birthday cake that has “I wish I was a muffin” written on it in icing. Meanwhile, the cracks grow deeper and more of that green shit creeps in. An armored knight throws up in his helmet. Everyone seems to be growing restless and the volume of their conversations is almost unbearable. people are screaming and in their din I can’t help but overhear excerpts of dialogue. “…he was the best goddamn mechanic I ever saw. He’s fixing God’s transmission now, I guess” “…ham sandwich that I dropped on the floor. I wish I was eating it right now.” “…know its silly to bury fingernail clippings, but that’s the way they would’ve wanted it.” “…can of gasoline, I didn’t think she would drink it all…” “…smell something?” “…bag of clothes that don’t fit anymore.” “…heard it fucked three of the Beach Boys” “…Siamese septuplets” “…cut himself shaving and bled to death…” “…sack of lawn trimmings…” “…illiterate cowboy…” “…something I would have flushed….” “…invented the rapesicle.” Their sandpapery, inane blathering is rubbing my brain raw. I clutch my head and scream. Then, finally, the bliss of silence. I push the disco-owl into the erotic cake that wishes for muffinhood and march towards the coffin. The earth shakes with every step I take. In the final feet the rumbling is so severe that I alone, held up solely by sheer determination of will and curiosity, am left standing. All around me light fixtures and picture frames fall to the floor and shatter as the room descends into chaos. Now I stand before the casket, hands frozen over the lid, the room goes quiet and all I can hear is my heart pounding in my ears. I lift the lid. I’m suddenly blinded by a blazing and intense light coming from inside. I throw open the lid in haste and peer inside. The breath leaves my body in a rush, like a boxer being dealt the final devastating blow to the solar plexus. The insides are crammed with newspaper, and from what I can tell little else. Frantically, I start to dig, tossing the paper behind me. And then it happens. My fingers plunge into something wet and visceral and I stop. My hand is covered in a viscous, blue slime. I clear the remaining newspaper away and the corpse is staring me in the face. Perfectly round with a flakey crust, still in the tin, unmarred except for the cavity my fingers have created, it’s a blueberry pie. As I stare down I realize there
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will be no profound realization, this is it. This is the great mystery; it’s a pie. It was always a pie. All these assholes have been yanking my chain. And now it’s bleeding and writhing like a dead snake shriveling and beaten, dying in a corner. My rage rocks the foundation of my being and transforms me into something terrible. I hold the pie high above me. “Is this your god? Your mailman? Is this why you mourn? Is this something you even recognize? Have your sentiments and biased memory transformed this into something unfamiliar? Something safe that you can assure yourselves that you understood and loved always? Have your foolish hearts twisted this into a thing sacred?” My audience only stares. It could be millennia that pass in the time that these goofy bastards bore holes of retardation into me with their vapid expressions. I have to make them understand. I dig my hand into the pie and grasp a sticky handful. I hear someone in the back gasp and shout “Bill!” Finally, a reaction. But it’s too late. I shove the mess into my mouth. It’s bitter but I manage to swallow. Someone else shouts, “My baby! He’s eating my baby!” Another cries, “Cannibal!” From all around there are screams of man-eater and fiend, as the room descends upon me. Inside the crumbling room, droves of bizarre monsters and weirdos jockey for position as I’m pummeled by dirty fists and leathery tentacles. They pull and bite and strangle until I’m only pulp quivering on the ground struggling to push squishy organs and ropey intestines back inside myself with one arm. My other arm is being beaten upon the ground by a naked and hairless man, simian in his fury. I cough up a foamy froth of blood from my lungs as I struggle to breathe. And in my final moments I see a priest carving up the remains of the pie into slices and dispensing them to the crowd. They hold the slices close, pushed against their breasts, in the embrace blueberries slide down their bodies and fall to the floor. Christ, it stinks in here.
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Artist Profile:
Carola Perla Author Carola Perla turns the personal experience of writing her novel Gibbin House into a work of art at Miami’s ATELIER 1022.
LAdM: Tell us a bit about Gibbin House. Perla: Gibbin House is an immigrant’s story, set in London four years after the end of World War II. The main protagonist is Anka, a young Romanian girl with a speech impediment who is forced to leave her mother’s side and carve out a new life for herself in an old Hampstead safehouse. The place is already inhabited by a damaged set of exiled men, artists and intellectuals who never managed to move on. Anka’s arrival is the catalyst for renewed hope, but it also sets in motion events that will reveal the truth behind past betrayals, romantic disappointments, and terrible sacrifices. Ultimately, the story begs the question of these artists, immigrants, and former lovers—what do we leave behind without losing ourselves, and how do we forgive in order to start again?
of me. Gibbin House was a nine-year process, and my experience of writing it an often insular and hermetic one. I suppose the self-aggrandizing artist in me wanted people to see what I had lived with on my own for so long— the boxes of journals and notebooks, clippings and storyboards, manuscripts obsessively reprinted and annotated, etc. There is a material culture that emerges from such a process I felt deserved exposing and elevating. Museums do it all the time, of course, but I could not think of an example when the author had offered the ‘inside’ glimpse. It also occurred to me that, as the author, I was in the unique position of being able to fully incorporate a published work of literature into an art piece. My art background and my close connection with ATELIER 1022 allowed me to follow through on that. The result has been very cathartic and validating.
How did you decide to turn your writing into an art installation? It seemed an obvious next step after I finally had the published book in front
Do you do other types of artwork? My second installation “Illegible”—a sort of companion piece to “Off the Page”—features a pencil portrait of a
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young woman. I made the drawing when I was 21, around the same age as my main character Anka in Gibbin House. Although I am really interested in further exploring paper art as a visual and textural extension of my writing, my first love is portraiture. I am fascinated by human faces. In my drawings they are a conglomerate of unuttered feelings and expressions. In my books, I get to make them speak. What were some of the challenges in writing your first novel? Most writers can attest to the fact that time and money are the practical challenges with a first novel – after all, no one is paying you to write it, and every dawn you greet with exhaustion and an overexerted ashtray makes you wonder if it’s all worth it. Luckily, my flexible schedule and a supportive, understanding family helped me push past all that. What I struggled with, more than anything, was finding confidence in my choices, trusting my voice as a writer. With the first novel, there is always trepidation and second-guessing, because you have no
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Off the Page
“...what do we leave behind without losing ourselves, and how do we forgive in order to start again?”
proof that you really know what you’re doing. In my case, setting the story in a time period that required a lot of research created the added pressure of historical authenticity. But whenever I wavered, I’d go back to the famous anecdote about Oscar Wilde, spending the morning taking out a comma, and the afternoon putting it back in. It would remind me that indecision plagues the best of them. Fear of failure is part of the romance.
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“…every dawn you greet with exhaustion and an overexerted ashtray makes you wonder if it’s all worth it.” What are your thoughts on independent publishing versus traditional venues? My first thought is always Walt Whitman—he sort of sets the precedent for the legitimacy of independent publishing (I amuse myself with picturing him at his computer today, logging into his Amazon account and shamelessly ‘liking’ Leaves of Grass). Of course, when I set out writing Gibbin House ten years ago, I had every intention of finding a publisher for it the traditional way. Because being published is the thing. Behind the veil of every writer’s indifference and sardonic grin is a yearning for that moment of euphoria, the edification of being ‘chosen’. In going independent, I realize I opted out of this. About a year later, I have made several observations. At its best, self-publishing is a rewarding exercise in artistic autonomy, giving the author complete control and also allowing a book indefinite shelf life. (To say nothing of its cost-effectiveness and ego preservation - demoralizing rejection letters, be gone!) But
independence can also test an author’s commitment. Visibility and promotion are difficult enough for established publishers in today’s flooded market, let alone an inexperienced individual. You have to love the book, stand behind it, and fight for every reader’s attention. (Digital publishing seems the ultimate free market experiment, an adventure I’ll embark upon next month, so we’ll see!) As for the main criticism leveled against independent publishing—quality control—I rather think the typos are part of the charm—weeds often hint at overlooked gems. Besides which, I feel the publishing industry is at a crossroads—every time I walk through a book store and see the glossy hardcovers about some peripheral Jane Austen character pitted against yet another sea monster, I have to shake my head, and sigh with relief that a side avenue exists, however flawed, for bringing a new point of view to the reader, not determined by focus groups or the bottom line. It’s too early to tell if the democratization of publishing
will improve the level of literature being created, but for now it’s certainly a worthy experiment. How much of yourself do you put into your characters? Virtually all the characters I create betray some aspect of my own personality, whether or not I intend this. Writing is often like being an actor, in that you don’t just describe settings and situations, but try as much as possible to physically and emotionally inhabit the people in the story. Of course, I did intentionally inject much of myself into my main characters. Anka’s speech impediment, for example, arose from my own immigrant childhood and the sensation I felt as a young girl of being mute and unintelligible in every new country we moved to. The relationship between Theodor and Raluca also bears a deep personal resemblance to my own past. Undeniably, there is a reason that first novels tend to be Bildungsroman in style—they are an author’s first opportunity to portray himself and his life experiences, an urgency that
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is not necessarily there in the works that follow. For my part, I would not say Gibbin House was autobiographical, but certainly an ‘echo’ of the truth. What is your favorite novel? It’s so hard to say. I feel mentioning one will ignore the others. My favorite writers include JosephConrad, Thomas Hardy, Max Frisch, Albert Camus, Milan Kundera, and Jane Austen. But the novel I always return to is The Great Gatsby. However often I have read it, I am amazed, shocked, and fiercefully envious of the ease of Fitzgerald’s prose—no one else
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delights and devastates with such economy (my German-speaking background prevents this almost on principle). My second favorite, for sheer elegance, is Razor’s Edge by W. Somerset Maugham. I throw in the poetry of John Keats, simply because his words are the finest in the English language. What else do you do when you are not creating? My life seems to center around creativity, whether I’m writing, making art, curating the gallery, designing flyers, sewing new pillowcases for my sofa, or just cooking for
friends. It means that moments of passive spectatorship are my guilty pleasure – I love British television and film, and I’ve been known to travel half way around the world for a rugby match. Then again, I don’t know if that counts as passive.
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Poetry:
2:35 A.M. by Peycho Kanev The grass is shaking but not because the storm outside; it’s filled up with the red ants of death - so pure, so alive, and it is 2:35 in the morning like every god-damned day is 2:35 in the morning, and I take a peek outside waiting for some revenge upon my view on the world affairs; but nothing is changed: the red ants are running upon my drunken arms heading for my heart, singing sweet songs of maidens and children dead at birth, and the storm outside is quiet now; and the ants, my ants of death are running away from me, screaming with their little mouths: “There is no soul inside”, and finally I sleep with no remorse, the perception of tomorrow lost like a roach in garbage, the ants are burning in my dream, and I am happy for a while, feeling mortal, too fragile, so far away without moving a muscle, sinking into the lie of the new day.
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The Arrival of Death by Peycho Kanev She unbuttons her skirt. Such a horror! I reach out for the knife, for the life but my fingers grasp only air. I open my sweaty palm to see only Love – dripping between my fingers.
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Video:
Test Subject
(click) 3 mins. 46 secs. Will open in new window.
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Fiction:
Crane Legs by Berit Ellingsen The actor is tall and lean, his eyes the blue of purity. His dark eyelashes reach farther than the hair on his head. But his legs are his best feature. They’re long and thin. In firefights he hunches over, ready to act out violence. Then his legs look like crane legs, bending the wrong way. Once, they are almost crushed by an oncoming car. He jumps up on the vehicle behind him and lifts his legs out of the way. The impact folds the steel into a bird. Does he always do his own stunts? His two previous series were cancelled in the first season. He’s thirty-five and graying. In the season finale he’s framed by enemies and must flee from law enforcer colleagues. He leaps up on tropical roofs while howling monkey men point-and-shoot at him. The crane legs bend-bend-bend and drum over sun-warm tiles, cut like a laser through the camera, across the ocean and into my eyes. I squawk.
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Poetry:
Dialectic by Dan Corjescu And now after all the idols are gone.. Why should any one hear you? You who have banished song
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Strike, dear mistress, and cure his heart
photography Wolf189 stylist Katja Ehrhardt - HighGlossDolls assistant Alison models Alexandria F. & Chelsey D.
all clothes model’s own
shoes Guess
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Artist Profile:
Jeff Wack Los Angeles based artist Jeff Wack does commercial illustration for brands such as Coca Cola and 20th Century Fox. Here, he shares his personal work, more of which can be viewed at http://www.sensuousmuse.com
What inspired your Sensuous Muse Collection? I’ve always had a deep affinity for inspiring figurative works and wanted to do some experimentation along those lines for some time prior to starting. Something to fulfill a creative need beyond my commercial work. It had been years since working with live figure models, but I enlisted the help of a friends’ girlfriend, who graciously and very artfully posed for a session. That modeling session allowed me to get the first 3 images of the series together in early 2006. My intent from inception was to capture and celebrate the classic idealized female form, infused with some poise and ethereal energy. I have, by design, avoided anything too overt in sexuality, but of course it’s all in the eye of the viewer, I suppose. If some fall under the category of “erotic” that’s fine with me.
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Does your creative process differ much between your personal artwork and your commercial illustration work? Creatively it’s very different in the sense that I pick my own subject matter and there is no “client” input. Occasionally there are commissioned works that require some collaboration with the clients’ wishes. For example, I have been working on a personally commissioned series of work for actor/ artist James Franco this last year, with
the only guidance being a general theme of Greek Goddesses as I envision them. Some of your work is obviously inspired by painters such as Botticelli or Klimt. What other artists do you admire? They range from contemporary artists to old masters. However, regarding figurative work I have a soft spot for some old classics, ranging from Tamara De Lempicka, Mary Cassatt to William DeKooning and Chuck Close.
“My intent from inception was to capture and celebrate the classic idealized female form, infused with some poise and ethereal energy.”
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Artemis by Jeff
Wack ©James Franco
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Additionally there a a lot of pin-up artists who handled the female form with amazing skill and artistry, Elvgren, Petty, Vargas, Mozert. Plus, so many photographers that “paint” with their mastery of light and shadow. Steichen, Weston, Mapplethorpe, Avedon, to name a few. Are the separate elements that go into one of your paintings captured specifically for each project, or do you have a collection of images that you go back to? Most of the figures are made-up from anywhere of 3-10 shots depending on how I want the pose realized. Heads, arms, hands, legs, removed and replaced, etc. Background elements are from an ongoing repository of images I shoot whenever traveling, much from California. If there is something specific for a scene or element I have in mind for a concept, I go out and shoot it, or just paint it. What gave you the idea to combine your photography with digital painting? It’s essentially what I have been doing for several years, even prior to going digital. For a long time I only used the following art tools on prints—a Paasche, an Iwata, Liquitex, Windsor Newtons and Prismacolors. Those references may make a few people break-out a Google “brand” search...ha.
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Had you always wanted to be an artist? At least since High School. In fact, I remember having a pen and ink drawing of a nude woman reclining, that I had on my art material box, which drove some of the staff at school crazy. Do you do other types of artwork? Have dabbled in sculpture...maybe someday? The commercial advertising workload only allows so much free time at present. Do you have a favorite story? My all-time favorite artist is a woman named Tressa “Grandma” Prisbrey. She built an amazing folk art environment starting at age 60 in the town I lived. We became very close friends when she was in her eighties. She was what one would consider a ‘naive,’ or ‘untrained artist,’ however she had some of the most inspired creativity, boundless energy, and innocence about her work that I have ever seen to this day. She’s definitely worth looking up for those eclecticallyminded. Acqua Mossa L.A. ©Jeff Wack/Sensuous Muse
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“…I remember having a pen and ink drawing of a nude woman reclining, that I had on my art material box, which drove some of the staff at school crazy.”
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Nyx L’Allure des Mots || Spring, 2012 || Issue No. 5
by Jeff
Wack ©James Franco
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Calla Rosada ©Jeff Wack/Sensuous Muse
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La Bella NevaehLleh ©Jeff Wack/Sensuous Muse
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Aurous Dream L’Allure des Mots || Spring, 2012 || Issue No. 5
©Jeff Wack/Sensuous Muse
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Oceana ©Jeff Wack/Sensuous Muse
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Sky Pond ©Jeff Wack/Sensuous Muse
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Youth ©Jeff Wack/Sensuous Muse
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Fiction:
Locked Up by Eric Newcombe His laundry was way past due. Piling up in the corner like shameful pancakes. After working 5:30 a.m. to 3 p.m., he had the rest of the afternoon to do it. He liked only one laundromat in the surrounding area: Wash This, so he lugged his overstuffed garbage bag a mile down back alleys and gray streets. It was a two load bag. As he dumped the second half of it into a machine, he heard something clink against the bottom. He stopped, set down the bag. It had sounded heavy. What’s in there? he thought, peering in and rifling through his underlings to find a black metal lock. What the hell? Whose is this? After pouring 11 quarters into each machine, along with the aroma de Pataloma detergent, he sat and pondered the lock. It was the kind that matched up three numbers, and, seeing that he had nothing to do for an hour, he began to fool with it. There was no pressing need to crack it; he just liked the weight in his hands. And he liked the interchangeability of the numbers, the tactile feel of turning the little metal tumblers one click at a time, creating myriad combinations and possibilities. By the time he started the dryers, his curiosity had grown an appetite. He found himself giving a gentle tug after each click of the wheel. Finding the code was just for fun, but slowly this fool would come to take it as a metaphor for the whole thing, and an omen if he could not crack it by the end of the day. He felt wonder at why he chose the numbers he did: 222, 000, 666, 557, 257, 768, 238. He wasn’t sure what made these flood his mind, with variations of; but numbers held something for him. He was sure that they manifested reality, and with as much importance as words. His clothes were fresh again and he lugged them home, uphill both ways, back to his little room. But he couldn’t stay there. He had to move. And he set to it, briskly, the scenery in his vision and peripheral flooding past, his hands twisting the tumblers and tugging. After a mile he had to change hands, when the soreness in his fingers felt like repetitive stress disorder. Addresses caught his eye and he applied them, fruitlessly, as they were not his. Though who is to really say that? The homeless crowding the streets all around him said gimme. Hey man I’m just 50 cents away from a quarter. But he couldn’t stop to look, he was turning the wheels; quickly, but at random. Suddenly and mistakenly he struck crown of his head into the shoulder of an older teen, facing the other way. He was very tall with sagging pants, his underwear was clearly visible. He held a phone blasting Mac Dre, and raised a Newport cigarette to his lips. His skin was ghostly pale, his eyes vacuous. He blew his smoke into the man’s face and mumbled something like a hostile grunt. Then he was over it.
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The man with the lock in his fist took off walking. Across the street a clothing store had enormous pink letters in the window; BE STUPID, they said. At the chess table were seated two men across from one another. He had never seen people play this aggressively. Entire games were playing out in less than a minute. Yet it was the same man winning every time. Funny enough, he was the one who kept saying, “I resign,” after delivering a mortal blow, to keep the up the intensity and spare them both the tedious and limping final entrapment. He wanted only the meat of the game. He set at it, again and again, schooling this guy on the chessboard and saying things like, “Look at what you’re doing; all you’re doing right now is throwing pieces. Where’s your focus? Where is foresight? Are you just a consequence?” They were playing furiously. “Think it through. Do you expect to beat me by accident?” he said as he snatched the queen, leaving the man broke and mistaken. “I resign,” he said, and began resetting the pieces. He was quick, he was smooth; there was humor, there was malice. He looked up and studied the man with the lock; he had seen him in his peripheral the whole time. The man with the lock felt exposed, and walked away. He realized he would have to apply some kind of stratagem. He would have to start at 000. 001 002 003 004 005 006 007 008 009 010 011 012 013 014 015 016 017 018 019 020 021 022 023 024 025 Et cetera. Until he completely exhausted zero as the first number. Then every combination with one at the top, every possibility with two, and so on. It took discipline when his ADD kicked in. Confusing at times; he had to hope that he hadn’t skipped any numbers by accident. But he felt this undercurrent, something like hope; something like logic. He would crack the lock, if he tapped into every single possibility, because one of them was it. And he would find it. For he could not rest until then. One click at a time, he walked through Union Square. The great bluish sunset sky made him stop and look up. A plane was cutting a long orange scratch that would heal immediately. Cherry blossom trees were blooming, and the wind picked off petals and carried them past the cafes, tourists, locals, people drinking wine, spending fortunes at designer stores, and taking pictures. Lots of pictures. 415. Soon he passed the strip clubs, the little step between excess and poverty, with cheap men in expensive suits outside, saying, “Come on in for cocktails, guys. We got chicks for your dicks, and, assholes too.” His hands hurt as he walked through the Tenderloin, a dirty Bermuda triangle of several blocks
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where all the crackheads and tweakers abide. He continued his process of deciphering amidst the dysfunction, in this place of out and out madness. 624. Self destructed; the pain and sickness of soul manifesting itself so vividly there, so concentratedly, had several times brought him to tears. But six months of exposure can make a thick callus. And he’d learned the messy way to pay more attention to his steps, because there happened to be human feces all over the sidewalk. 769, 770, 774; he was freezing cold. Police sirens, screaming past. A dirty banana peel and sketchy leather glove on the sidewalk. Trash cans tipped over with garbage splayed out like guts, rotting on the street. A cluster of people hung around, fried, livid, docile, partying on the sidewalk, in wheelchairs and out, with beer and radios in the night. He twisted the lock, this penance, this patience straining search for something. He looked up at the gated steps of Fifth Church of Christ, Scientist. Maybe it’s in there, he said; but I ain’t got the key to get in. Walking toward the Capitol Building in the dark, two effigies of men floated on either side of him. “Don’t forget to paint the side of the building with a dog’s leg, and oil of canut, at five thirty tomorrow morning.” “Do remember a 15 minute call could save you 15% or more off car insurance.” “Gimme 400 dollars. This camera caught you going through a red light; can’t you see the picture is clearly you? Look at that stupid face you’re making.” “Sex, drugs, rock and roll. In that order. Why don’t you go ahead and get wasted buddy, because, everything’s a drag, and, you have no future. Not in this economy.” 811, 823, 842, 846, 897. “Listen to me, when a knife is in the butcher’s hand, don’t tug on his apron; and when he’s looking at You, point at Them.” “Now go ahead and keep a log of every offense anyone makes on your ego and scheme up how you can jab them back. I’ll give you your first entry: you’re ugly as hell, and everyone is really weirded out by you. You should be ashamed, and you need to apologize.” “Shut up!” he screamed finally. “I can only do one thing at a time!” He looked up; he was at the foot of a huge bronze statue, though it had no feet. An enormous chest was bursting out of the ground, and its head held four faces; all serene, stoic. It had five long and slender arms unfurling with flowers. He beheld it, dropped the lock, and felt some kind of crazy both peace and yearning. For a second he said, “On what premise do they lay claim on me, to confining me?” Only on what power you let them, he answered. “Then I renounce it. I have no border.” He basked in these words, until his glance returned to lock; slowly he bent to the ground and picked it back up. 919. 931. 954 His hands were numb in the cold, deprived of his pockets for the task at hand. As though the whole world were at stake.
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He slowed his pace to something calm, and did not notice when he had come to complete standstill. He began to relish the methodical; turning a number, tugging the lock, turning a number, tugging the lock. In his stomach he felt a knot that he refused to acknowledge; it was fear that he reach 000 again, and the lock still remain unopened. Horror that he might try his darndest, yet still step right over it—It!—with not a glimpse of recognition or a second glance; that would mean his would be the fate of theirs, and he was just another one of them… which at root he knew he was. What both thrilled and scared him about existence was the same thing: it’s just there. But didn’t he long to say that the truth indeed has been seen by those who are able to see the true? The cold wind slapped him. That chilly stinging wind, but he stood braced, defiant, inhaling deeply, and he said, “Bring it.” 978, 983, 984, 985, 986, 987, and the lock gave. His hand felt the surprise of the access being granted; he looked at the open lock in his hands and laughed at the simplicity. What ease! he suddenly felt. Shoot, I need a slice of pizza, he said. So he ate one. It had broccoli on it, pesto, a bunch of stuff. It was good. He looked at his phone. 1:30 a.m. As he embarked toward home he asked, “Did you maybe deceive yourself a little bit tonight?” “Of course. What, you didn’t have fun?” “I did. It’s just, well, I gotta be at work in four hours.”
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coat Burning Torch
The wildness about her, the wildness within
photography & styling Tricia Lee Pascoe makeup & hair Tania D. Russell using Obsessive Compulsive Cosmetics assistants Deborah Connor, Kristof Schaper, Jarrett Meilleur model Cassandra Smith @ Next Models
coat Diane von Furstenberg panties vintage
skirt model’s own
tights DKNY
coat Bebe dress Allsaints Spitalfield
coat Santuary bra Elle MacPherson leggings Planet Funk
coat Jack skirt & belt vintage
bralette Wacoal shoes Guess
coat Toria Rose pants American Apparel
coat Collection XIIX boots Kurt Geiger
coat Burning Torch bodysuit American Apparel bra H&M
coat Willow & Clay bra vintage
all clothes model’s own
coat Collection XIIX jeans Allsaints Spitalfield
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Fiction:
Soho Surprise by Gary Beck One night, about 11:00 p.m., there was a knock on the Cafferty apartment door. Lee Cafferty wasn’t expecting anyone and she was afraid that something was wrong and anxiously went to the door. But when she opened it, Tanya, an actress friend of her son Roy, was there. Lee was surprised to see her at that hour. “Hello, Tanya. Isn’t it a little late for a social call?” Tanya wasn’t the least bit put off by the abrupt greeting. “Hi, Lee. It’s not too late. I’m going to take Roy to this cool new club.” Tanya was wearing a long black trench coat. She opened it and displayed a black vinyl mini dress underneath, with round holes that revealed her body. Thigh high black vinyl boots completed her outfit. Lee just stared silently at her until Roy came into the room. Tanya kissed him hello. “Hi, baby. Get your jacket.” Roy was happy to see her. “Sure. Where are we going?” She smiled mysteriously. “It’s a surprise.” They left to Lee’s admonitions not to get home too late. Downstairs, a chauffeured limousine was waiting at the curb. Tanya walked to it and got in and Roy followed her, trying to be cool. A dissipated looking couple in their forties, dressed as hippies, were sitting on the back seat. They were stoned out of their minds. Tanya introduced them as Teddy and Donna. They mumbled incoherently, then offered him hash and acid. He refused the acid, but accepted a big hit from a hash pipe that set him floating. The car drove off and Roy was adrift in a tiny world that seemed to expand and contract as they moved. They headed to downtown Manhattan to an underground club that was south of Houston Street. They found the old, industrial loft building near Canal Street. They got out of the car and entered a rickety elevator. As soon as the door closed, the lights went out and the elevator shook, so it was hard to tell whether it was going up or down. The total darkness was unnerving and distorted the passage of time. Donna was getting slightly upset and started to ask what was happening, when the door opened on a totally dark room. Unseen attendants took them by the arm and guided them to a dimly lit reception area. It was staffed by highly attractive young men and women, in very short, revealing togas. Teddy paid $100 each for their entrance fee and they were given short togas and a cloth bag to store their things. Teddy, Donna and Tanya took off all their clothes, put them in the bags and put on togas. Roy left his pants on, without being sure whether it was Cafferty self consciousness, or some other reason, a feeling he sensed about the place that wasn’t reassuring. Tanya insisted that he remove his pants and he did, but he refused to remove his underwear.
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They followed the attendants, who caressed them as they walked, into a large, dimly lit pink room with small, interconnected platforms running around the outside and a large platform in the center. They had to cross already occupied platforms, and the people they passed were lolling about, some in the revealing togas, others naked, making love, smoking pot, talking, listening to some kind of strange environmental music that was playing on concealed speakers. Their attendants led them to a platform, showed them where to put their bags underneath the platform on the floor, gave them a puff of a large blunt and left them with a final caress. Roy’s eyes were getting used to the low light and he could see about 30 platforms, almost all of them occupied. Roy smoked a little more hash and felt a warm sensation flow over him. The lights dimmed and the music kept getting louder and softer, in a rhythmic mood that was lulling. Teddy was snuggling with Tanya. Donna, looking better to Roy by the moment, courtesy of ‘Monsieur Hash,’ moved closer to him. He looked around curiously at the nearest platforms and several people looked back at him, waving dreamily. A sexy girl on the next platform moved her naked body sensuously, either flirting or teasing. Roy started to get an erection and Donna slid her hands under his toga. The lights dimmed even further. Attendants entered with bells, chanting “Love, love,” over and over. They brought a large white parachute to the center platform and urged everyone to move under it. Other attendants went to the platforms and encouraged the move with caresses and gentle words. In a few moments everyone was gathered under the parachute. The attendants gently raised and lowered the parachute above them, and urged them to move closer and closer together. Tanya ordered Roy to remove his underwear and he slipped out from under the parachute to go back to their platform. The attendants waving the parachute tried to keep him underneath, but he ignored them. They were leading a chant for the people huddled under the parachute, repeating “Grow closer. Grow closer,” over and over and they couldn’t stop to deal with him. He paid no attention to their growing agitation and went straight to his platform. He was feeling good, but not very high and he had a growing unease that something wasn’t quite right about the club. When he reached down for his bag, he saw two men under the platforms with grocery tongs, pulling the bags to them. They were quickly going through the wallets and taking some of the cash. When they noticed him, they didn’t stop examining the bags, but they started giving him menacing looks. One of them gestured for him to go back to the group. They were not the appealing, semi-nude young attendants. They were thugs. Roy half expected to see Fat Tony, or Benny Stiletto, or some of the other hoods that he grew up with under the platform. As Roy quickly began to dress, he realized that it was only a cheap, well-organized robbery, rather than a more malevolent situation threatening bodily harm to the captive audience. As soon as he
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was dressed he went to the center platform and tried to get Tanya. She was too involved in group escape to listen, so he found the door and went out an exit to the street. He left the club to avoid a possible confrontation with the staff, who were obviously stealing a lot of money while their patrons were being entertained under the parachute. It wasn’t worth it to him to risk a fight for someone else’s money. He knew that Tanya would be safe, so he told the waiting chauffeur he was leaving and he took the subway home. He was a little frustrated that he didn’t have sex, but he couldn’t help smiling at the effrontery of the club. When he noticed people staring at him, he rode the rest of the way wearing the neutral subway rider’s mask.
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L’Allure des Mots
http://lalluredesmots.tumblr.com http://twitter.com/lalluredesmots http://facebook.com/lalluredesmots
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