Loser: Issue 10 by Loser Zine

#10

EKPHRASIS

Tableof Contents Table of Contents Collage: Delani Brawner..................................... 02 Editorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Letter Illustration: Eddie................................................ 04 Art Photo:Karen Davis Poem by Mousa Tous.......................................... 06 K O M O R E B I by Chiara Cappetta.............................................. 08 Big City by Jeremy Weine.................................................. 12 Amalgamo by James Goldsworthy........................................ 14 Distracted Collage: Delani Brawner .................................... 16 Pepperoni by Nora Vasconcellos.......................................... 17

Finding Paradise Photo: Emiliano Mayolo Poem by Vanessa Benitz..................................... 18

Stolen Love Photos: Nikki Burnett. Poem by Vanessa Benitz..................................... 22

TOPANGA CANYON Photos: Logan Charles Poem by Nora Rothman...................................... 20

The Stench Photo: Emiliano Mayolo Poem by Edgardo Dinael Anduaga González..... 24 Cruel Product of Heart Photo: Emiliano Mayolo Poem by Edgardo Dinael Anduaga González..... 26 November March Photo: Ari Elgharsi.............................................. 30 Conditionals Art: Eloise Joy Poem by Mad Crawford....................................... 32 PAINTING WITH LIGHT by Olivia Wein....................................................... 34 American East by Sofia Garica-Pena........................................... 38 Pretty Boys by Asiah Reynolds................................................ 40 A Walk with Frida Sundemo with LOSER.......................................................... 42 Feelin’ Groovy Photo: Brooke Flecca Poem by Anon...................................................... 44 Willow Tree Photo: Max Drury................................................. Story by Taylor Osborne...................................... 26

Editor’s Letter The term “Ekphrasis” is a literary device used to explain the practice of writing prose in response to or about a piece of art. However in the case of LOSER Zine and forming an issue around this conceptwe decided to broaden the definition: Ekphrasis is the practice of responding to any form of creation, whether it be a painting, poem, or song with another piece of art, writing, music, or film. The idea is to provoke communication between works of art, and with it a dialogue between the artists/ creators. Although the term sounds all high strung and foreign, examples of it are more familiar than you might think. Everything around us was created out of a composite of influences and, more than you might think, are those influences from the arts. You watch a movie about space, later visualizing floating above the planet while your working in the recording studio, and suddenly your whole album is an ekphrastic response to Gravity and you didn’t even see it coming. You put your headphones in as you paint a scene and the sad lyrics of your guilty pleasure pop song lead you to use deep navy paint instead of yellow. Ekphrasis is present in so much of what we do, create and who we become. Hopefully this issue inspires some ekphrasic art of your own. :) Thank you to everyone who submitted we love all you losers! We hope you enjoy this issue! P.s. send us your cool stuff at hello.loser.zine@gmail. com and check in @loser.zine on insta 4

Art Is what I preferred to call you. The term “girl”, Never really described you well You were Masterfully crafted Like a sculpture from the Renaissance Except more intimidating. Your rosy cheeks Complimented your red lips and perfect eyebrows And made me cower And wince in agony For I will never amount to anything Compared to you And my dream of being with you Will stay as such. by Mousa Tous 7

K O M O R E B I

“Ki” means tree, “mo re” means to lose, “bi” means sun. “Komorebi” is an untranslatable Japanese word that has no equivalent in English (or, in my case, in Italian); it depicts an image: the sun through trees’ branches. So, if it’s untranslatable with words, how could I show how this word makes me feel? What does this word makes me see? When I thought about the sun that goes down between trees’ branches, I imagined someone dancing in a dark room lit by neon light: the music transformed into sound waves and the protagonist soaked in them. This was a dreamlike image I had (in dreams we can’t always see people’s face clearly), so when I decided to represent it, I imagined a story that involved another person too.

The “Komorebi” was an intimate and beautiful dream in which the protagonist felt free to dance as he wanted and with whoever he wanted, inebriated by music and light. But that was just a dream, and all dreams are followed by the melancholy feels you have when you wake up realizing you haven’t (yet) lived the fantastic film in your mind. 9

BIG CITY This mini series is inspired by a photo series featured in The New York Times. The series, and the article attached, is called “Quirky Photos of Small Town Halloween,” and features 21 black and white photos made by Timothy Archibald depicting what the scene in his small West Coast Town is like in the days leading up to Halloween. Archibald’s series encouraged me to make photos of Park Slope, my own neighborhood, on Halloween. These are a few that I believe best capture what I experienced to be the spirit of Halloween in the City. 12

HAL

LOW EEN

AMALGAMO Black kraken Birth me a new face Conjoin my disjoined corpus callosum Splice me, splice her Show a who we really are Together. In your kaleidoscopic mural of our own communal eye Cyclops. Standing together but seeing apart Behind the line Sci-fi evil eye Do us a favor Dark mirror Make my feet hers and her ears mine His lips their eyes, Executioner. Induce me into labour, A C-section of the self Where me is us and my is our And I is we and am is are Vicious flytrap Jagged lotus in the wall Who do you watch, if not us all? Into your open maw, We fall Birth me a new face Spit me back Black kraken.

“Amalgamo”, an Ekphrastic response to Timo Nasseria’s Epistrophy VI.

Finding paradise by Vanessa Benitz On and on she persisted, Until dawn, Until the bottom of her feet felt like sand, And her blisters oozed into the land. Until the sun began to rise, Until her eyes became dry. No tears would fall Because she was strong And no water was left to her body, The land began to fight against her, Pushing up and up Until she was crawling to her destination. But she would not stop Because no matter how hot the ground was on her palms. She knew one day she would find paradise.

TOPANGA CANYON

no violins, not too many words a perfect blue, a hummingbird how you feel about Topanga Canyon is how I feel about you even in the evening fog this is the prettiest view no powdered nose, no trap door a crumbling red, a metaphor how you feel about these mountain faces is how I feel about songs this one lifts me up the next one lets me fall no photographs, no time for sleep a burning gold, a masterpiece how you feel about tomorrowâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sunrise is how I feel about life itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be worth it in the morning this wandering through the night

Stolen Love

As the sun kisses your cheeks, And your breath slows. I look at you once more. As the world wakes, and you begin to shake. Awaken out of your deep slumber. The sun caresses your face. Whispering into your ear, She speaks softly, So you do not startle. As she pulls you up slowly Away from my throttle, I weep tears of blue. Because you will never see me, For I am the night, And the morning says she loves you.

THE STENCH BY EDGARDO DINAEL ANDUAGA GONZÁLEZ

PUTRID IS THE STENCH, THE SMELL THAT NOSES RECEIVE. THE FLOOR IS DRENCHED BY ALL OF THE DEADLY WOUNDS AND DISEASES ADDED WITH THE PANORAMIC LOOK OF BODY PIECES. TAINTED DEPTHS OF A GROUND THAT IS NOW DECAYING. PAINTED STEPS THAT SOUND BY THE ACT OF SLAYING. BURNING CORPSES BY THE SIDE OF EXTINGUISHING TORCHES, TORSOS DISMEMBERED AND HEADS SEVERED; THE RESULT OF THE MATCHES ARE WITH THIS SMELL DELIVERED. SMOKING. YOU FOR FOR FOR FOR

CAN’T HIDE THE DARK THEMES OF THIS SCENE THE STAINS ARE A PRODUCT OF EMPTYING VEINS, THESE VACUOUS LANDS LIE WITH BODIES IN COLD SANDS, THESE UNBEATING HEARTS ARE BEING MUGGED OF THEIR MEAT THEY ARE NOW BEING BUGGED AS A TREAT.

MANY MAGGOTS SPAWN FAST AND FEAST FIRST, THEN COCKROACHES SATIATE THEIR HUNGER AND THIRST, RATS ARRIVE TO MUNCH ON THE BONES OF THE CURSED. ON THE LIGHT LOSING, DYING EYES COME THE APT, BUZZING FLIES. ROTTEN. FOR THE DEAD THIS IS THEIR BEREFT PLACE WHERE THEY EMBRACE THEIR DISGRACE AN ENVIRONMENT OF GREEN AIR UNCARING FOR THE UNCLEAN HAIR THEY LIE AGAINST THE REMAINS OF THEIR ENEMIES. BY THE REMAINS OF PATER NOSTER, BY THE REMAINS OF OUR BROTHERS, BY THE REMAINS OF OUR DEMONS, BY THE REMAINS OF OURSELVES. THEY LIE DEAD FOR MEANDERING REASONS FOUR MORE SEASONS. ACRID. THIS PLACE IS QUIET AND COLD BUT THE HELLFIRE WILL RETURN LIKE PREVIOUS EVENTS HAVE FORETOLD ABOUT THESE LANDS OF THE STILLBORN AND THE BURNT. RESURGING, LIKE A PHOENIX, SO OLD IT QUIVERS ANXIOUS FOR HIS LAST APPEARANCE ON THIS DREADFUL STENCH.

Her life shares the same purpose that created the tripwire and extraordinary math exams,

the anthropomorphic version of every headache Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve had and the clear, true personification of nausea.

bloody Hell, I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t believe how much I like her. 29

UNION

SQUARE,

NOVEMBER

15TH 31

Conditionals

If I slither I get there faster If you chase you get nowhere Lights only come on when there’s something to show And glass gets shattered when there’s something to blow

I cross my legs even though someone is looking And staring harder makes it harder to look I’ve sat on the couch I’ve sat on the chair I’ve been there I’ve been there

PHOTOGRAPHY

PAINTING WITH LIGHT

There is this legendarily-poetic phrase used to define photography in the art world, and it goes like this: “Photography is painting with light.” Meaning that, like other forms of fine art, there is a purpose and a medium. For years and years photographers battled for the acknowledgement of their work as “fine art.” Finally after decades of controversy it found its way onto the walls of art galleries and patrons. Entering the limelight for the first time as a form of creation that should be respected for its “imaginative, aesthetic, [and/] or intellectual content.” As stated in the dictionary as the definition for fine art. When I ask my brother, “What is art?” He simply says, “paintings,” and attaches his attention back to what he is doing. I believe that there is a common connotation of the word “art” that points its head at the world of Picasso, VanGogh, and Monet; and I guess it makes sense, in a way. For paint is the oldest dating medium of art. Whether in caves or on a s a rc o p h a g u s , paintings have been around since the beginning of our human existence. Anyway back to the phrase-- art is typically associated with painting and for years photography was not typically associated with art. So as a way to better introduce the idea of their cohesion as well as put photography as an art) into words, this phrase about “painting with light” is born. 35

Whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s most interesting about this phrase is how it can be interpreted literally and metaphorically and sometimes even both at once. With analogue film photography every aspect of loading, rolling, shooting, processing, printing and developing your film is about how you work with light (and chemicals, of course). Opening the back of my camera and I will create a beautiful orange or green or red or yellow cloud; shooting with a sensitive film and my photos have night vision; touching the film as I load it or accidentally shoving it in with the laundry-- it comes out with stripes and dots: a pattern I have never seen before that inspires me. These are just a few examples of the sensitivity of photographs to process. For this series I manipulated what of the photograph was printed selectively with the help of developer chemicals and light; hence, painting with light. 36

I m i t a t i o n o f R i c h a rd Av e d o n ’s

In the American West

“[Richard Avedon] searched out and photographed ordinary working people - a fascinating contrast to the affluent and fashionable subjects usually portrayed” –a note on Avedon’s “In the American West” series 38

A Walk with

Frida Sundemo

Walking up to Frida Sundemo was like sitting outside, right as it was about to rain; you can feel the sky on the edge of where it is familiar-- about to change everything around it completely. As soon as we met it felt as though nothing could stop this 31 year old Swedish musical artist from reaching any height in talent, skill, or recognition she could imagine. Her soft voice mixed with piano and electronics create a magically melancholy pop you can’t help but losing yourself in. As Frida grew up, music was always a very prominent aspect of her life. Being part of a musical family, she fell in love with instruments-- such as piano and french horn-- at a very young age. She says that with her family and close friends, they would all gather around and sing together- everybody with their own instrument and something to contribute. However the inclusion of lyrics into that music didn’t present itself until later in her life and further into her study as she began to learn guitar and use her voice more than she had before. Beginning her career with more than 3 years in medical school, she knew she also really wanted to produce and create music. She tells us about how as she has grown she has integrated her incredible love for math and science into her musical work. Much like as you would in mathematics, she is able to find and create patterns with her lyrics and instrumentals. Frida is also constantly letting herself be inspired by the visuals, sounds, and science of sci-fi and space movies. While creating her new album, she would google videos of space or parts of movies such as 2001: A Space Odyssey and Gravity. You can hear this inspiration of space in her music, as her vocals and music feels almost otherworldly while still sticking to familiar pop undercurrents. She says, however, that her favorite part of being a musician and singer/ songwriter is creating something new, that hadn’t existed before she had sat down to form it. She illustrates: “that movement in the studio when your like-- omg I wrote this! Thirty minutes ago nothing was there and now we have this piece of music! That is really amazing.” Frida knows that with every passion comes frustration and/ or doubt but as long as you stick to it, and keep creating-- inspiration and success will find you.

This warm buried in song Held In my circling fingertips I wrote in the dark these words of disposable feeling Should I be crying? Unsettled but so aimlessly infatuated with all around me and the substance of night Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sweeter than sad and more solaced than happy But warm for a moment I thought about your future life For a moment the future meant less than I thought Do you ever feel like that? This stature of mine- is it anything? This breathe and air on my face- this ritual- the assumption in writing Is it anything at allThis beauty of this life of mine Inadequate to mean anything to where Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m at- am I supposed to feel something? I feel no beautymy being is coping and my head stained I play codes on the train And lose days in my sleep Exchanging so little in passing thoughts And taking warmth and unexplained feeling from nothing Wonderful presumptuous you called it I heard nothing of the sort

The Willow Tree His fingers skipped gently down the crooked staircase of her spine, while his warm breath sparked embers to the small hairs gracing the back of her neck.

“I’ll worship you.” He said to her.

She did not wish to be worshipped. She knew what it was to worship, and to be worshipped, and she did not wish it for herself. She did not wish it for anyone, not even an evil being, not even God. She pulled herself from his reach to grab a glass of wine from the bed side table. She sipped it and he lit a cigarette and rolled onto his back. “You should go now.” She told him, without looking at him. He worshipped her, so he did as she said. He put on his clothes and he left. Alone, she took her notebook from the bedside table and pulled a pen from underneath her mattress. She opened to the first page, it was blank. She stared at it intensely. The page looked back at her, smug and insulting. It taunted her, dared her to strike its pristine white page with her pen, like a sword. Her hand trembled under the weight of her sword. The sword shook in nervous wait, ready to draw blood, but always obedient to its master. She sighed, sipped her wine again. She sheathed her sword beneath the mattress and closed the book. The page had won the night. She met him for a drink at a place that he liked. The bar was hot and musky, the way drinking in a bog would be. The air conditioning wasn’t on or wasn’t working. He said the place had character. She knew he was cheap. Across the room, three men came out of the bathroom together, wiping their noses, laughing and lighting cigarettes. The bartender was a young girl, who looked much older than she was. Her skin was spotted and aged by smoke. She watched the bartender glide from one end of the bar to the other and tried to ignore his rambling. He told her what he liked and didn’t like about Burroughs’ work. He said what did and didn’t work in Ginsberg’s poems.

“What do you think?” He asked her.

“I think if it weren’t for society inhibiting natural selection, you’d be in trouble.” She responded. He laughed. “Really, what do you think?” He asked again. “The Beats are glorified drug addicts; that’s what I think.” She said plainly. He

laughed again, even louder than before. Into her ears came the mechanical chirping of a jukebox rotating vinyl records. Then she heard the low sound of an open E radiate from a bass string. The growl of it shook her. It vibrated her body in tune with its hum. She stumbled in her seat, and braced herself against the edge of the grimy bar. The lights in the bar went out one at a time. The chairs and the tables vanished. The hot air and smoke rose and escaped through an open window. The humidity dissipated. The room, that once was a bar, had become nothing but her and the note. She slipped her hand into her purse and her fingers closed around the binding of her little blank notebook. His hand grasped her exposed wrist and she dropped the notebook back into her purse. The lights came on in a flash, like fireworks lighting up a dark sky. Smoke filled her mouth and nose. The tables and chairs were there where they should be. The jukebox was playing a new song. The bar was back and so was he. “Let’s get out of here.” He said. She paid the bill and they left together. Her phone rang. She answered and heard her sister’s voice come through the phone like a wave of monotony. “Mom isn’t doing well. Well, she isn’t any worse, but she isn’t any better either.” Her sister asks what the weather is like in New York. “It must be better than here.” Her sister remarks, without waiting for an answer. She asks if they’ve been to visit Dad. Her sister says yes, they took him flowers. “Last week would’ve been their fiftieth anniversary,” she starts, “can you believe it?” She couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t imagine fifty years of life, let alone fifty years with someone else. She had been seeing him for six months and she loathed him. She asked her sister what it was like there, now. “You could come home tomorrow and think you’d been gone no more than a day.” She spoke through a sigh. “Things move slower around here, ya know?” She did know. “Is the Willow still in the yard?” She asked her sister.

“Yes, and the swing.” She replied.

She and her sister had made the swing from a tire they’d found on the side of the road, and a rope they’d stolen from

the hardware store. Her sister loved the swing. She did not. She saw the swing and the tree as two entities. The Willow tree was strong and independent. Its roots ran deep into the earth. The tree had been there for many years before the swing, and it would remain once the rope had split and the tire had rotted. The swing, however, was weak. It depended on the tree to exist. It swayed at the mercy of children. Even a light wind would bend and push the swing as it demanded. “Tell Mom I say ‘Hello’.” She told her sister, knowing she would not. She hung up the phone and poured herself a glass of wine. The buzz of her apartment’s door phone alerted her that he had arrived. She put on her robe and went to the door. After they made love, he tried to worship her again. She turned from him, drunk by this point; she stood and walked into her small kitchen. She looked for more wine but there wasn’t any. He got up as well, and followed her into the kitchen. “I love you.” He told her. She searched feverishly, through each cabinet, for a hidden bottle. “Did you hear me?” He asked. “I said that I love you.” She did not acknowledge him. She continued to search, her movement becoming fiercer as one cabinet after the next failed to produce the bottle. “If it’s more wine you’re after,” he paused, “I’ll go out and get some.” She stopped her searching. She silently closed a cabinet door but did not turn to look at him. “Let me take care of you.” He said, approaching her. He placed his hands on her shoulders and rubbed them. “I am the Willow tree.” She said at last.

“What?” He looked puzzled.

“Leave. Now.” She told him.

“I don’t know why I bother with you. You’re just a cunt anyways. Not worth my time.” He took his clothes and left, his prayers unanswered. She returned to her bed and climbed inside. She unsheathed her sword and opened the notebook. Her pen fell to the page and drew blood. She watched it drip down. The black blood of ink shone on the white page. “I am the Willow tree.” She said with a smile.

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