Issue 17: Home - Vol. 2 by Polemical Zine

HOUSEOFEMBERS I RIJA QUTAIBAH I KARACHI, PAKISTAN I @RIJA_Q I KOOKNCRUMBS.COM

For those who are far away from home.

COVER: HOUSEOFEMBERS

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Rebecca McLaren | @babygotbecs

SOCIAL MEDIA MANAGER

Emily Callahan | @em_callahan

MARKETING MANAGER

POLEMICAL ZINE I ISSUE 17: HOME V2

MEET THE TEAM

MANAGEMENT

Nina Stoiber | @ninastoibs

DESIGN & ILLUSTRATION SENIOR TEAM

Andrea Valdivia | @nea.au

Jae Xin | @jae__xin Dina Baxevanakis | @dinadraws36

JUNIOR TEAM

Layan Dajani | @in_an_alternate_universe_

Maggie Rose | @maggierosecashman Danni Wright | @ladyshipcannabis Alessandra Crupi | @allycrupi @designbyinternos

Ingrid Zijlema | @ingridzijlema

Nathalia García | @naths.jpg Celeste Alvarez | @itsscelestee

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TABLE OF CONTENTS 6

VISUAL ART HOUSEOFEMBERS, RIJA QUTAIBAH…COVER, 2 SNAIL HOUSE, SANDRA PARIS…12 HOME, LAUREN MASK…13 KEYCHAIN, JEWEL PAVAO…15 DELIVERY NOTES, ROZALI MASCURI…20 LISTENING TO YOUR ABODE, JUSTIN TUTTLE…22 SUBURBIA, PHOEBE WARD…23 HOME, EMMA HITZMAN…26-29 LOVE YOU, TEGAN IVERSEN…30 KURODA, GERRY NIEMIEROWKO…31 ÉG VIL FARA TIL HIMNA, STELLA GUAN…33 WHERE I BELONG, AMELIA BISBARDIS…34-35 UNTITLED, DINA BAXEVANAKIS…37 UNIVERSE SPROUTED FROM PSYCHEDELIC SPORES, MARIJA…38 BE MINDFUL OF YOUR SACRED PLACE, MARIJA…39 FLY ON THE WALL, JENNIFER WILLOUGHBY…42 MYSPACE.JPG, VEE CR…43 BLACK CHALK, LAURA QUEVEDO…45 FRAMEWORK II, ERIN SCHAEFER…46 FRAMEWORK III, ERIN SCHAEFER…47 DANDELION SUNSHINE LEMONADE, MARINA CONSTANTINE…48 COMFORT ZONE, COURTNEY PARSONS…49 PLEASE DON’T, SUSANNA TILLANDER…50 LOST ON MY WAY TO NOWHERE, SUSANNA TILLANDER…51 HUMANITY, THEODORA MILLER…52 I’M WAITING ON YOU AGAIN, STEFAN DORU MOSCU…54

PARTY WITH A CAT, STEFAN DORU MOSCU…55 MAP OF HOME, JUSTIN TUTTLE…56-57 STUCK IN THE CARPET, MARINA CONSTANTINE…66 SEMI-DETACHED, LUCY CLAY…69 AGAIN, RHIAN BOLTON…70-71 JESTEM W DOMU, STELLA GUAN…72 TAKING THE TRAIN, MIRIAM SOKOLSKA…76 SELF PORTRAIT IN MY BATHROOM, CHLOE CHLUMECKY…77 CAUGHT, TEIA SPENCER…78 HUMMINGBIRD, ANDREA VALDIVIA…81 DESIRES, MIRIAM SOKOLSKA…86 MOORED AT HOME, ANNA ONNI…88 AT HOME WITH MUM, TEGAN IVERSEN…89 DANCING WITH DOMESTICATION, TIFFANY LEACH…91 WARMTH FOR A BLUE BODY, TEIA SPENCER…92 HOLD ME, RHIAN BOLTON…96-97 HEAD (ROOM), LILIAN SIM…98 AMERICAN HEART, ANDREA CARDENAL…100 SWAN, VIVIEN SOLVEIG…101 HOME IS WHERE I’LL FIND MYSELF, NOUMENO - FEDERICA BRIZI…105 HOGAR, BEA MONTERO…106 MY HOUSE ON MY SHOULDERS, SUSANA BELEN…107 DISPLACEMENT, NAVAL…108 HOME, VIVIEN SOLVEIG…111 HOMEBODY CHRONICLES 2, TRIPLE O…112 STRESS RELIEF, TRIPLE O…113 FLEETING, TWIGGY BOYER…114 VIEW OUTSIDE, RUITING WANG…116 7

VISUAL ART CONT. GROUP CHAT, EUNICE LAI…117 MY THOUGHTS ABOUT MY DREAM HOME, MEGHAN LEVAUGHN…118 7119 CARROT ROAD, EMMA HITZMAN…119 OBJECTS OF MEANING, MAISIE CU…120-121 WAITING 2, URSZULA TRAWNICZEK…122 WAITING, URSZULA TRAWNICZEK…123 CHAMP DE FLEURS II, TWIGGY BOYER…124 TOMMY, GERRY NIEMIEROWKO…126 PLAYHOUSE, VEE CR…127 UNTITLED, MATTHEW REYNOLDS…128-129 BATHROOM SINK, CHLOE CHLUMECKY…132-133 HONEY HOUSE, TAYLOR M. KNIGHT…134 SUBURB, TAYLOR M. KNIGHT…135 HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS, ANDREA CARDENAL…137 RESILIENCE THROUGH RECONNECTION, AMNNA ATTIA…138-139 COUCH POTATO COOKING, GABBY HE…140-141 SNOW, ANDREA VALDIVIA…143 BLUE HOME, HIJADELACOCA…144 BABA’S HOUSE, STEPHANIE ELLIS…145 AMOROUS, SHIRIN SHAHBAZI…146 HOMETOWN GROWTH, COURTNEY PARSONS…147 ORIGAMI PROJECT: GENTRIFICATION, ANNA GRACE…150 TURQUOISEAMOROUS, SHIRIN SHAHBAZI…151 I THINK I SEE, CHRISTINA GEOGHEGAN…152 THE WORLD, AYSHE-MIRA YASHIN…154 THE EAGLE POSE, AYSHE-MIRA YASHIN…155 8

FALLOUT, JENNIFER WILLOUGHBY…156 HONEY, I AM HOME, EESHA BATRA…157 UNTITLED, DINA BAXEVANAKIS…159 FUWA ORB, SIMRAN KAUR…160-163 KEEP GOING HOME AND FAMILY, GANESHA JAVAS ARARYA…164 HOME AND HOPE, GANESHA JAVAS ARARYA…165

MUSIC SHIT BOY, KAYLEE…24-25 LOVES TO BLAME, SOLEIL…64 BREAKIN’ FEARS, NEWBEAM…90 SOUTH SIDE LIVIN’, CIMPLYDAN…99

PHOTOGRAPHY GABI ON TOP OF FRANK, GABI MAGALY…16-17 FRANK ON TOP OF GABI, GABI MAGALY…18-19 ASCENDING INTO MY 12TH FLOOR’S APARTMENT, DANIELE ANDRONICO…40 HOME IS THE ROAD TO NOWHERE, DANIELE ANDRONICO…41 UNTITLED, LEA GRANDVALET STUDER…65 CITY GARDEN, MILICENT FAMBROUGH…74-75 GREEN WORLDS WHIMSICAL, BRIAN MICHAEL BARBEITO…82-85 PIECES OF IDENTITY, ANA LOUREIRO…130-131

VIDEO ONE BY ONE, KRISTINA MICHALSKI…94-95 SENSORY SUBMERSION, ANA LOUREIRO…130-131 9

WRITING/POETRY

MOON, ALEKSAND

A HOME IS A FRIENDSHIP, LINDA M. CRATE…14

HOME, VERSESON

EVERYWHERE HOME, LEX OWENS…21

BROKEN, ALEKSAN

RIO VISTA, KACI SKILES LAWS…32 HOME FRAGRANCE, ELLIE MORFOU…36 BE, BELONG AND LONG, ELIZABETH VERONICA MORA…44-45 A DREAM OF WALES, LINDA M. CRATE…53 GRASS IN NEW ZEALAND, CHRISTIAN SCHYTT FISKER…58-63 THE ONLY THING THAT STAYS THE SAME BETWEEN A DREAM AND REAL

LIFE IS YOU, ARAL…67

THIRD SHIFT, B. ELAE…68 WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU LEAVE HOME, NAVASHREE NANDINI…73 HOME, MILICENT FAMBROUGH…75 HOME, SURABHI CHHIKARA…79 HOME IS A HUMMINGBIRD, SOPHIA MOORE…80-81 HOME, ANA LASSO…87 RETURNING HOME, NOVEMBER 2019, STUTI PACHISIA…93 HOME-A SPACE FOR BEING YOURSELF!, BANANI DAS CHOWDHURY…102-104 HOME IN TRANSLATION, ISABEL TALLYSHA-SOARES…109 NIGHT LIGHT, B. ELAE…110 MY FICTITIOUS FABERGE BEE, KACI SKILES LAWS…115 PALAEONTOLOGY, STUTI PACHISIA…125 PATTERS OF MOTION, LUKE YOUNG…128 STONEKEEP, CALUM ROBERTSON…129 PROMISED LAND, SHREYA KHOBRAGADE…136 ONE FOOT IN FRONT OF THE OTHER, ANDERA NOVAK…142-143 10

DRA LEKIĆ VUJISIĆ…148

NTHOUGHTS…153

NDRA LEKIĆ VUJISIĆ…158

SNAIL HOUSE I SANDRA PARIS I FRANCE I @SANDRAPARIS_PAINTING I SAN-TOOSHYGALERIE.JIMDOFREE.COM

HOME I LAUREN MASK I CANADA I @MASKLAURENART I LAURENMASK.MYPORTFOLIO.COM

Lauren Mask is a Canadian multidisciplinary artist with a focus in abstract painting. Originally from Ottawa, ON, she recently graduated with her BFA from Concordia University in Montreal, QC. Now residing in Rossland, British Columbia experiencing slower west coast small town living for the first time, she continues to work on her practice in a personal studio. Lauren's work is an exploration of colour interaction, depth of space, and relation between forms. Her primary drive is the curation of colour, working both from intuition and by inspiration of pallets found occurring in everyday life.

A HOME IS FRIENDSHIP I LINDA M. CRATE I MEADVILLE, PA, USA I @AUTHORLINDAMCRATE

d n shi e Ah i r p o me i s f home can be hard to find you can live in a place for years without being there i think home is really all the hearts that house you, old and new every person who has a piece of you and carries it is your home; i have homes in places that i have never been and i house others in the same way— a home is just a person who can carry your dreams and your hurts without growing weary no matter the heaviness that bogs you down. -linda m. crate

Linda M. Crate’s works have been published in numerous magazines and anthologies both online and in print. She is the author of six poetry chapbooks, the latest of which is: the samurai (Yellow Arrow Publishing, October 2020). She’s also the author of the novel Phoenix Tears (Czykmate Books, June 2018). She has published four full-length poetry collections Vampire Daughter (Dark Gatekeeper Gaming, February 2020), The Sweetest Blood (Cyberwit, February 2020), Mythology of My Bones (Cyberwit, August 2020), and you will not control me (Cyberwit, March 2021)

KEYCHAIN I JEWEL PAVAO I TORONTO, CANADA I @BYEPAVAO I JEWELPAVAO.FORMAT.COM

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Gabi Magaly is an emerging artist born in Bryan, Texas. Magaly received her BFA in photography at Sam Houston State University in 2015 and received her MFA in Visual Arts at the University of Texas at San Antonio in 2020. Magaly has exhibited in solo shows at Satellite Gallery, Huntsville, TX; The Brick, San Antonio, TX; Presa House Gallery, San Antonio, TX; Casa Lu, Mexico City. Her numerous group exhibitions include at Luis Leu Gallery, Karlsruhe, Germany; The Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center, San Antonio, TX; Masur Museum in Monroe, Louisiana; Museo De Las Américas in Dever, Colorado; She’s been awarded two CAMMIE awards from Blue Star Contemporary and Luminaria Contemporary Cultural Center during Contemporary Art Month 2020. She works predominantly in the medium of photography, but also employs other mediums like sculptural installation and embroidery. Magaly currently lives in San Antonio, Texas and works remotely at Diné College in Tsaile, Arizona.

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GABI ON TOP OF FRANK I GABI MAGALY I SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS I @GABIMAGALY I GABIMAGALY.COM

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FRANK ON TOP OF GABI I GABI MAGALY I SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS I @GABIMAGALY I GABIMAGALY.COM

DELIVERY NOTES I ROZALI MASCURI I SINGAPORE I @ROZSIMIAO

Staying at home means more online shopping which also means more materials for my collages.

See my home is a people, not a place. I’m in love with every acquaintance met, I tend to swallow shit whole instead of settling on just a taste. my home is a peace, not a place. I find my home in different outlets, In two pronged shocks, even in the dust chilling in the flower vase. my home is nostalgia, déjà vu, and reminiscence all wrapped up into one. It can even be found in the pattern of my great auntie’s ancient ass table runner lace. my home is in a handshake and a kiss, all tongue, yet somehow still chaste. my home is everywhere and nowhere my “living” room is the space found warm when the sun gives way to the moon in their forever lovers’ chase my home is braids dipped in loud from the car ride joint (home), won’t ever get the smoke out but I cherish the roaches we never wanna waste.

EVERYWHERE HOME I LEX OWENS I BROOKLYN, NEW YORK I @LEXUHPRO__

EVERYWHERE HOME

my home is my homies and I hope they forever get (home) safe may that be a person to them, a sound, or maybe just a time in space.

LISTENING TO YOUR ABODE I JUSTIN TUTTLE I PORTLAND, OR, USA I @TUTTLE.DESIGN I JWTUTTLE.WEEBLY.COM 22

This analog and digital multivalent collage seeks to refigure the abode based on cultural, historical, and temporal horizons in my Portland, OR neighborhood. The theme primarily explores this through the investigation of listening and sound. Through the act of listening to my abode, a multitude of sounds became evident; the sound of the footsteps of protesters on my street, the sound of voices always present but now being heard, the sound of natural life that communicates to one another, the sound of an exuberant and cacophonic life that exists right outside my doorsteps.

PORTFOLIO

SUBURBIA I PHOEBE WARD I NORTHFIELD, MN, USA I @PHOEBECOMIX

LOVE YOU I TEGAN IVERSEN I MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA I @TEGANIVERSEN I TEGANIVERSEN.COM

GERRYNIEMIEROWKO.COM

KURODA I GERRY NIEMIEROWKO I PLAINVILLE, CONNECTICUT I @FATASSMUCHACHO

RIO VISTA I KACI SKILES LAWS I FORT WORTH, TEXAS, USA I @KACI.SKILES.LAWS

My first memory was rain, movement, drifter feet plying down the roofline in sheets; nothing was separate: the T-frame wires through the spread of distance, the dance of clothespins and the grease trap that once ate a girl. The rain—its lapping could fill our farm’s well in reverse until it rose over, and the dead debris, the black cicadas would not sleep, not easily, not with the screen door frantic, the electric porch a pool of arching spines, the wind spinning outside counter-clockwise. My second memory was grief, stillness, my church shoes sinking in mud from the cloudburst; that last April at home: the silo folded in, where the boards should’ve been there was an empty cavern. The secret got loose through the windmill as it mourned its vacancy. The grief—its apparition stayed in wait after the burial until the house sold what was left of the girl, the white pillars by the door would not stand, not easily, not with the foundation of peat moss caving, the stylus of memory scoring my vinyl skins, the wolf spiders slipping under the damp overlay and beneath my rug of incomplete feelings. Previously published in Unlikely Stories

Kaci Skiles Laws is a closet cat-lady and creative writer who reads and writes voraciously in the quiet moments between motherhood and managing Crohn’s Disease. She grew up on a small farm in a Texas town alongside many furry friends, two sisters, and a brother. She has known tragic loss too well, and her writing is a reflection of the shadows lurking in her psyche. Her work can be viewed at: https:// kaciskileslawswriter.wordpress.com/

With their paintings, Stella hopes to bring awareness to the difficulties of living with a mental health disorder and being a trauma survivor. As well as connect with those going through similar things. “One of my favourite places to travel is Iceland. The nature, the isolation, and the quiet are a few of many things I love about the place. When I think of my future home, I think of being in Iceland and going on hikes, exploring nature, and sitting by the sea. I often dream about what my life would be like there. The title says “I want to go to heaven” in Icelandic.”

ÉG VIL FARA TIL HIMNA I STELLA GUAN (THEY/THEM) I PARIS, FRANCE I @STELLAGUANART I STELLAGUANART.COM

WHERE I BELONG | AMELIA BISBARDIS | CULIACAN, SINALOA, MEXICO | @AMELIA_BISBARDIS

A house is not staged; it is a place to live in and to live. Home means a secure, fun, amazing place where you are respected and loved - and most importantly, where you belong. It is the accumulation of all memories, laughter, achievements, board games, talks, birthdays, hopes, dreams, sorrows, hugs, and kisses. A house is made of walls and ceilings; it becomes a home when you include all of the above.

AMELIABISBARDIS.COM

HOME FRAGRANCE I ELLIE MORFOU I ATHENS, GREECE I @ELLIEMORFOU 36

HOME FRAGRANCE I washed all of my clothes into the joint smell of me and you the fragrance of our house and home scent of our life as ‘we’. It may not be refined perfume it lacks sublime top notes it's not celestial nor divine nothing exotic in it. But I can feel its middle notes exquisitely familiar a gentle you, a floral me, one of a kind beloved ‘us’.

Ellie Morfou – Short bio Born in the mid-1980s under a different name in Crete, Greece, ‘Ellie Morfou’ emerged amidst the coronavirus pandemic lockdowns, which helped revive her love for writing. Since rediscovering this passion of hers, she has been writing verses endlessly and enjoys it thoroughly! When not writing, she spends time with her family, hangs out with friends, translates legal documents and makes time to read books. Part of her work is available on her instagram page @elliemorfou.

UNTITLED I DINA BAXEVANAKIS I TORONTO, CANADA I @DINADRAWS36 | DINA-BAXEVANAKIS.COM

UNIVERSE SPROUTED FROM PSYCHEDELIC SPORES I MARIJA

BE MINDFUL OF YOUR SACRED PLACE I MARIJA I SRBOBRAN, SERBIA I @MARRRIJA_I_JA

ASCENDING INTO MY 12TH FLOOR’S APARTMENT I DANIELE ANDRONICO I TAMPA, FLA, US I @DANISTUBE

HOME IS THE ROAD TO NOWHERE I DANIELE ANDRONICO I DANISTUBE.COM

Acrylic, pen and ink, 2d digital composite

42 FLY ON THE WALL | JENNIFER WILLOUGHBY | WESTMINSTER, COLORADO | WILLOUCREATIVE.COM

MYSPACE.JPG | VEE CR | VANCOUVER, CANADA | @VINCENT.CHORABIK | VINCENTCHORABIK.COM

Vee CR uses a TRANSdisciplinary approach to Art, Writing, Academia, & Life. In the MFA program at Emily Carr University of Art + Design, they developed an aesthetic formula for finding Queer Pleasure in daily life. The formula, FUN + PLAY = Queer Pleasure, encourages engagement with challenging discourse. They create collages and installations that act as self-portraits to Queer Pain and Pleasure as a means of connection and healing. NOTE: ‘.jpg’ is a part of the title

BE, BELONG AND LONG | ELIZABETH VERONICA MORA | AUSTRALIA | RETHINKINGREDOING.COM

BE, BELONG AND LONG IN BREAK TIME: Lovely, I write, you get the email? (W)hole story: He wants. Emoji. What’s new?! She replies. I nod and smile to myself, to my phone. She gets it. She gets me. We get. BACK AT WORK: The Canon wants our blood, She whispers. Sorry? he asks. Nothing, She explains, line, please. He tells her the line. The difficulty lies, She continues, (stepping out of line), in the nature of the theatre text, which exists in a dialectical relationship with the performance of that same text. The notion of a spatial or gestural dimension that is seen as inherent in the language of a theatre text becomes an issue of considerable importance…. IN RELATIONSHIPS: We never hook up We never really try

IN MATH CLASS: Diverse Artist = Hero complex Artist = God complex Can you elaborate? The teacher asks.

We never really know how

IN HER UNPUBLISHED TRAGEDY: Oracle, the protagonist, feels her mouth burn. The king cuts her tongue. Her prophecy will never be spoken, He says, the sun will never set on my empire. BACK AT WORK: She explains the story to the newbie: Think of it like this, She says, X says, save me, Y says, did you say something, X says, thank you. She pauses. You are playing X. Isn’t that problematic? the newbie asks. Yes, She replies. It is. Right, He says. That’s that. No, the newbie replies, No. She repeats after the newbie. She and the understudy decide to walkway, together. In the aftermath, She and the newbie realize they have a lot in common. IN BREAK TIME: Lovely, I say, it’s his turn to pick up the shit. She sends me memes.

IN HER POETRY: We dance forever Two devils More time

BLACK CHALK | LAURA QUEVEDO | LIENCRES, SPAIN | @DENADA_STUDIO

BACK AT WORK: Cognitive dissonance is deep. It’s not about ticking a box, He says, think of it like a room. It’s not a box, it’s a room. A room of your own. And? She insists. And what? He asks. He will come without invitation and leave without his shadow. What the fuck? The king cut Oracle’s tongue; the newbie explains, She was never welcome there.

Elizabeth Mora is a brown body deconstructing in late capital heterotopias of non-colonial emergence. she studies, educates, and creates on unceded Aboriginal land and water. Specific formatting requests: I have spaced the words in a particular wavy for impact. If this is difficult to replicate, I am happy to follow your advice.

FRAMEWORK II I ERIN SCHAEFER

FRAMEWORK III I ERIN SCHAEFER I CINCINNATI, OHIO I @ARTBYERINSCHAEF I ERINDSCHAEFER.COM

Erin Schaefer is an artist and educator who creates representational collages of windows and homes using magazine paper.

48 MARINACONSTANTINE.COM

DANDELION SUNSHINE LEMONADE | MARINA CONSTANTINE | MARYLAND, USA | @FRUIT.PUNK.ART

COMFORT ZONE | COURTNEY PARSONS | WASHINGTON DC, US | @COURTNEYPARSONSART

PLEASE DON’T I SUSANNA TILLANDER

TRIGGER WARNING: The following content and copy deals with child abuse. Not every home is a safe place. Corona lockdown policies may have saved lives and the health of thousands of people - but these measures also have destroyed lives of thousands of innocent children and teens. Reported cases of domestic child abuse and child molestation have gone up, even skyrocketed, in many countries during 2020 and 2021, according to both WHO and numerous media headlines from all over the world. Additionally, the impact on mental health of teenagers and adolescents has been huge. They have faced anxiety, depression and loneliness. We have miserably failed to protect the most vulnerable group in our societies: our children. I made these two paintings to remind us about those children and teens. And to remind us that every child deserves a safe home and every child needs to be protected from violence and abuse - both physical and psychological - even and especially in times of crisis. 50

LOST ON MY WAY TO NOWHERE I SUSANNA TILLANDER I HELSINKI, FINLAND I @ARTBYSUSKI

HUMANITY I THEODORA MILLER I RICHMOND, VIRGINIA I @THEODORAMILLERFINEART I THEODORAMILLER.COM 52

acrylic painting 30x36 inches Theodora Miller is a self-taught contemporary artist residing in Richmond, Virginia. She draws inspiration from her emotions, surroundings, Hellenic heritage and ancient symbols. Her painting "Humanity" elevates the words of Socrates, "I am neither Athenian nor Greek but a citizen of the world." Her meditative paintings marry memory, history and emotion into visual statements — manifestations of courage, perseverance and hope.

dreamt once of wales, and woke up angry when i realized i was still in the us; wanted to be lost in those mossy green forests covered in the leaves as i listened to the songs of the crows appreciating the wood magic dancing all about me reacting to my own finding a peace in being myself— instead i had to wake up and go to work and face a life i didn't want. -linda m. crate

A DREAM OF WALES I LINDA M. CRATE I MEADVILLE, PA, USA I @AUTHORLINDAMCRATE

a dream of wales i think my home may be in a place i have never been

Linda M. Crate's works have been published in numerous magazines and anthologies both online and in print. She is the author of six poetry chapbooks, the latest of which is: the samurai (Yellow Arrow Publishing, October 2020). She's also the author of the novel Phoenix Tears (Czykmate Books, June 2018). She has published four full-length poetry collections Vampire Daughter (Dark Gatekeeper Gaming, February 2020), The Sweetest Blood (Cyberwit, February 2020), Mythology of My Bones (Cyberwit, August 2020), and you will not control me (Cyberwit, March 2021). 53

I’M WAITING ON YOU AGAIN I STEFAN DORU MOSCU I BRASOV, ROMANIA I @STEFANDORUMOSCU

PARTY WITH A CAT I STEFANDORUMOSCU.WIXSITE.COM/STEFANMOSCU/PAINTINGS

MAP OF HOME I JUSTIN TUTTLE I PORTLAND, OR UNITED STATES I @TUTTLE.DESIGN I JWTUTTLE.WEEBLY.COM 56

"Map of Home" - is a digital collage diagram that attempts to represent how the idea of home for people experiencing homelessness is not within a single location. One might have to walk several hundred feet to use an outdoor restroom while walking another several hundred feet across town to get something to eat. The bodily privilege that a housed person experiences, by washing your hands or body in a daily routine is something that could take hours and be in a vastly different location from where one might live if experiencing homelessness. For many individuals, the act of the "day-to-day" routine is an exhausting and labor-intensive effort.

GRASS IN NEW ZEALAND I CHRISTIAN SCHYTT FISKER I COPENHAGEN, DENMARK I @MYLINGEN1 I CFISKER.COM 58

My parents took me and my younger brother out of elementary school when I was 6, for six weeks to go to New Zealand. At that time I had never been on an airplane and my parents explained to me that we were going so far away that if we went further we would be on our way home again. My dad had shown me a globe earlier which I enjoyed looking at and I could ask questions about the countries. I found it particularly interesting to trace the outline of the shape of each country with my finger. This way it occurred to me that Africa and South America fit together like pieces of a puzzle game. In New Zealand we rented an auto camper van in the north and started driving through the country towards the south. I spent many hours in the back of this van. First I inspected the miniature toilet, extendable beds, pull out tables, and the best discovery of them all was a tiny attic like space on top of the front of the van. Between our stops to visit bright blue lakes, mountains, towns, forests and sites with seismic activity and boiling mud, I would sit in the back looking out the window at the lush green environments. This van became our home for the six weeks that felt like an eternity in a time capsule. I knew every nook and cranny of this house on wheels and got to feel comfortable in it. Wherever we went this was the base. Outside of the car I remember being fascinated with giant ferns and forests that looked like the homes of dinosaurs. When we visited a town close to a lake we spent some time in the sand and the grassy field close to the van and I remember the cool green grass under my naked feet and the look over the horizon of the water and clear blue sky and easy wind in my face. I felt like this could just as well be back home. The grass looks the same, the sky is also the same, the water, the wind, the sun on my feet could all be an experience I could have had at home. My parents had told me we were literally on the other side of the planet and still I experienced this sensation of complete familiarity, as if nothing was out of place. I could just as well have been born here I thought. At this point I already had a feeling or understanding that I was Danish. That I was from Denmark. So I looked for the thing in the grass, in the water, the sky and the wind that made it belong to New Zealand and couldn’t see it or feel it. I decided that if it

wasn’t there, and all the same things were back home as well, then maybe the grass, sky, wind and water isn’t New Zealandish. Maybe it is actually the same as back home and that would mean that I am not Danish. Maybe I am just a human the same way that there are humans in New Zealand who look pretty much the same as back home. I felt quite good about that. Later in school when I visited classmates’ houses after class was finished I found it interesting to explore their homes. The sounds you could hear, the views out the windows were different and especially the scents coming from the kitchen and bathrooms were distinctly strange. I found it peculiar because I knew our families lived close and went shopping at the same places, but still the things they bought were not the same and it made such a difference. Maybe it was the materials that the house was made of as well. All my classmates’ homes had a different scent to it. The fridges were always interesting. They all ate stuff I would not, and the inside were always arranged according to each family’s systems. The milk might be on a top shelf in some fridges and it was maybe lying down in a drawer in others. Also, there were many approaches to butter. The brands would differ, some had butter produced from animals, some had margarine, others substituted for artificial products. Even when serving it, some took it straight from the packaging, some from the plastic box, others first put it in a bowl or box with accompanying lid on. I remember a particular visit to a friend with a few from the class. The others got hungry after being in the garden for a while and wanted to grab something to eat. I was fascinated with how much butter they used. They smeared it on everything. With liver pâté, sausage and even cheese. I remember being offered a bread so white it made the white porcelain platter seem grey, with butter from one of those plastic boxes it came in. It was that type that never really solidifies, not even in the fridge. The box was on the kitchen counter made of dark polished spotted marble, which was full of glittering greasy smudges that gleamed in the light that came through a slim window in the back wall of the kitchen. The butterknife was made of wood with a blunt tip and looked like something you

would give small kids so they won’t hurt themselves. This spatula, posing as a knife, had a lump of butter on its tip that looked like it was in a competition with the cheese on the table next to it for who could look more pale. It was glittering in the sun that had visibly heated it in a way that had caused its consistency to resemble that of body lotion. I must have been visibly frozen for quite a while. I don’t really remember, but I was just staring at this butter like it was staring back at me and was able to read my thoughts. I declined the offer. It was hard to look at and thinking of putting it in my mouth was even worse. I never felt at home in any of the others’ houses. Even though they all were very friendly and even their parents were sweet and said things like “make yourself at home” I felt like that was only to be polite. I had the feeling that if I really did as I would at home, then they would think strangely of me. At some point after being the guest for a while, the same feeling always came to me. I wanted to get away. Out of the house, out of whatever game we were playing and just get away. The best was if I could do it in such a way that I didn’t have to explain anything to anyone. Oh it was the worst if the parents would ask why I was leaving. They never stop asking more questions. They analyze my answers and they are skeptical of my story. I just want to go and they talk and talk. Outside it felt so great. The freedom was out there, to not eat butter heated by the sun and no pale cheese and no explanations were needed of me if I wanted to go to the woods or the beach or just sit on a bench for some time in the shade. It was great to escape unspoken family rules that one could break without knowing and suddenly create a bad atmosphere. It was horrible to feel that everything is good and suddenly it is the complete opposite. Especially if the parents were angry. They never show it really, but you feel it. They don’t want to create a bad situation but if they could they would really be angry. In 6th grade there was a ski trip in the winter to Sweden for a few days and I couldn’t go because I couldn’t handle being with the others from my class for that long. My parents called it homesickness in the letter they sent to the school where they explained why I was unable to go. At home I felt better. The feeling didn’t come to me when I was there. Gradually it got a lot better with time, but it would still show up once in a while. Even in high school. Healthy food had always been important to me and in high school not many shared that view. When my friends’ eating habits got too unhealthy I really had a hard time. An entire day inside a house with only chips, movies, soda and burgers was a sure way to make that feeling of wanting to get away come up in full force. Fast-food was easy and I always felt like I was causing trouble for wanting something different. They would ask what

was wrong with the junk food and I couldn’t find the words suitable for not insulting them, so most times I would just not say anything. I didn’t want any either, so when I was offered I just told them that I wasn’t hungry. I enjoyed their company and friendship when it didn’t come to food. It was great for a while even with the food discrepancy. The feeling of being the only one wanting something different than my peers started to show up in more aspects than food and going out on the weekends or to high school parties was another one I noticed. It was great fun in the beginning but the late night 3AM kebab the others always wanted between drinks or on the way home was horrible every time. The amount of time I have patiently spent waiting for senselessly drunk friends trying to battle their alcoholsoaked bodies into submission and deliver a coherent sentence at the counter of the food truck is beyond measure. At this point, talking to everyone but the guy trying to take your order somehow seems more important. Shouting a slush of incoherence at random people passing by is what would happen more often than actually explaining that the kebab has to be without onions because that would destroy any hope of kissing anyone beyond this point. When they finally got their food, they would inhale a third of it in a flash and throw the rest at some unlucky passerby or a car and then run away. The feeling comes to me at this point. I just want to get away from everything. Cigarettes and the thick poignant smell of nicotine was also a sure way to recall it. Too much booze, friends that leave with guys and girls in the night also worked. One after the other they found something they had been looking for in some random else. At least for tonight. Maybe this is what it was all about from the beginning. When the one that talked the most and carried the spirit of the party towards more drinks, new bars and more superficial acquaintances found someone to share the rest of the hours of the night with and had disappeared, something happened. It occurred to me that I had no idea what I was doing at the bar. The drink on the table in front of me transformed back into a mix of cheap alcohol with an unidentifiable concoction of artificial additives and just enough sugar to mask the taste of deceit. It was sold as a fresh and exotic dash of summer. A promise that now appeared as fake as the interest I had shown for it before the others had left. Ironically the drink and I

at least had something in common after all. I drank it to be social and to fit in. I talked to strangers to be sociable and because my friends enjoyed the whole thing so much. I realized that I was out because of them. It also occurred to me that I only saw my friends on the weekends. I can’t really say why it took me so long to notice this, maybe I was denying it, maybe I was hoping for something to change, maybe I needed to feel part of a social structure so I paid for it by ignoring my own values. When the others had gotten what they wanted I was left again with my feeling of being a foreign substance in a body that is trying to expel me. For a while these people made me feel at home, a feeling so evasive to me was now escaping again. When I started to study I stepped into it with great passion, curiosity and ambition to learn and focus on a different aspect of my life that I truly loved. From the get-go I was met with a punch in the gut. There was a two day trip arranged for us to get to know each other which was basically a two day party straight. The last thing I wanted anything to do with. I skipped it because the thought of beer, cigarettes and cheap junk food for two days made the feeling of wanting to get away rumble in my stomach. Ever since the butter I have had a hard time understanding how others can be so attracted to things I am not. I thought that we are all human, so where do this difference come from? How can your tastebuds be so pleased by something I find unappealing? The difference is curious to me and I have no problem with it. But I find it hard to deal with when I have to explain why I don’t like alcohol. It’s like saying no is not enough somehow. It’s like there has to be a reason beyond simple preferences. Yet if I were to ask people if they would like to eat my socks it’s somehow fine with a simple no. At least that’s what I imagine. Back in high school I stopped drinking alcohol. From one day to the other. I just decided it. This made me notice how much alcohol permeates through our culture. It was everywhere. The beach, dinner, football on TV, lunch, bar, meeting in the park and birthdays. It was really eye-opening to experience. I also quit eating sugar. That was around the same time and I was 15. For a year I had as little sugar as I could. I stayed away from most fruits because they had fructose in them. On a trip to Greece with my family we were hiking through a canyon from a high plateau to the ocean. 8 kilometers in I was feeling really slow, my feet were heavy and the sun was so intense I would zigzag around the trail to catch the shadows from the trees. My body was completely drained. Any kind of sugar

molecule had been used up ages ago and not even an apparition of a carbohydrate was anywhere to be found. I had a banana which I knew was full of sugar, but I ate it anyway and this is probably the most concentrated load of sugar I had eaten in almost a year. It was like swapping a dead battery for a supercharged one. The energy came from my stomach and I felt the sugar filling up through the blood and forcefully making its way into the muscles, that ferociously launched at the carbohydrates as if I had dumped a piece of barbeque chicken into a pond of piranhas. It was fast and everything tingled inside. I had always been very aware of my body and here I knew that I had probably been a little too extreme with the sugar restrictions. I silently promised myself to take better care of my body from this point forward. When I started actually studying after I had skipped the two day introduction party I applied for every workshop and learned 3d printing, laser cutting machine, CNC-milling, vacuum forming, the lathe, plasma cutter, welding, casting clay, plaster and metals, ceramics, glass and sewing. I really liked learning these things and I did it purely from being curious about the methods and techniques. I learned later that this approach would set me up to be able to see more opportunities for creative outputs. I was hopeful that the program I had chosen that offered all these different skills would be the most open to a broad set of ideas regarding projects. I was both right and wrong. In the beginning of studying I learned a lot but I found no mentor figure. When my interests began to grow and revolve around subjects that were besides the focus of my program, I had a hard time finding the support I felt I needed. I often felt discouraged after talking to a tutor because I couldn’t align my thoughts with a concept that had to be produced physically. I was interested in what design and art even was and I spent time reading philosophy and books on theory to see if this would offer any answers. This opened up possibilities for exploring design concepts in new ways. The third year we got texts that the school provided us through the curriculum and they were about philosophy. It was a collection of short texts and served quite well as an introduction to each person’s worldview and thought production. It took lots of focus to thoroughly go through all the words I didn’t know, but by doing this I learned that when philosophers use words, the same words I can use, they don’t necessarily mean the same thing. Take for example Robert Pirsig who wrote an entire book to explore the metaphysics that stem from the word “quality”. I knew to approach it like that because I had read the author I just mentioned, a few years before I got the

I noticed the names of the philosophers in the collection and they all had such great sounding names. One was Gilles Deleuze, seriously great name. It sounds like an entrée at a really good place to eat. Not a place that’s too expensive or so fancy that it turns into a theater, but a place that just has great food. Well, I was curious where in the world these people with interesting names were so I made a map of the world and put their names on the country in which they were born. I learned where they were from, but I also noticed something else. Most of them were from Europe, a few from the United States, one or two from Asia and nothing in Africa, Australia, India or anywhere else for that matter. I found it quite interesting that the knowledge and insights that these people had produced, and my university had compiled were mainly Euro-centric. I thought that a human from Africa was able to produce as profound insights as anyone else so I started researching philosophy from all the blank spots on my map. During my studies I did many different types of projects and I learned that the school taught me to work through a specific structural approach. It was basically like this: a project revolves around a problem that has to be solved. I had increasing difficulty keeping my focus through the projects and I experienced having all kinds of ideas that were not useful for the current project. I became interested in what would happen if I threw away the dogma from the school and really explored what would happen if the brain was let loose, free to create anything and everything. How far can the imagination be stretched, can logic break, can the brain unlearn and forget in order to make room for healthier patterns of thought. These types of questions were rapidly coming to me all day long. I filled up notebooks on the side with these ideas and fantasies. I drew characters that embodied these skills, huge structures that were impossible to build and I drew alien forms and strange shape languages. It was great to have this place where I wasn’t pressured to think in a certain way. I was free to follow every impulse and let the mind run free. I felt really good doing these explorations. I was comfortable and spent hours filling page after page. This became sort of a mental home. Somewhere I knew I could return to when I wanted for just a few minutes when I was waiting for something or other times for many hours. What was in my notebooks couldn’t be aligned with my projects at school. I tried. Over and over. The structure that started with a rational foundation of research, tests, interviews and collection of empirical material just felt like it was all making the end product less interesting. I felt my thoughts run away time and time again. The feeling of wanting to get away had also

slowly come back. Until this point the university was where I spent all my time and now this feeling came back and I started to feel like I wasn’t home in my own projects the same way I had been earlier. I felt like all the thoughts and work I produced for my concepts were like eating junk food and that lukewarm butter with my brain. I felt at home in my notebook where there were no rules. I felt comfortable in the ideas, the shapes, the concepts and visions. Like seals in the Antarctic that poke their snouts through small holes in the ice to breathe I would plant my snout in the notebooks and let my brain relax and flow into the pages. Unconsciously I started to see the shapes and forms from my notebook in contrast to my surroundings. As something other. For example I would see the buildings of the city, objects in stores, surface structures of the pavement and so on as something that was very different from my drawings and my concepts of buildings, objects and patterns. I would look at the city a bit the same way as when I would look into the fridges of my classmates in elementary school. Everything was familiar, but it wasn’t really for me. That was the type of feeling. I felt again that I wasn’t home and I wanted to get away, to leave, but I had no idea how to escape this time. I just wanted to be somewhere where I didn’t have to deal with any of it. I wanted my thoughts and ideas out of my head to create my own home and I just couldn’t do that because all I drew was too large, impossible or expensive to actually make, or all three things at once. My head was going so fast at this point producing ideas after idea that would branch into several new and I was stressed like I was one week away from an exam. A year before, around the time when I had just come to the realization that the ideas I wanted to explore didn’t match very well with my university I applied for a semester abroad and I went to Iceland for half a year to study design in a different setting. The art and design practice is relatively young compared to the Danish and I figured that this might allow them to be more free and experimental because they wouldn’t be so locked into any kind of creative identity conceived in the past. In Reykjavik I lived in a large house and I studied at the university for architecture and design which was everything I had needed. I had two teachers while I was there and they would randomly pop into the study and just leave a stack of books on my table, say a few things about them and just leave again. It was great. They introduced me to new ways of thinking about design and art. From my readings I rewired completely the way I looked at how to combine theoretical thinking and conceptual development. I experimented with letting go of analyzing whether something would be good, bad, weird, extreme, expensive or anything for that matter. I practiced letting go of any kind of judgement of an idea before I had tried to write it down, draw it or somehow give it a chance

GRASS IN NEW ZEALAND I CHRISTIAN SCHYTT FISKER I COPENHAGEN, DENMARK I @MYLINGEN1 I CFISKER.COM

curriculum from the university.

GRASS IN NEW ZEALAND I CHRISTIAN SCHYTT FISKER I COPENHAGEN, DENMARK I @MYLINGEN1 I CFISKER.COM 62

to be. I had been wanting to try this approach for a long time and here I was able to combine it with the material provided by the teachers. Here I read about speculative design, non-human perception, cosmic timescales, agency, ownership, natural resources, commodities, politics, economics, ecology, material mapping, system thinking and so much more. They didn’t care if the things we delivered for exams were a product, a book, a song, a sound, a video, a smell, a poem, performance or even a thought. Everything was accepted. One of my two final projects was about the things humans share unconsciously and I contacted a biology lab to get petri dishes and equipment so I could take bacteria from my own body and cultivate them. I let them grow for a week before my exam and did an exhibition of them in a jacuzzi that I found. Now back in Copenhagen a year later I realized that I was out of balance and had been for quite some time. My mind was running so fast. I was preparing for my master’s thesis and I asked one of my former classmates from the bachelor to talk. We studied the bachelor together but then chose different master programs. I wasn’t really sure what I was gonna say but I ended up talking for a really long time and spilling everything on him. I cried when I told him I felt like I didn’t fit in anywhere and that I just wanted to create the things I had in my mind. He handled it better than I could have ever hoped for. He made me feel completely accepted and that I was okay the way I am. He also suggested to me that I could try to meditate. He introduced me to something basic and I have been experimenting on my own since then. It was very interesting to try out. I followed a guided session where a voice basically instructs you through the whole thing. It was a strange thing because it is so deceptively simple. It was really surprising to me how little control I actually had over what happens when I close my eyes and just sit still. I don’t lack the patience, I can sit for a long time without a problem, but my mind goes and goes. I’m instructed to think of the breath and feel it come all the way in and all the way out. Again and again until it becomes its own rhythm. More instructions come. Think of your shoulders, and think of letting go when you exhale. Relax and think of ice turning to water. One more breath, water turns to vapor. The eyes are closed and when I get to this point I start to see images. Pictures in my mind much like dreaming. They flash from one thing to the next like 20 movies that are allowed to run for 50 frames and then cut to the next. I started to experiment with how to keep the focus in the body. I picture my blood through my veins. I imagine how it runs. Then to keep focus I let it branch out from the torso to include arms, then legs,

into the feet and hands. Picture all the blood vessels flowing. And then zoom out. See it in third person. More breathing, more flowing. Start to spin this picture around real slowly. See it in 3D. I continue like this. When I experimented like this I found a quite curious technique for creating pictures. It goes like this: Picture yourself standing in front of a white wall. On the wall is a painting mounted so that the backside of the canvas faces you. You see the frame made of wood and you notice the small nails and screws that hold it together. It is a quite large landscape format and in the middle there are two supporting profiles running vertically. On the other side of the front of the canvas is a colorful beautiful painting that you can’t see. Suddenly, like a snap of the fingers, it spins around revealing itself. What do you see? I started seeing a therapist a year later as well. I was recommended to do this by several friends and my girlfriend who has been very supportive. I owe her so much for that. Now I am learning to see all the activity in my head as something to appreciate rather than feeling overwhelmed. I learned that I was maybe not giving it enough space to just be what it is. I am still trying to accept the idea that I don’t have to make all of the ideas real but to use it as inspiration. For me, home has been many things. Since my experience in New Zealand I have felt that I am just a human and I don’t belong to any particular place. Home was Denmark, but since then it wasn’t anymore. Then home was a house where I grew up. This was home for a long time, maybe the longest consistent home I’ve had so far. When I moved, home moved as well and it stopped being a place because I moved many times. Home was my social circle in high school and then I realized it wasn’t. Home became my study and interests at the university. My interests grew and the home I thought was secure in my study wasn’t home for this growth. Home turned into my notebook where my thoughts were free and I could create whatever I found exciting. When I couldn’t realize my visions in the scale of my dreams my home was lost. Now since I have started to share more of my thoughts, home has become a feeling. A state of mind. Something that is in motion. It can be intense at some points and completely gone other times. Both are okay.

INCOMPLETE I CELESTE ALVAREZ I SEATTLE, WA, USA I @CELESTEALVAREZ.DESIGN I CELESTE-ALVAREZ.COM

LOVES TO BLAME I SOLEIL I MIAMI, FL, USA I @SOLEFULSOUL I SOLEILWORLD.COM

UNTITLED I LEA GRANDVALET STUDER I @IMAGEMEPHOTOGRAPHY

MARINACONSTANTINE.COM

STUCK IN THE CARPET I MARINA CONSTANTINE I MARYLAND, USA I @FRUIT.PUNK.ART

THE ONLY THING THAT STAYS THE SAME BETWEEN A DREAM AND REAL LIFE IS YOU I ARAL I LONDON, CANADA

when i was six there was the swing set and the sandbox and of course the sprinkler waiting for bathing-suited us with our mermaid barbies and our shrieking laughs. there was the staircase you fell down once and i fell down seven eight nine times because flying is easier in a small body and i liked the way the sun came through the window. there was iced tea on a cement block i used to call our porch that you covered in wood later and taught me that love isn’t as often shared as i thought it was. there was a wasp in the playroom that is now where i sleep and us screaming at the top of our lungs because we knew you’d come and save us. we live in the same house now but i still think that you’re hiding from me that we moved and i just forgot, or maybe it’s the home that moved while we stayed with our feet stuck in the gravel. it’s okay. your footsteps still tell me it’s you upstairs and outside my door. ive recognized you all my life even though you had another one before me. i wont let anything die in my arms. the sky is bigger than you think and so are you. so are you. so are you. @CIELITODESOL

THIRD SHIFT | B. ELAE | UNITED STATES | @B.ELAE

THIRD SHIFT

I've never been one to make a fort out of arms, but you've given me no choice I sink each time I lie on your chest and your heart reveals its voice Though I remain an itinerant to this world, you selflessly honor my quest Trading shifts with my own arms, just so they can rest. - B. Elae, "Third Shift” *this poem is centered around menial health support from romantic partners

Acrylic on c wecre888.w

SEMI-DETACHED | LUCY CLAY | LEEDS, UK | @LUCYBETHART

Being attached to one another is a beautiful thing. Semi-Detached aims to convey the love of two people and their commitment to one another; especially their shared similarities much like those of a semi-detached house sharing one wall.

canvas. wixsite.com/home/lucy-beth-clay

rhianbolton.cargo.site

JESTEM W DOMU I ISTELLA GUAN (THEY/THEM) I PARIS, FRANCE I @STELLAGUANART I STELLAGUANART.COM

Stella Guan is a queer, non-binary 21-year-old from Brooklyn, New York. Currently, Stella is majoring in Fine Arts and minoring in Creative Writing at the American University of Paris. Additionally, they are pursuing a career as a tattoo artist. Having grown up in a challenging household with difficult family relationships, and dealing with BPD (Borderline Personality Disorder) as well as gender and cultural identity struggles, Stella uses their art and writing as the ultimate form of expression. With their paintings, Stella hopes to bring awareness to the difficulties of living with a mental health disorder and being a trauma survivor. As well as connect with those going through similar things. This piece is about losing connection with a large part of my cultural identity. I was raised by a Polish mother and spoke fluent Polish, but growing up in NYC caused my inevitable “Americanification” if you will. Now, I only remember bits and pieces of Polish and the stories my family would share with me, but I want to remember those bits and pieces forever because being Polish is essentially the backbone of my cultural identity. It feels like home to me. (65x46cm, 2021)

What is it to leave home Is it pale and numb like a dream deferred Or is it like ‘a want for freedom’ syndrome? Is it the harvest of childhood agony twined Or is it like the cutting of umbilical cord? Is it the dead leaves flirting uselessly with autumn wind Or is it like the silence of a slaughter board? Is it the hollow earth’s yearn to engulf the sky Or is it like a corpse - dead yet smelling of life? Is it simply a baggage of hopes that lie Or is it like an era-long self strife?

WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU LEAVE HOME I NAVASHREE NANDINI I BIHAR, INDIA I @COMMPETAL

I have often wondered

Photography milicent fambrough 2021

Digital photography

5x7

CITY GARDEN & HOME I MILICENT FAMBROUGH I SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS, USA I @MILICENT210

HOME The warm summer days, Music floats on the breeze, The river runs, I am home. -milicent fambrough 2021

TAKING THE TRAIN I MIRIAM SOKOLSKA I NEW JERSEY, USA I @GINGERALEGIRL1234 I MRMSKLSK.COM

Lately I've been mentally preparing to move to a big city for the first time. I noticed how hard I was gripping a handle while riding the train on a weekend trip in Boston. 76

SELF PORTRAIT IN MY BATHROOM I CHLOE CHLUMECKY I WINDSOR, CANADA I @CHLOS.ARTPORTFOLIO

CHLOECHLUMECKY.COM

CAUGHT | TEIA SPENCER | USA/UK | @MISS.SHAPEN

over the years my home has been all around the world, and while it’s been the most amazing adventure i would find myself yearning for familiarity. this past year while being thousands of miles away from my family and in a place I was only just considering a home, i turned to color and warmth and this is where it led me. So here is my painting; made with love from a girl in love with color.

The moon is red O Mother, From here I see it bleed, They’re rooting out our men, Like mowing wasteful weeds. I am stuck in throes O Mother, This gory tunnel’s endless. I am in a distant land, Fearful and friendless.

HOME I SURABHI CHHIKARA I INDIA

Home The metal is poison O Mother, It seeps through mortal flesh, As men bite dreaded dust, Falling on barbed mesh. I am lost at times O Mother, I sift through memories bright, It drowns my homesick hunger, It gets me through the night. Those days were gold O Mother, Back on the Indian coast. Opulent ocean waves Had shoals of fish to boast. I feel deprived O Mother Of waters clean and pure, The bloodied waves grow darker, Singing sinister lores. The smell of baking bread, No longer reaches this nose, Our prayers now don’t accompany Sacred garlands of rose. The battleground echoes O Mother, With wounds of men, their woes, We feed on brutal bullets, Not bread of barley dough. The moon is red O Mother, I just wish I were home.

HOME IS A HUMMINGBIRD I SOPHIA MOORE | LOS ANGELES, USA I @S.OPHIAMOORE

Home is a Hummingbird By Sophia Moore

I’m moving out in a month. I’d say permanently, but with the state of the job market, who knows where I’ll be 4 years from now: college degree in one hand, childhood home keys in another. The keys with Tinker Bell on them, with my luck. I wonder where I’d be if I had picked a different novelty key at Home Depot that day; I think I was 7 or 8 years old, the Tinker Bell key spoke to me in a way the Winnie the Pooh one didn’t. There’s a voice in the very back of my mind who thinks it’s crazy that I’d rather live in the snowiest city in America than sunny Los Angeles, especially considering I’d never owned a winter coat until 3 weeks ago. Nonetheless, my tuition is paid, the ticket is in my name, and the tiny voice in the back of my mind is in the minority. My parents are proud, if a little sad. My neighbors continuously congratulate me, even though I can tell they forget the name of my school sometimes. I’ve wanted to leave for years and now that it’s so close, I can’t make it slow down. Every day is one closer to packing my bags and boarding an airplane and leaving my stuffed animals behind. Abandoning the desk that can never be moved outside my room, since it was built in it. Bidding farewell to the tiny strawberry growing in our front yard, though no one knows how it got there. I would say I’m scared or sad to leave but, honestly, I’m not. I don’t know if I’m excited either; I just am. College feels like the natural next step in the progression of my life. It’s something I’m expected to do, something I’ve been expecting of myself since elementary school. I always said I wanted to go out of state, and now that’s happening. My dreams are coming true and I’m so grateful, but numb. I’ll blame it on the underwhelming high school graduation ceremony. Maybe the humidity will shake my stagnation. I’ve been trying to notice things about my world before I leave it. I go on bike rides around my neighborhood, acknowledging the jacaranda and the chalky-handed kids who play in sprinklers every evening. I ride my bike in the street now, running rubber tires over potholes and cracks in the asphalt. I let my eyes drag lazily along the scenery in my life, as if I could capture and keep the things I see, weaving a visual tapestry of my life in L.A. It was in this fashion that I met the hummingbird who frequents our backyard. While lounging near a plumeria plant, I heard the rapid beating of wings characteristic only to hummingbirds. I froze in my seat, startled by his proximity to me. He was stopped at an allium bulb, sucking the nectar from its center. I didn’t dare breathe near the hummingbird: I couldn’t risk scaring him away. His scarlet chest and iridescent wings amazed me.

Never in my life floral snack had tion method had the vibrancy of h ful but his memo

It’s no easy task hummingbird to the hummingbir ber every detail hummingbirds n that, though the breasts might be same type of bir

I’m moving out i appreciate our s time, though, I t

I can’t see into t I’ll enjoy living o don’t seem so b bird from flying.

to sit in the Southern California heat at midday. Sweating and uncomfortable, I waited for my o reappear. I’d read, swim, sit, eat, scroll: nothing. Since our initial encounter, I haven’t seen rd again, and I’m not sure I ever will. And still, I can’t get my mind off of him. I can’t rememexactly the way I perceived it, but maybe that’s not the point. I’ve spent time researching native to California: their migratory patterns and where they exist across the country. I learned ey’re not the same species, hummingbirds exist in my future home state. The color of their e different, but nonetheless, red. Their wings still possess that alluring iridescence. It’s the rd, just in a different place. A different home.

HUMMINGBIRD I ANDREA VALDIVIA I MELBOURNE,AUSTRALIA I @NEA.AU I NEAVALDIVIA.COM

had I been so close to a hummingbird, and certainly not for that long. When he decided his been depleted, he swiftly left, and I exhaled. After I lost sight of him, I wished my observad been more precise. Just as soon as I had seen him, I began to forget. I couldn’t quite recall his chest or the glint of his wings in the sun. I was frustrated: the hummingbird was so beautiory was so fleeting. I needed to see him again.

in a month. Passively, I scan our gardens and trees for hummingbirds, their reds and greens. I sun, the way the heat smells and all that I’m losing by moving across the country. At the same think of the hummingbirds. Small and agile and there. They exist there too.

the future. I can’t guarantee my professional or academic success, I can’t even guarantee that outside of California. But when I think about my hummingbird, living here and there, things bad. My heart beats in the rapid succession of a hummingbird’s, but never does that stop the . 81

MOSAICS, JOURNEYS THROUGH LANDSCAPES URBAN AND RURAL I BRIAN MICHAEL BARBEITO

ONTARIO, CANADA

MOSAICS, JOURNEYS THROUGH LANDSCAPES URBAN AND RURAL I BRIAN MICHAEL BARBEITO

ONTARIO, CANADA

MOORED AT HOME I ANNA ONNI I SINGAPORE I @ANNAONNI I ONNISCIENT.WIXSITE.COM/ANNAONNI 88

Anna Onni’s life goals include organising a free gathering of folks for art jamming, making art from dumpster diving finds, and starting a sincerely ironic meditation podcast. Her work can be found in The Singapore War Crimes Trials Project, The Birthday Book (2020), and literary anthologies Food Republic (2020) and Singapore at Home: Life across Lines (2021). She is currently working on expanding The Book of Sainted Aunts: The Illustrated Portraits of Mildly Martyred Sinners-Turned-Saints Since Queerdom Come that was published for this year’s Southeast Asian Queer Cultural Festival.

AT HOME WITH MUM I TEGAN IVERSEN I MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA I @TEGANIVERSEN I TEGANIVERSEN.COM

BREAKIN’ FEARS I NEWBEAM I MADRID, SPAIN I @NEWBEAM.MUSIC I BEAMONTERO.PAGE

My collages and music aim to evoke emotional trips that reach the deepest part of ourselves. This album is full of evocation and intimacy, and it invites us to break our fears, give value to the things that are really important and get away from what hurts us. 2021

DANCING WITH DOMESTICATION I TIFFANY LEACH I FLORIDA,USA I @ TIFLEACH_CERAMICS

TIFFANYLEACH.COM

WARMTH FOR A BLUE BODY I TEIA SPENCER I USA/UK I @MISS.SHAPEN

Over the years my home has been all around the world, and while it’s been the most amazing adventure i would find myself yearning for familiarity. this past year while being thousands of miles away from my family and in a place i was only just considering a home, i turned to color and warmth and this is where it led me. so here is my painting; made with love from a girl in love with color.

RETURNING HOME I STUTI PACHISIA I CAMBRIDGE, UNITED KINGDOM AND KOLKATA, INDIA I @STUTANKHAMUN

I am not yet twenty three. By the sea, the water turns In expected ways, in unexpected colours. My mother is rooted to the sand, Predicting which wave will foam by her feet. She is never right; she laughs each time. There is rain. This is not a day for the beach, But we planned today long before we knew All that would come. My father hates the rain, insisting we move I put an umbrella over us, and rest my head On his shoulder. For a few weeks now, we have barely spoken, He is confused: he remembers me Much younger. We have slowly been quieter, our conversations Growing awkward limbs in all directions: Spiders, webbing in rooms whose walls we cannot identify. I watch the sea turn green and white and rising. I look for dragons, of curling breath, white tails And drawn claws. We are in perpetual battle. The dragon recedes and resurfaces. I imagine a younger Me, the Version who fought, scratching, wrestling out of my father’s arms, into the water. He never could watch. I wonder if this is what my father Remembers, whether the prediction A stranger once made, that we are at Great Risk of the ocean Washes over his mind before the ocean. Whether he thinks of my younger self, uncontrollable, slipping like a lemon drop sunset, disappearing into water. I hold his hand quietly. We avoid conversation about the minor cataclysms that the sea augers, The foaming in the ebb and flow, the shallow sleet that follows us as we go. My grip tightens. I forget my age often. I say I am twenty three, As if by anachronism, a year forward, this is exactly how things will be.

‘Returning Home, November 2019’, first published as ‘By the Beach in Vietnam in November 2019’ in Sheepshead Review. Link here: https://issuu.com/officialsheepsheadreview/docs/issuu

ONE BY ONE I KRISTINA MICHALSKI I BRAUNSCHWEIG, GERMANY I @MICHALSKI_KRISTINA 94

In this music video the audience accompanies a little lion daydreaming herself out o her home. The analog filmed video is finished by digital drawings and was produce during the first lockdown caused by Covid-19 in Germany.

Video artwork by Kristina Michalski. Song by DRIVEN BY CLOCKWORK.

of ed

KRISTINAMICHALSKI.DE

HEAD (ROOM) I LILIAN SIM I TORONTO I @THIRDBOREDOM I LILNAA.COM

SOUTH SIDE LIVIN’ I CIMPLYDAN I ORLANDO/MIAMI, FL, USA I @CIMPLYDAN

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HOGAR | BEA MONTERO | MADRID, SPAIN | @PAPERSCOLLAGE | BEAMONTERO.PAGE

My collages and music aim to evoke emotional trips that reach the deepest parts of ourselves. With few elements, I like to create ‘less is more’ graphics and music that contains a big background if you stop to watch. This collage, “Home”, values our home as a space of calm and peace - of creation, introspection and reflection/reflexion. 106

MY HOUSE ON MY SHOULDERS | SUSANA BELEN | CHILEAN LIVING IN AUSTRALIA | @SUSANEI | SUSANABELEN.COM

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NIGHT LIGHT | B. ELAE | UNITED STATES | @B.ELAE

Night Light I left the light on for you, stuck a "HOME" sign in the lawn Hoping you'd be brave and find your way right at the sight of dawn That you'd see the trail of petals, that would lead you the right way As I, too, know the freight of a homeless heart, that is bleary and astray. - B. Elae, "Night Light"

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HOME I VIVIEN SOLVEIG I COLOGNE, GERMANY I @TOO_FAT_TO_PAINT I VIVIEN-SOLVEIG.DE

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FLEETING I TWIGGY BOYER I COCONUT CREEK, USA I @SARAHTWIGGYBOYERART I SARAHTWIGGYBOYER.COM

I revisit the past in pictures

two reflective surfaces curtseying,

and think looking back means

each tendril—dust of us.

memories never change;

Do we keep pictures to remember or forget?

my cling could never skew

I inherited a bouquet of dandelion parachutes,

a still frame,

the woman who took the photo—

but like a biting hand clasp—

her brooch and pearl white

my recall is a dying flash.

skin to stick it in

It’s my inability to let

to feel the sharp end;

childhood elude the fluctuating lens,

I want to bend its brittle counterfeit wings,

to attune to sepia decay,

remedy my intermittent memory.

the over-exposure, the gray-rimmed ream of descending white,

Previously published by Creative Writing Ink

to ask—Who am I? I can still make out my heart sweater,

Willie the sheepdog of the litter I chose, our smiles under orange descent, red dyes,

Kaci Skiles Laws is a closet cat-lady and creative

rose gold glasses, and the

writer who reads and writes voraciously in the quiet

wisdom in the photo’s whitewash.

moments between motherhood and managing Crohn’s Disease. She grew up on a small farm in

Somewhere in a light wave I see

a Texas town alongside many furry friends, two

my grandmother catch a process in a scurry,

sisters, and a brother. She has known tragic loss too

a mark of eternal progress that fades

well, and her writing is a reflection of the shadows

but stays a pixel the same,

lurking in her psyche. Her work can be viewed at:

each piece a fleck of peach. I hold

kaciskileslawswriter.wordpress.com

MY FICTITIOUS FABERGE BEE I KACI SKILES LAWS I FORT WORTH, TEXAS USA I @KACI.SKILES.LAWS

My Fictitious Faberge Bee

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VIEW OUTSIDE I RUITING WANG I SINGAPORE I @TINGLYART

GROUP CHAT I EUNICE LAI I CANADA I @DOYOULIKEKETCHUP | EUNICELAI.FORMAT.COM

I feel at home when I chat with my friends :']

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OBJECTS OF MEANING I MAISIE CU I CANADA I @YELLOW_RECORDPLAYER I MAISIESU.COM

TO BE HUMAN IS TO CARRY A MANIFESTATION OF WHERE YOU FIND YOUR SENSE OF BELONGING. I SEEK CONSOLATION IN THE OBJECT OF MEANINGS IN RUNNING AWAY FROM THE WHOLE WORLD OUTSIDE OF ME.

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WAITING 2 I URSZULA TRAWNICZEK I WARSAW, POLAND I @URSZULA_TR

WAITING I URSZULA TRAWNICZEK

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CHAMP DE FLEURS II I TWIGGY BOYER I COCONUT CREEK, USA I @SARAHTWIGGYBOYERART

Palaeontology

for Zoo Tycoon

sarahtwiggyboyer.com

years later, we are digging still.

digging.

None of us seeks dinosaurs now. You, after you found that they were, indeed,

I imagine you, in the fractured sun,

dead; me, after I realized that digging had

digging with green mittens on

led nowhere.

in frozen February. The night grows older. We are This is from before, when hurt

probing, dusting old memories, raising

had not yet pooled and collected

old bones of contention, when you say

as gritted soil at the edges of our hands.

how odd it is, to have lived lives before each other, orbits without touch; a life

This is from when there was no need

which cannot be unearthed, fossilized in

to gather and speculate over land:

memory.

where every bit of frosted earth contained possibility of alternate life;

This is why we dig. I ask what the greatest gift you have ever received is.

from when our loneliness was so

You name my childhood dream,

pale and so profound, that we dug and dug in the hope of tunnelling to the other side

I imagine you, as I imagine me:

of the world

standing over thawing soil gathering shards of the river

—or if we were lucky—

to hold them

finding other palaeontologists

up against the sun

deep in the throes of the earth, breaking even at this sign of life.

You are always wearing a hat, and the sun prisms into violet and gold

Our faces morph. We are digging,

every time it lands on you.

repeating the names of the dinosaurs we knew, confusing them

We laugh. And then cry; palaeontologists

with Pokémon we knew.

having finally discovered life.

We befriend everything we find, earthworm, old plastic bag, oddly shaped leaf,

“Palaeontology”, first published in Up The

sharing in this ancient obsession that

Staircase Quarterly: www.upthestaircase.

has lived, and will keep on living:

org/stuti-pachisia.html

PALAEONTOLOGY I STUTI PACHISIA I CAMBRIDGE, UNITED KINGDOM & KOLKATA, INDIA I @STUTANKHAMUN

Deep in the night, we discover we loved

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TOMMY I GERRY NIEMIEROWKO I PLAINVILLE, CT I @FATASSMUCHACHO I GERRYNIEMIEROWKO.COM

PLAY HOUSE I VEE CR I VANCOUVER, CANADA I @VINCENT.CHORABIK I VINCENTCHORABIK.COM

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PATTERS OF MOTION I LUKE YOUNG I ST. CLOUD MINNESOTA I @RAGEALIEN

PATTERS OF MOTION There are creaks and moans in my house Not from the structure or aging walls Patters of motion Knocks here and there A door being tried A window shade being moved As if I’m in someone else’s home Trespassing Disturbing Imposing my will over another Forced into disquietude When each light is turned off Signaling the end of consciousness The place is given back And if you listen carefully enough The air gathers weight Leaving the quiet softly disturbed Until sunlight teases the curtains

UNTITLED I MATTHEW REYNOLDS I NEW Pen plotter drawing on found photo

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suggestion of presence

STONEKEEP I CALUM ROBERTSON I CALGARY, CANADA I @SHEEPIEMCGOATERS

STONEKEEP where void could be shadowed ruins a pensive monarch waiting on a

YORK I @MATTVREY

tourist lost but still needing “that perfectly celtic picture, y’know?” or a ghost that’s been feeling particularly out of place lately with no roof to haunt beneath or occupants to spook above only hollow wind and presumptuous moss hastily settling within vacant walled premises 129

BOUNDARIES OF REALITY (2020) I ANA LOUREIRO I VIENNA, AUSTRIA I @ANALOUREIROFERNANDES 130

Video (below): Sensory su

Photographs (left): Pieces

6c/0 Digital print with Lat

Ana Loureiro (Portugal, 19 the Faculty of Fine Arts of her last graduation semes

Currently, her artistic prac in consideration her perso

Her projects have been p

s of identity

tex color, 230g Photo paper matt, 270 cm x 120 cm

991) is a visual artist living and working in Vienna. She graduated in Fine Arts - Painting at f Porto University (2009-2013) and attended the Academy of Fine Arts Vienna (2013) during ster.

ANALOUREIRO.COM

ubmersion

ctice focuses on the relationship between architecture/ space and its inner memories, taking onal experience and through a multidisciplinary approach.

presented in several countries: Austria, Germany, Switzerland, Croatia, Belgium and Portugal.

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HONEY HOUSE I TAYLOR M. KNIGHT I USA I @TAYLOR.M.KNIGHT

SUBURB I TAYLOR M. KNIGHT

These pieces are parts of my reflections on my relationship with home and family in the suburbs.

“Suburb” is a ceramic house built to look like the cookie-cutter homes I’m familiar with, but slightly shoddy and dilapidated. “Honey House” was cast in bronze from raw honeycomb and is symbolic of the sweetness supposedly characterized by the home. In both cases, the works develop the exploration of how my lived experience is discordant with the happy stereotypes and projections of ideal suburban living.

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RESILIENCE THROUGH RECONNECTION I AMNNA ATTIA I ETOBICOKE, CANADA I @AMNNAATTIA I @AMNNA.ATTIA

This piece is about the person I was before the quarantine, a Palestinian who wasn’t entirely connected to their cultural identity. I was always afraid of expressing my identity and I didn’t understand it then, but as I grew older, I started to realize my family’s efforts to protect me. Eventually, we became stronger, grew out of the fear and my family started becoming more public with their Palestinian identity. So when I wanted to do the same, I looked into tatreez (Palestinian embroidery) and attended a beginner class for one day. When I learned about the history behind tatreez and started embroidering, I felt a deep connection, a connection I couldn’t have achieved unless I tried it myself. The connection made me eager to learn more, see the connection between certain Palestinian pieces in houses (such as the hidden motifs in my traditional tatreez dresses, patterns between my cultures, etc), and teach other people about my culture and Palestine itself. This piece is important because It’s about remaking the original piece (“Heritage”) that started my journey by getting closer to my heritage. With this piece, I’ve built a relationship with the Palestinian community, strengthed my knowledge of who I am as a Palestinian, and what my ancestors did in an effort to protect our heritage. My tatreez is so important to me because it’s the journey to making the pieces that made me truly proud to be a Palestinian in this generation. Born in the United States, Amnna Attia is a Toronto-based artist studying with the Contemporary Arts Department at Etobicoke School of the Arts. Attia explores her Arab-Palestinian heritage through digital art and embroidery. Her interest in her personal heritage sparked a passion for learning about other cultures, exploring their customs, and what makes them unique including styles of artistic expression. Attia was a curator with the Albright Knox Museum’s The Presence of Absence exhibition opened in April 2021, and is now a curator with The Fearless Artist organization. Her work has been exhibited in group shows at the Gladstone Hotel in Toronto, Etobicoke School of the Arts in Etobicoke, Canada, the Albright Knox Museum, in Buffalo, New York, the Art Gallery of Mississauga, the Neilson Park Creative Centre in Toronto, the Annual Spring Juried Art Show with Arts Etobicoke, the Virtual Art Gallery of Experiences Canada, as well as featured on the Zenerations Instagram of the Hyderabad branch in India and will soon be exhibited in the End Of Year Show with Us Gallery Contemporary in Toronto. Her work has also been published in Ultraviolet Magazine in Kingston, Canada, the Growth Virtual Zine in Toronto, Canada, the Arts Etobicoke Impact Report in Etobicoke, Canada, the Toronto Six Hundred Magazine in Toronto, Canada, the Original Magazine in London, United Kingdom, and will soon be published in the Toronto Public Library in Toronto, Canada. I explore my Palestinian heritage in textile works using digitally manipulated traditional motifs executed through hand-stitched embroidery, making physical my sense of dislocation. I deliberately incorporate dysfunctional and excess threads within regionally specific motifs in order to document what they once were and now are: functional threads that fill the empty spaces within both the cloth and my heritage. 139

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COUCH POTATO COOKING I GABBY HE I SHORT HILLS, NEW JERSEY, U.S. I @HXIAOLAN_

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ONE FOOT IN FRONT OF THE OTHER I ANDERA NOVAK | LONDON, ON, CANADA

One Foot in Front of the Other The snow crunches under your boots as you walk. Right foot: one. Left foot: two. The snow began falling early in the afternoon, just after the lunch bell drew the students inside in fits of sighs and screams. During recess, you had squished mud underfoot as you shifted from one foot to the other to stay warm instead of making snow angels and throwing snowballs behind the teacher’s back. The sky was dark overhead this morning, so your mom had sent you off in your clonking boots in preparation. Looking down at your feet now, they still retain the dark markings of thick mud, slowly being chipped away by the packing snow. Your jacket is thick and heavy against your shoulders, and your snow pants transform your gait into a waddle. The material of your winter garments is warm, but the wind shrieks as it whips past you, sneaking under the back of your coat or between your mittens to trail up your sweaty skin. Every laboured breath huffs out of your mouth in a weak puff of fog, clouding your vision for a moment as it escapes your gaiter. Usually, the walk up the looping laneway of your home is taken at a run from where the school bus drops you off. But, the snowplows haven’t made much difference on the rural roads. The driver gave you a worried look as you jumped into snow that rose higher than your knees. “I can take you back to the school Hun... I’m sure your parents would prefer you to wait there so you don’t have to walk alone.” All the while her wrinkled eyes looked past you to the dark overhang of the evergreen trees that shadow your laneway even further and the darkened sky gifted by daylight’s savings time. “It’s okay. It’s not that far to walk.” She opens a mouth to talk again, demanding you stay aboard, but you’ve already pulled your mask up to leave nothing but your eyes exposed and set off, trudging up the lane. The bus sits behind you, the blinking light atop its roof signalling at your back until the dot of your body carries you too far away. The cold settles against your jacket as you walk, snow settling in the lower parts of your jacket: your hood, your shoulders, the crooks of your elbows, against your wrists. You hardly notice the cold that sneaks under your winter garments anymore. Around you, the world is silent, the snow muffling the sounds of the animals that usually live in the forest around your home. The only noises populating the earth come from yourself. They offer a steadfast rhyme of footsteps, heartbeat, breathing as you walk that you focus on to keep pace. You count a step with the right foot: one, and a step with the left foot: two; back and forth, you count one two, one two, as you walk.

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You stop, catching your breath, sucking chilled air through the wet fabric around your mouth. It’s hard for you to tell how far you’ve come with the trees all covered in snow and shadows. You squint ahead of you against the snow swirling down from the sky. You turn around and look back the way you’ve come; the only indication it’s back is because of the indents from your footsteps that are already filling as you watch. It’s harder to keep moving forward now that you’ve stopped once. The heat of movement is drawn from your limbs by the cold snow settling over you. You struggle to pull one foot from the quicksand of snow covering your boots and plop it in front of you. Right foot: one. You lean your body forward, leveraging your other leg. Left foot: two. The going is slower now. You breathe in rhythm with your steps, holding your breath until you’ve completed the movement. Ahead of you, through the snow, you think you can see the warm yellows and greens and reds of the Christmas lights against the eavestroughs of your home. But with every blink, the falling snow shifts the apparition away from you.

appear with every slow step towards them that you make. You reach your arms out in front of you so you don’t run into anything, hoping at the same time that you will. You stop counting your steps. Right foot? Left foot? Are you still moving? It’s hard to open your eyes now against the cold, against the wind, against the fear the lights will be gone. Your arms are still held out in front of you. Your gloved hands are numb through the double layers of thermal material. Your fist closes against something? You feel warmth flood through your tired body and lean into it, resting against the feeling. You must be home.

SNOW I ANDREA VALDIVIA I MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA I @NEA.AU I NEAVALDIVIA.COM

You’ve been walking forever.

I want to go home. The thought brings with it a wave of exhausted desperation. You blink back tears that catch like icicles against your eyelashes. You close your eyes as you walk, not wanting to watch the lights dis143

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BLUE HOME I HIJADELACOCA | LIMA, PERÚ | @HIJADELACOCA | HIJADELACOCA.COM

BABA’S HOUSE I STEPHANIE ELLIS I GRAND RAPIDS, US | @STEPHELLISART I ELLISDRAWS.COM

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AMOROUS I SHIRIN SHAHBAZI | TORONTO | @ART.BYSHIRIN

HOMETOWN GROWTH I COURTNEY PARSONS I WASHINGTON DC, US | @COURTNEYPARSONSART

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154 (Tarot Card from the Sapphic Enchantress Tarot)

THE WORLD I AYSHE-MIRA YASHIN I LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM I @ILLUSTRATIONWITCH I AYSHERMIRA.COM

THE EAGLE POSE I AYSHE-MIRA YASHIN

Ayshe-Mira Yashin (she/her) is an 18-year-old lesbian artist from Istanbul and Nicosia, studying art at UAL Camberwell in London. She makes political and spiritual art, exploring themes such as witchcraft and sapphic love and intimacy. She runs a small business where she sells her tarot deck, as well as handmade notebooks, art prints, stickers and more. 155

156 FALLOUT | JENNIFER WILLOUGHBY | WESTMINSTER, COLORADO | WILLOUCREATIVE.COM

Digital 2D Photo Composite

HONEY, I AM HOME | EESHA BATRA | MAHARASHTRA, INDIA | @EESHH_

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BROKEN I ALEKSANDRA LEKIĆ VUJISIĆ I PODGORICA, MONTENEGRO

It feels like waking up in the forest next to a ghost and craving for life and getting lost, and I want to hold the girl that I used to be, tell her that ancient secret for me doesn’t mean more than a sweet lie come on little girl among white flowers, be brave, don’t cry. Broken, like a glass of wine after a fight, broken with all that was mine, without no light, broken like a preacher of forgotten prayers, like a painting with no colors and layers, and never asking the reason why come on little girl in the sunset, be brave, don’t cry. You have left me so many times before but I always tend to ask for more, I never stop and never believe come on little girl near the lake, be brave, just leave.

Aleksandra Lekić Vujisić was born in Podgorica, Montenegro in 1979. She is a professor of English language and literature, and a passionate writer of prose and poetry for children and grownups. She participated in poetry festivals across Europe and her work have won prizes and acknowledgments in Montenegro and worldwide. Aleksandra writes in her native language and English, and her stories and poetry have been published several times and translated into Italian, Spanish and Chinese language. In 2017 she started a literary project in order to promote the importance of reading for children, and starting from May 2021 she is a member of the Association of Montenegrin authors for children. 158

UNTITLED I DINA BAXEVANAKIS I TORONTO, CANADA I @DINADRAWS36 I DINA-BAXEVANAKIS.COM

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FUWA ORB I SIMRAN KAUR I LONDON, ENGLAND I @SIMRAN_K_01 @SIMRAN.CREATIONS.STORE

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FUWA ORB I SIMRAN KAUR I LONDON, ENGLAND I @SIMRAN_K_01 @SIMRAN.CREATIONS.STORE

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KEEPING HOME AND FAMILY I GANESHA JAVAS ARARYA I INDONESIA I @GANESHA27ART

HOME AND HOPE

HOME AND HOPE I GANESHA JAVAS ARARYA

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KEEPING HOME AND FAMILY

TO OUR ARTISTS

THANK YOU

Ahmad Rifqi Ardian Aina Diago AKMAR Aleksandra Lekić Vujisić Alessandra Crupi Alyssa Pisciotto Amelia Bisbardis Amnna Attia Amryn Shae Ana Lasso Ana Loureiro Andera Novak

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Andrea Cardenal Andrea Valdivia Anna Grace Anna Onni aral Ayesha Naeem Ayshe-Mira Yashin B. Elae Banani Das Chowdhury Bea Montero Brian Michael Barbeito Caleb Staples Calum Robertson Cassidy Argo Celeste Alvarez Chloe Chlumecky Christian Schytt Fisker Christina Geoghegan CimplyDan Cody Cupman Courtney Parsons Daniela Oliva Daniele Andronico Danni Wright Denada Studio Dina Baxevanakis Eesha Batra Elizabeth Casasola Elizabeth Veronica Mora Ellie Morfou Emily Callahan Emily Kenney Emma Hitzman Erin Schaefer Eunice Lai Gabby He Gabi Magaly Ganesha Javas Ararya Gerry Niemierowko hijadelacoca nou Infraestudio Ingrid Zijlema Isabel Tallysha-Soares

Jae Xin Jemima Goodson Jemma Harvey Jennifer Willoughby Jessica Swank Jewel Pavao Jocelyn Wong Justin Tuttle Kaci Skiles Laws KAYLEE Kristina Michalski Lacuna Laila Marie Costa Lauren Mask Layan Dajani Lex Owens Lexicon love Lilian Sim Linda M. Crate Lucy Clay Lucy Winnicott Luke Young Maggie Rose Maisie Cu Marcus Brothersby Marija Marina Constantine Marissa Giampietro a Matthew Reynolds Meghan LeVaughn Meraki milicent fambrough Miriam Sokolska Mursal Kharoti Nathalia García Naval Navashree Nandini Newbeam Nina Stoiber umeno - Federica Brizi Noushin Delfani PASTRY PLUG Phoebe Ward

Rayden Lawrence Rebecca McLaren Rhian Bolton Rija Qutaibah Rona Behar Karp Rose Silberman-Gorn Rozali Mascuri Ruiting Wang Samantha Brinkley Sandra PARIS Seigar Sergio De La Torre Shirin Shahbazi Shreya Khobragade Simran Kaur Soleil Sollare Art Prints Sophia Moore Stefan Doru Moscu Stella Guan Stephanie Ellis Stephanie Li Steven Baboun Stuti Pachisia Surabhi Chhikara Susana Belen Susanna Tillander Sydney Cassidy Taylor M. Knight Tegan Iversen Teia Spencer Theodora Miller Theresa Kohlbeck Jakobsen Tiffany Leach Triple O Twiggy Boyer Tyler Young Urmila Menon Urszula Trawniczek Vee CR versesonthoughts vivien solveig Youde

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ISSUE 17: HOME JANUARY 2022