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MiddleGray ISSUE #03
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Middl
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Catalina Piedrahita
Editor in Chief, Visual Arts Editor & Co-Founder
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Alena Kuzub
Photography Editor & MG Staff Photographer
Alvaro Morales
Music Editor & Co-Founder
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Cydney Got
Marketing & P
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© MiddleGray 2014 All Rights Reserved info@middlegraymag.com Cover Art by Diana Urazán Back Cover Art by Diana Urazán
Middle Gray Magazine is a quarterly online pub disciplines including, but not limited to, Visua
This arts journal is part of “The Middle Gray,” an arts ing them space and opportunities to showcase their wo build a place that encourages the social connections community. We are an online-based organization with e
Graphic Design: Catalina Piedrahita
We want to welcome you to our community and we ho to have you as part of The Middle Gray.
Special thanks to all the artists who are being f and followers for your support. Much love, The Middle Gray
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leGray
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ttlieb
PR Director
Alina Collazo
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Letters Editor
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Artem Derkatch Letters Editor
blication featuring emerging artists of various al Arts, Music, Literature and Performance Arts.
s organization that supports emerging artists by givork while being fairly compensated. Our intent is to s and collaborations that nurture a vibrant creative expectations to grow and evolve into a physical space.
ope you enjoy this experience. We are very eager
featured in this issue and to all our friends All contributors to MiddleGray retain the reproduction rights to their own words and images. Reproductions of any kind are prohibited without explicit permission of the magazine and relevant contributor.
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Inside: Lola Gayle 6 A.S. Brahlek 10 Tammy Ruggles 20 Marina Pruna Moré 24 Diana Urazán 30 Bill Schneider 34 Maite Rodriguez 48 Mike Ekunno 54 Tawnee Geller 62
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Uche Ogbuji 66 Otha “Vakseen” Davis III 74 Carolyn Moore 78 La Tomatera 88 •Nathalia Gallego 90 •Iván Salazar 92 •Silvana Pabón 96 •Mauro Rebolledo 98 Nick Kanozik 100
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ola Gayle
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www.lgayle.see.me www.rawartists.org/cussart
Lola Gayle is a vocalist and artist based in Downtown Los Angeles. She was born in Brooklyn, New York to Jamaican parents and moved with her family to Los Angeles at age seven. Lola’s visual work has been displayed in various artist collective shows within the Los Angeles area including this year’s “LACE Auction” in May 2013 and “RAW Artists Los Angeles 2013 Kaleidoscope Show.” Gayle has also been privately commissioned for several homes within both Los Angeles and New York. This artist’s works of art have a dark, tribal, and emotionally-layered quality, which have been described as taking 70’s and 80’s neo-graffiti art to another level.
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Gayle’s work continues on page 34 - 9 -
A. S. Brahlek
A. S. Brahlek has her B.A. in English from Florida Atlantic University and currently teaches at a special-learning needs school in South Florida. She is a visual artist and poet, who has taken much inspiration from the cultural mingling that is so prevalent in South Florida. Her work has been published in Coastlines Literary Magazine and she has had paintings in many galleries across South Florida, including The Armory Art Center.
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Son of Man. Dream a black dome. You ran your hands over razor blades. You laughed as the bowler hat fell over your eyes and you asked— why the apple. The sky turned like the time you pulled the sheet over the window to keep the light out. Your mouth gaped and your hands hung like grapefruits, too heavy
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At a party a boy tells me his tooth is loose. I tell him how parents used to tether teeth to brass. There was rush of air and the door slammed. The pebble went flying. He swats away gnats, as they cling to his sweat. He points to the tooth—a new one has grown in behind. They’re hugging he says. The small one is dead I reply. I show him the gray pushed into my molars and tell him: the tooth fairy has black blood and rubber gums. A bat will move into the cavity after the tooth is yanked; and will tickle his nose. before the tooth is completely out it will dangle like a piñata— violently dumb and bleeding red.
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To Gabrielle d’Estree Snails drag slime over skin as fingers form shadow puppets around your nipple—the brown slug grows hard and squirms between ridges. She searches for milk beneath the lace and vinegar in the wool. You are wood carved into a dove: soaked in cream. Your eyes are fish eyes. You hide gills in your petticoat: you taste like tin. She rubs you and scales fly and cling to velvet curtains. The ring you hold withers and writhes like a slug in salt.
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Gayle’s work starts on page 6
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Gayle began her artistic process by experimenting. For her, this meant expressing herself through another ‘voice’ other than her musical one. As this process continued, she began to see images germinating into her own narrative and journey as a black Trans-Atlantic female via ‘diaspora-tic’ transplantation. “All people within their life’s journey become a narrative of their own, ‘strangely-imperfect’ and ‘beautifully-infected’ individuality. We are many broken pieces, held together by life’s ‘short shelf life adhesives’. - 15 -
We survive through storms and chaos of life that may appear to destroy us but, if we allow them, those elements can push us forward to not only weather the storm, but to shine and become beacons to others within similar places of darkness and the unknown.� -Lola Gayle
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w w w .tammyruggles.deviantart.com/gallery w w w .tammyruggles.contently.com w w w .facebook.com/mss.tammy w w w .youtube.com/misstammyschannel
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Tammy Ruggles “I would like to show the world that the blind and visually impaired can create art; just in a different way. My way is finger painting. I rely on intuition, imagination, and memory to create images in my mind’s eye. When people look at my pictures, I want them to feel something. Viewers are very important to my painting, because it’s through them I get to learn more about my works. I like hearing about what they see, how they interpret the pieces and what they feel or think.” -Tammy Ruggles - 21 -
Tammy Ruggles is a legally blind artist, photographer, and writer living in Kentucky. She enjoys spending time with family and friends, and is also a former social worker.
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Ruggels’ work continues on page 27 - 23 -
Marina Pruna Moré Marina Pruna Moré is originally from Argentine Patagonia, but now has roots in Miami, FL. A recent graduate of Florida International University’s MFA Program, her work has appeared in Flatmancrooked’s Slim Volume of Contemporary Poetics where she was a finalist, Hinchas de Poesia, and The New Poet. She spends her time figuring out how to divide her time between writing, co-editing for Sliver of Stone Magazine, and enjoying the zoo that is her pet-filled home. Her long-time boyfriend, Steve, is patient.
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War Poem All more like blueberries in the white morning when the striated stems don’t yet have to elbow through the cold crowd We talk of dark times of the hollow bowels of memory behind the hammering of sirens but what do we really know If given the entirety of season a chance to grow and even bloat to tear through the bluing skin the sweetest of proposals But the ash in our throats black and white and black purveyors of quiet what we really know Skin of our throats torn through black and blue and hollowed like dark sirens even as the berries grow
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The Race Asking a question just lands me more responsibility, so I sit on my hands, the metal of the chair warming against my knuckles, and I listen while holding my breath and sucking in my cheeks and tongue, and I focus, pick a spot on my boss’ forehead, either along the dried up rivulet that’s formed between her eyebrows or the wispy hairline that’s buried beneath the helmet bangs, and I think about her $1200-a-month BMW lease payment, or that last-minute-only-first-class-left ticket to the London meeting that happens every year at the same time, or the particular fondness for 32-lb stock paper for high resolution forecast charts that don’t survive the day, or our glass cubicles with hourly competition of halogen and sun while the a/c steadies at 63 for the wearability of a Magaschoni cashmere wrap, and I allow my mind to approach the stable doors, hoofs scraping dirt like heating metal, steam piping out the long snout, and I see the sun in the distance like a gold medal, so when the whinny rises pitched and red, I can do nothing but unhook the wooden gate and let the pounding peel away, leave behind the dirty ground of questions: how can I - how fast can I - please you?
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Diana Urazan www.facebook.com/pinkpinkpinkgirls
Diana nació por casualidad en San Diego, California en 1986, cuando su padre se encontraba en un intercambio de profesores. Un año más tarde regresaron a Colombia, donde Diana vive desde entonces. Tras completar estudios de bachillerato en la ciudad de Armenia, Diana se mudó a Bogota para estudiar arte en la Universidad de los Andes. Allí empezó a interesarse con la primera infancia y las filosofías pedagógicas italianas de Reggio Emilia, bajo la cual inicío una formación como Tallerista de Arte. Bajo esta enseñanza, Urazan aprendío los rigores y exigencias de una filosofía que demanda prestar atención y escuchar a los niños, lo que le permitió empaparse y enriquecerse con la estética del universo de la niñez. Diana recibío su titulo en el 2012 como Maestra en Artes Plasticas, y desde el 2011 reside en Cali, donde dirige el taller de arte en inglés en el jardín infantil Taller de Anik. Diana was born by chance in San Diego, CA in 1986, while her father was participating in an academic exchange. A year later they returned to Colombia, where Diana has lived since. After graduating from a high school in the town of Armenia, Diana moved to Bogotá to pursue an art degree from the University of the Andes. There, she became involved with infant pedagogy and the Reggio Emilia educational philosophy, and started working towards becoming an arts educator. Through these studies, Urazán learned the rigor and the requirements of an approach that demands paying close attention and listening to the children, which allowed her to immerse herself in the aesthetics of the universe of childhood. Diana received her BFA in 2012, and since 2011 resides in Cali, where she leads an Arts Workshop in English at a preschool institution. - 30 -
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Urazán’s work continues on page 38 - 33 -
Bill Schneider Bill received his Master of Arts in Creative Writing from Wilkes University in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania and his Bachelor of Science in Journalism degree from Suffolk University in Boston, Massachusetts. He is completing his Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing (Fiction) from Wilkes University. Author/screenwriter and publisher Kaylie Jones has been serving as Bill’s mentor in the Wilkes program.
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Yesterday Once More A solitary crow screeched from the utility pole near the dilapidated house as the postal service truck drove away, stirring up dust. She watched from her porch as the truck headed down the road. “Shut up!” Beatrice screamed at the crow. The bird eyed the bag of garbage near the curb. Beatrice studied the envelope from Berkowitz and Schwartz. The mail carrier told her she must have been coming into money since the letter was registered. Money never came easily to Beatrice. “I have little patience and no job skills,” she had told her brother years ago. He suggested she volunteer at the hospital, but Beatrice hated strangers. Now with her husband retired, the meager proceeds from her parents’ estate were her only source of income, along with John’s monthly social security check. She noticed a golden retriever sneaking along the iron fence separating her property from the sidewalk and parkway. Ice plant, cactus and wildflowers filled her front yard, but the grass on the parkway was a haven for dogs looking to relieve themselves. Eyeing the dog suspiciously, Beatrice wiped perspiration from her forehead. From across the street, a neighbor called to the dog. “Come here, Sunshine,” pleaded the man. “Why isn’t your dog on a leash?” Beatrice demanded as the dog circled her mailbox and squatted. “You’d better get over here and clean up your dog’s mess.” The man hurried across the street. “I’m really sorry. She bolted from my garage and I don’t have a bag.” “Then I’m calling the Sheriff.” Beatrice glared at the man as he retrieved his dog and hurried back across the street, disappearing into his garage. Glancing at the envelope, she opened the screen door and shuffled into her house. Her hands trembled as she reached for the Campbell’s soup can sitting on the center of the kitchen table. “Damn it,” Beatrice said under her breath, rummaging through the can, pushing away pens, pencils, a metal nail file, a pair of scissors and a 12-inch ruler. Her arthritic hands ached as she retrieved her grandmother’s letter opener. The stifling air from the ceiling fan produced little relief as an old clock, secured against the faded white wall with gray duct tape, chimed nine times. Three decades ago, when the house - 35 -
was built, her father had suggested they install air conditioning. Beatrice rejected the idea, claiming they couldn’t afford a higher electric bill. “John!” she hollered. “Come in here. I got a letter from the lawyer.” Beatrice grimaced as she rubbed her elbow before sliding the wooden opener along the back of the envelope. She carefully removed the letter. Her husband, dressed in a white undershirt hanging over his faded jeans, trudged from the back porch into the kitchen. Scratching his beard, John adjusted his spectacles, which slid forward as beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. He glanced at the envelope. “What’s it say?” he asked as dirt fell from his boots. “Are we bone dry?” Beatrice would have screamed at him for tracking dirt onto her freshly scrubbed linoleum floor, but she was preoccupied with the contents of the letter. “Dear Ms. Stone-Wallace,” she read aloud, slowly. “Please be advised this letter serves as notice to terminate the storage facility lease currently negotiated on your behalf by the Stone Family Trust.” Beatrice paused while John removed his spectacles and held them up to the light. After examining them, he took out a white handkerchief, breathed heavily on the lenses, and wiped them clean. “Within 30 days from your receipt of this letter, the Trustee of the Stone Family Trust shall relinquish the storage space. Therefore, within 30 days, please make arrangements to remove all of the contents of the storage facility mentioned above.” Beatrice knew this day was coming. For over a year, her brother had been telling her they could no longer afford the storage unit, which also contained assorted furniture and memorabilia from several of Beatrice’s friends, all of whom had downsized. “This really sucks,” said John, pushing his spectacles firmly against his nose. “Bastards,” Beatrice muttered as she folded the letter and placed it back into the envelope. Glancing down at the floor, she noticed the dirt. “Jesus Christ, John. Couldn’t you at least wipe your feet?” “What are you going to do?” he asked her. Beatrice reached for the bottle of Windex and roll of paper towels she kept on the kitchen counter. “Once again I’m going to clean up your mess.” “What about the storage unit?” She knelt down, grimacing as her right knee cracked. “Move!” she hollered. “Some of that stuff belonged to your folks. This just ain’t right.” - 36 -
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Beatrice took comfort from the relics of her family’s past. Sometimes, while John puttered in his makeshift garage workshop, she would drive 30 miles to the industrial park alongside Interstate 10. Wearing a polyester housedress, Beatrice would sit on a tattered folding chair and browse through the record collection of Broadway musicals, humming old songs as they propelled her back in time. Occasionally, she would even dance. Protecting her from an uncertain future, the memory of yesterday made her smile once more. “No one wants old Christmas ornaments, a 10-year subscription to Sunset magazine, vinyl records and a custom bookcase,” she said, spraying Windex and wiping dirt from the floor. “What does your brother want to do?” John asked. “He could care less. After Mother died, he wanted to sell everything. Told me about something called eBay. I told him we don’t even have a computer.” “Why doesn’t he sell it?” Beatrice shook her head. “I can’t let him sell it. These are my family heirlooms.” “If you ask me, it’s a bunch of junk.” Grabbing the back of the chair, she hoisted herself up. “Nobody asked you.” Throughout the morning, Beatrice reread the letter several times, looking for a loophole. After lunch, while John retreated to his workshop in the garage, she read the letter one more time. “Time to call in the troops,” she muttered, shuffling from the kitchen table to the old yellow telephone affixed to the end of her kitchen wall. She picked up the handset, untangled the 25-foot cord and dialed the number of her closest ally, Alicia, who lived 20 miles away. “How can I help?” asked the 65-year-old retired school cafeteria worker after Beatrice read the letter to her. She let out a deep sigh and admitted she didn’t know what to do. “Part of me says it’s foolish to hold on to all of these things. But Alicia, you and I both know if I don’t keep them, who will? And what will happen to them?” “Well, Bea, they will find another home, somewhere else, and continue to be treasures. Just under someone else’s roof.” Beatrice swallowed, holding on firmly to the yellow tile of her kitchen counter. She sighed heavily into the telephone handset. “I just don’t know.” “What does John think?” Beatrice clenched the counter, her knuckles turning white. “You know he has the emotional maturity of a 12-year-old. Remember what happened after his parents died? He told his sister to burn everything.” “That’s right. He should have been a fire fighter. He has a spark of pyromania in his blood.” - 37 -
Schneider’’s work continues on page 40
Urazån’s work starts on page 30
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Urazán’s work continues on page 43 - 39 -
Schneider’s work starts on page 34
“His solution to everything is simply throw it into an incinerator. John’s motto is as basic as life and death: ashes to ashes.” “Which reminds me, Bea, where are the urns with your parents’ remains?” “My numbskull brother has them,” Beatrice said. “Claims they need to be kept in a place of dignity.” “What on earth does that mean?” “I don’t have a clue. Apparently he wants control over their final resting place.” “Where does Daniel have them?” “In his bookcase. Between Hemingway and Shakespeare.” “At least they’re surrounded by notable authors.” “It’s hardly where they belong.” “Where should they be?” Alicia asked. “Scattered at sea. That’s what they both wanted.” “And why hasn’t he done that?” “Daniel told me he likes having them close by. It helps him maintain a connection with them.” “Well, if it helps him feel close to them, maybe it’s a good thing he’s got their urns.” “Alicia, all my brother cares about is his damn career. Without it, he would be lost. And like most men, he focuses only on himself. He has not lifted a finger to help me sort through this mess except to say I should sell it all on eBay. That’s why I need your help.” “We have no room. In fact, I feel guilty that you’ve been housing my mother’s china cabinet for the past couple of years. I should have sold it after Mom passed away. Perhaps your brother’s right. We need to let go of the past. I can help you list things on eBay if you want.” “No. These treasures are what keep me going. My father loved listening to those waltzes. There are at least a dozen albums he used to listen to. I can’t let go of my father.” “Maybe we need to go through everything and decide what you must keep and what you can let go of. Then I can help you find a good mover.” “I have photo albums, my baby book, and ashes from all of my pets. You realize this is not just a storage locker. It’s my ground floor attic.” “Bea, you have no choice. You are going to have to decide what you must keep and let go of the rest.” For once, Beatrice was speechless. Four weeks after she received the registered letter from the lawyer at Berkowitz and Schwartz, she arrived at the storage facility for one last visit. The sun scorched the pavement, producing a gritty steam that rose above the parking lot. Smog hung mid-way across the nearby mountain range, creating a cosmic-looking cloud. On days like these, television news re- 40 -
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porters suggested the elderly and physically impaired stay indoors, avoid exercise, and drink plenty of water. Beatrice struggled out of the old Ford Taurus, slammed the door and stood on the asphalt, which felt like a big jelly donut underneath her worn-out Birkenstocks. She adjusted the clip-on sunglasses affixed to her horn-rimmed bifocals and took a deep breath before limping toward the entrance of the storage locker, grimacing with each step. “God, is it hot,” she said. The yellow and green checkerboard polyester sundress clung to her frame, revealing perspiration stains that drenched her rotund figure. She resembled a well-used dartboard. Beatrice reached for the weathered brown leather handbag, dangling against her good hip, adjusting the sturdy black shoulder strap that her husband had fashioned in his workshop to allow her easier access. Her arthritic hands fumbled for the set of keys that faintly chimed, breaking the silence surrounding the three-story concrete structure. The silver ring held a dozen keys, each marked with a different colored label. Beatrice singled out the key with a deteriorating red sticker and stuck it into the rusting padlock. The key and lock united like long lost friends, refusing to let go. “Don’t start with me,” she said as sweat eased down her forehead, dripping along her nose. “I’m in no mood,” she uttered, wiping her forehead before forcing the key and lock to disengage. Removing the lock, she used all of her strength to push open the hanging door. A small mouse scurried past her. “Freeloader!” she screamed. Catching her breath, Beatrice gazed across the enormous storage space that John referred to as her asphalt cemetery. Everything appeared just as it had when she last visited a month ago. Vinyl record albums were neatly stored in rows of old milk crates, filed alphabetically by artist name or album title. Beatrice noticed the door of an oak cabinet was slightly ajar. Tucked inside was her collection of dolls that allowed her to escape life as a young girl and retreat into the world of make believe. She sauntered over to the cabinet and peered inside. An old rag doll with a plastic face smiled at her. Dressed in a checkerboard dress, they could have been sisters. Beatrice reached for the doll and wound the turnkey on its back. Reeking of mothballs, the doll moved its arms and spoke in a robotic, muted voice. “I love you!” Beatrice was transfixed. There was no more time. No last minute reprieve. The storage unit had to be vacated by five o’clock. The middle-aged woman who managed the facility walked - 41 -
along the sticky pavement and peered into the storage locker. “Good morning, Beatrice.” “It’s hot, muggy and not a good day for moving,” said Beatrice as she returned the doll to the cabinet and latched the door. “What’s good about that?” “They say it’s going to top one hundred. Just be glad you don’t work for a moving company. I couldn’t even so much as lift a finger on a day like today.” Beatrice picked up “The Best of Abba” and began to fan herself with the album cover. “Anita, today is rather sad.” “Why?” “So much has changed,” said Beatrice. “I don’t even have a phonograph player that works. The one I got when I graduated from high school broke and no one can fix it, not even John. He claims he can fix anything. Anything but my record player. Says they don’t make the parts anymore.” “Why don’t you just buy CDs?” “Do you have the money to replace all of these albums?” Anita shook her head. “Neither do I. And I don’t know how this stuff is going to fit in my house.” Anita nodded. “Why now?” “We’ve run out of money.” Beatrice picked up another album, “Yesterday Once More.” She smiled. “Anita, do you remember the Carpenters?” “Of course I do. What a voice that poor girl had. Died so young. What a terrible shame.” “What’s a shame,” said Beatrice, wiping her forehead, “is that I’m the custodian of my family’s past, yet I’m forced to find another place to house it.” “Can’t you tell your brother you need another month?” Beatrice fanned herself as the moving van arrived, swirling dust around the storage locker. “He said housing memories doesn’t come free.” A young man opened the door of the van and slipped down from the cab, jumping onto the asphalt. His pulled-down jeans revealed boxer shorts and a tattoo bearing a woman’s name. Beatrice noticed his tanned six-pack abdomen. She shook her head. “What’s shaking, Grandma?” he asked, pulling up his jeans. “Time to get funky! Ready to move and groove?” She responded with an icy and indignant glare. END
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Urazán’s work starts on page 30
Una Vida E ‘Una vida ejemplar’ nace un día en una sala de espera, donde Diana hojeaba un ejemplar de la revista colombiana de farándula Jet Set. Mientras leía un articulo sobre Andrea de Monaco y su matrimonio, Diana se preguntó cómo sería su vida si ella fuera Carlota de Mónaco. Estando como muchos en la búsqueda de una vida perfecta, la artista proyectó cómo sería su vida si ella fuese princesa en un mundo de perfecta ficción. De esta idea se desarrolló un proyecto simbolista que retrata las dudas y conflictos sobre sus propias exigencias y nociones de lo que es ser “ejemplar”. Diana Urazan reconoce su apego por su humanidad, imperfección y los dulces placeres que hay en el error, y los resalta en estas obras.
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Ejemplar ‘An exemplary life’ was born in a waiting room, where Diana picked up a copy of Colombian magazine Jet Set (which specializes in celebrity news). As she read an article about Andrea Casiraghi of Monaco and his wedding, Diana wondered what her life would be like if she were Charlotte of Monaco. In the search for a perfect life, the artist imagined her life as an idealized princess in a world of perfect fiction. From this thought grew a project that portrays the doubts and conflicts surrounding her idea of what it means to be “exemplary”. In her work, Diana Urazán recognizes and highlights her fondness for her own humanity, for imperfection, and for the sweet pleasure of mistakes.
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Maite Rodr www.maiterodriguez.es www.maiterodriguez.es/noticias www.facebook.com/MaiteR17
Maite Rodriguez is a Spanish born artist living and working in Salamanca, Spain. Maite’s passion for art arose at an early age when she conveyed outstanding creativity by participating in local art contests and attending Fine Arts school. She studied fine arts at the School of St. Eloy de Salamanca, under the supervision of Zacarias Gonzalez. At just 10 years old she won her first prize in a drawing competition, working with charcoal and chalk. Later on she started painting with oils and acrylics as well. After a less productive period she resumed her studies focusing on the work of Antonio Pedrero, Carmen Mayor and Ricardo Flecha, from whose styles she drew to create her own. She developed her realistic approach into a more modern impressionistic technique by taking inspiration from the world around her, often using nature to add originality to her contemporary artwork.
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riguez
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Rodriguez’s work continues on page 58 - 53 -
Mike Ekunno Mike works in film classification in Abuja, Nigeria and freelances as book editor and proofreader. He has presented on national television and worked in radio as special assistant to the chief executive of Africa’s largest network, Radio Nigeria. He wrote for The Guardian on Sundays before working as senior speechwriter to Nigeria’s last Minister of Information and Communications. His fiction, essays and poem have appeared in The African Roar Anthology, 2013, BRICKrhetoric, Ascent Aspirations Magazine, Sentinel Literary Quarterly, The Muse, Bullet Pen and Storymoja - the last two coming with wins in continent-wide contests. Mike loves to read Old Testament stories.
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ME AND MY PSEUDONYMS I have had occasions in the past and present to dissemble. I hide Mike Ekunno and go for something more or less cryptic depending on what I assess to be the risks. In situations where there is likelihood of a future reward like the recent literary contest I entered, I take a pseudonym that is closer to the real thing. You never can tell when a prize would come calling and you’d need to prove your identity. Not that it’d be a difficult thing, all things being equal. There’s after all, the email address, phone number and bio details that can be matched. But all things are not equal in my society. The anti-corruption agency once laid hold on some laundered funds and dared its genuine owner to come forth and take the rap. A slew of claimants answered the call. The dollar amount was much. So in such circumstances where a potential benefit is in view, I choose something close to “the name my papa gave me.” It was Chukx Michaels in one such recent contest with pecuniary benefits for the winner. Chukx comes from my Igbo middle name which is hardly in the public domain. As for Michaels, its Hebrew etymology is almost a give-away that the bearer couldn’t be for real as surnames go in my society. But it is a better risk because the society boasts a tiny demographic that bear English/Hebrew surnames led by no less a figure than Mr President himself, Goodluck Jonathan. Above all, the name maintains fidelity with the adage of my people that a lie is better told in English (read foreign language). How I came about submitting with a pseudonym in that contest is another story. A contentious issue had arisen in the Yahoo group of literary minds where I hold membership. I dived into the fray and aired my views carpeting some other viewpoints and, by extension, egos. Not long after this comes the contest in which some of my victims wield judicial influence and I couldn’t resist applying. I had to play it safe with a pseudonym just in case somebody wants to be vindictive. I’m not as foolhardy as I’m outspoken. There are times I have come up with pseudonyms that are simply unrelated to my name. One such occasion was when I had to comment on a disgraceful conduct by some high public office holder. As a public servant, the rules bar me from critical - 55 -
media interventions. But the pull of polemics did not prove resistible. Not when aberrant conducts suffuse the public space on a daily basis. So I penned a shooting-from-the-hips piece to the newspapers under a pseudonym unrelated to the real name. I’ve not got another job, you know. It was when the piece appeared in the dailies that a round of regret overtook me. Reading one of the outings and seeing the huge support on the comments thread, I rued not being able to blow my cover. The opinions I canvassed in the piece were nothing to be ashamed of. Neither were they libellous (if not the editors wouldn’t have dared). But here was I, the “author and finisher” of those germane viewpoints not able to bask in the glory of their potential to advance the cause of humanity in one little area. Vanity? Maybe. We who trade in ideas and words find ourselves holding on to our creations as the capitalist entrepreneur would his bank account. In a way, our ideas and the peculiar ways we put them together represent our capital in a world of other capitals of a more gross material hue. To watch such vital accumulation being credited to a phantom figure must be akin to a woman having to give up her adorable baby for adoption and worse, knowing that the adoptive parents are non-existent. Using a pseudonym is a form of anonymity. But not all forms of anonymity oppress my sense of identity. As speechwriter to a cabinet minister, I have sat in on engagements where my boss’s speech elicited ovation. At none of such times did I feel any tinge of possessiveness or jealousy at not being the one on the podium. You could say I was duty-bound to craft those speeches or that I couldn’t be minister, anyway (don’t bet on it) . Whatever, but I never begrudged my boss the glory from any of my applauded lines. This also happens with ghost writing. We can argue that the fees have effectively extinguished the ghost writer’s claim to any emotional affinity with his creation. Or has it? Legal rights can be bought off but emotional ties with spores are not necessarily extinguished thereby. Ask the Michael Jackson estate, if you doubt. Parsing on matters of identity recently got me thinking of this pull to hide as well as be known at the same time. What could inform this ambivalence among writers who blow their covers yet keep the pen names? Could they be suffering from the same tension I suffered over my loss of proprietary rights on quality that is lost to anonymity? What motivates an artiste to be anonymous or take a pen name can be varied. Circumventing conflict of interest (or, at least, not letting the public know) is one. Being free to bring candour to freedom of expression is another. However, these excuses have to battle the pull for credits for writers and artistes who have done exceptional work. And this is where a different form of conflict of interest takes over – between the real identity and the faux. When the false identity begins to garner accolades which do not redound to the true owner, can pseudonyms be sustained? - 56 -
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It was not this pull that caused the unmasking of JK Rowling, the Harry Potter author who became Robert Galbraith in her second novel, The Cuckoo’s Calling. Rowling’s cover was blown via investigative journalism by Britain’s Sunday Times. Her motivation for the cover up was “to publish without hype or expectation and .... get feedback under a different name.” That feedback had been largely positive before Rowling’s true identity was revealed and the book’s sales on Amazon went bullish. Which raises the question of what would have happened if it had been otherwise. The glee with which Rowling took her outing would be different if The Cuckoo’s Calling had been a failure whose association with the Rowling brand would bring erosion of brand capital. Only few artistes whose false identities have done well in the market place have been able to resist the pull to out. They deserve canonisation for resisting the vainglorious urge for recognition. Rene Brabazon Raymond (1906-1985) remained James Hardly Chase to all in my generation for whom he and his crime fiction novels achieved cult followership. In Nigeria, one Afro jazz recording artiste maintains both the anonymity of the person and the name. Lagbaja, his brand is eponymous for his masked identity. Only his male gender seeps out of this anonymity. I am in vicarious distress for his achieving so much fame and not being able to even be waved on in traffic on that account. Newspapers make a show of having columnists writing under pen names but whose identities are known either within a select, in-house group or among the readers. Those are the instances of pretend anonymities that baffle and sicken. Eating one’s cake and having it only exists in fiction and ostrich hiding is used in the pejorative sense. On the comments thread of online platforms, I have never felt the urge to hide my identity. That is not to say that while disclosing who I am, I do not still remain anonymous. Without the surname, anyone of a million Mikes could have been the one commenting. This partial disclosure is a halfway house that enables me maintain some integrity in nomenclature without fully unveiling the cloak of anonymity. Online discussions in fractious societies can be, and often do get, bigoted and highly vituperative. Comments are profiled using the names behind them to know who is Christian, Muslim, or their ethnic affiliations. While I scroll down the trolling for academic reasons, I try mostly not to join, not even with a pseudonym.
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Rodriguez’s work starts on page 48
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Maite Rodriguez’s love of art has grown allowing her to become an inspirational and talented artist who explores several media. Her artwork collection focuses on the use of oil paint, acrylic, and collage, using experimental techniques. In recent years, she has specialized in large format canvases, exquisite ladies in waiting, landscapes and European cities, but her oil paintings are the ones that excel. They integrate realism, abstraction, expressionism, and modernism in a contemporary approach which is what has forged Rodriguez’s unique style. Her artwork gives a fresh and vibrant interpretation of its subjects, and it is often referred to as a unique combination of classical and contemporary painting.
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Tawnee Geller www.etsy.com/shop/tawneegellerartwork www.society6.com/tawneegellerartwork
Tawnee is a self-taught artist who resides in Northern Minnesota. Geller is an avid painter, gardener, yogi and cat-lover, and she has been painting since she could hold a paintbrush. In 1999, one of her paintings was submitted into an art contest by her art teacher at the time, Carol Jacobson, landing her on the front page of the newspaper. She won an all-expenses paid trip for her family, art teacher and herself to Washington, DC where she worked on a large mural with 50 other children from around the world. After finishing high school, Geller went on to graduate from Cosmetology school in 2009. She started taking art seriously in 2011, when she was asked to do a commission piece. The experience gave her the confidence to take the plunge into making art. Geller is constantly trying out different styles of painting and various media to continually reinvent herself. She draws inspiration from books on fractals and space, 60’s & 70’s music, band posters and album art, such as that of Pink Floyd, Cream and Grateful Dead. she likes to think of her paintings as “one large acid trip,” which she evokes with rich, wild colors, hidden pictures, and images that play tricks on the viewer’s mind. - 62 -
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Geller’s work continues on page 68
Uche Ogbuji Uche Ogbuji (@uogbuji) was born in Calabar, Nigeria. He lived, among other places, in Egypt and England before settling near Boulder, Colorado. Uche is a computer engineer and entrepreneur whose abiding passion is poetry. His poems, fusing native Igbo culture, European Classicism, U.S. Mountain West settings, and Hip-Hop influences, have appeared widely, most recently in IthacaLit, String Poet, The Raintown Review, Angle Poetry Journal, Featherlit, Outside In Journal, Don’t Just Sit There, Qarrtsiluni, and Leveler. He is editor at Kin Poetry Journal andThe Nervous breakdown, founder and curator at the @ColoradoPoetry Twitter project.
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Rainbow Children White Light, Naked, Incident On my planed, solid, Translucent surfaces fan out Into coral prominence of nature’s favored hues. Stout Glass, Cultured And opened To the scattered beams Of sky-trained illumination Turns out watercolored gems on a genetic lathe.
Sojourn Having learned a life of steady transience, An even wavelength over Earth’s taut crust, I mark what I desire by my absence, Having learned a life of steady transience. What I ache for swings our dance against its pull, Works a centripetal tide on my humors So I’m moving fastest at resultant null, Swing-flung against my object’s very pull. Strangely, I open most at the wave’s trough and crest, At the still point, yet moving towards, yet away, My triune reaction to sweetly behest, I flower strangely at the wave’s trough and crest. Do I pair-dance best with my arms outstretched? Am I most productive working au séjours? So crush me at the closest as I kedge! A contact that won’t fade, arms outstretched.
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Geller’s work starts on page 62
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Otha "Vakse www.vakseen.com
While music has played the driving force in his business career, Otha “Vakseen” Davis III’s passion for the arts has served as his key to sanity in the fast paced entertainment industry. Drawing inspiration from women, emotions, music and the African American experience, his mixed media acrylic, oil and water color paintings on canvas have been sold to collectors and art enthusiasts throughout Los Angeles and the Southeast region of the U.S.
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een" Davis III
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While he’s only been on the art scene since January 2012, Otha has had a month and a half solo exhibition at the Emerging Art Scene Gallery in Atlanta; and showcased his art at Los Angeles’ Norbertellen Gallery, Noho Art Gallery, Stay Gallery, Larrabee Studios, Aquarium of the Pacific, ATX by Kitchen12000, The Key Club, Media Temple Studios and M. Bird Salon, to name a few. His work has also been featured in over 20 literary art magazines.
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Davis’ work continues on page 82 - 77 -
Carolyn Moore Carolyn Moore’s four chapbooks won their respective competitions, as has her book-length poetry collection, What Euclid’s Third Axiom Neglects To Mention about Circles, published in 2013 as winner of the White Pine Poetry Press Prize. Moore taught at Humboldt State University (Arcata, CA) until able to eke out a living as a freelance writer and researcher, working from the last vestige of the family farm in Tigard, Oregon.
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The Cult of Celebrity Joining could not be easier. Flick on the remote at six o’clock and get the News to sponsor you. Wait out reports of war, famine, and pesky pestilence. Jack up the volume for the buzz from Hollywood. Morning people may prefer to search for the newspaper when a careless toss misses the drive and wet grass makes the tears of the pop star leaving court seem damper still. Or if you judge yourself cerebral, read unauthorized biographies of writers. Skip their actual work, but track their grave dates: April is the cruelest month for deaths of famous writers: Shakespeare, Twain, Cervantes. Pencil in Wordsworth, Byron, Ginsberg, Crane, if those seem useful. Women scribblers tend to skirt this month for dying. Charlotte Brönte missed it by one night and sister Anne coughed into May, the month Death kindly stopped for Dickinson. Share such obits with friends in awe of literati-celebrity. If myth or leaning Cambellesque is more your style, then pick a pet motif or choose from among the ancient godlings. Skewer one on your swizzle stick for cocktail hour chat. Mars: currently passé—but goddesses once kicked around by Christ’s earliest church are back in favor. Membership benefits? Celebrity’s the afterlife for fans who’ve lost their former faiths—and aren’t we fans whether of Marilyn Monroe or Marx? Einstein or Elvis? It’s up to us to give our dear and famous dead their lilied Easter. Film, that easy resurrection, holds the power to bring-‘em-back-alive. Once more we see Hendrix, Joplin, Marley. And Peter Tosh again croons “Keep on a-walkin’—don’t [cont., look back” on SNL with Jagger (Mick—
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no stanza break]
[“The Cult of Celebrity,” cont., no stanza break]
Sir Mick—yet breathes, of course). If fave-celebs live on and on, then why not you and I? A former Pope made Guinness with record stats for Blesseds ramrodded down cannon mouths and shot toward Saint Celebrity’s far star. Saint Theresa passed Uranus last Wednesday and nears poor Pluto, his celeb and planet status lately stripped. Ancient Egyptians preserved organs vital for their afterlife. Jars containing hearts, livers, kidneys, lungs and guts have long outlasted missing minds tossed out as offal.
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Disney Brainstorming Session on Ride Concept #5738 Coffee and legal pads all set? Okay, picture this: at the gate an eight-foot Sherpa musician toots and plinks in celluloid locomotion. Beyond a giant chrysanthemum, a few old favorites: Tinkerbell, mermaids, a flummadiddle choir— all dressed in rubber sea boots. Fantasy wearies? We fall back on nature: pipe in a doomed rhino’s grunts or that lush thud a goshawk makes, slamming blind into a tree. Let’s not forget Axiom 12: early on, goose the ticket-holder, but end with comfort and connection. Those bachelor seals mooning for mates— who has not lived the Jungle Cruise? Axiom 35: when all else fails, a hologram. Let ultraviolet electrons scramble and conspire. Let manganese align with lesser ores to sieve feeling to fine particles, safe as crumbs from toast. O brave new ride! Goliath himself could do no better—not even back before his luck and celebrity ran out and whathisname sent in that little guy to pull the plug.
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Davis’ work starts on page 74
“As a creative mind, the arts have played a major role in my life from a young age. I grew up overweight, so I wasn’t always the most confident. I never really had a voice until I grew older. Sometimes you can’t find the words to express your innermost thoughts and feelings and art always served as that emotional release for me. Art and creativity tend to play the role of my therapist and help me maintain sanity in this crazy world. The paintbrush is my weapon of choice these days as I create mixed media paintings using acrylics or oil with water color. It’s never been my intention, but red, black and white always seem to be a common denominator in my pieces. I didn’t even realize this until a friend brought it to my attention. I’ve always loved the dramatic contrast and power that black and white images create. At the same time, red is so sensitive. Red is intense and one of those colors that automatically demands your attention. The combination of these three elements allow me to create so much depth and emotion so I guess I’m just naturally drawn to them. I’m invigorated by relationships, feelings and emotions.
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I’ve always felt they were God’s greatest creation, so my work tends to evolve around women and their natural allure. Women are very emotional beings so naturally they allow me to channel various energies through my work. I guess for a man I’ve always been rather in tune with my feelings and emotions, so I want to suck you into my world, even if it’s just for a brief moment. I want my work to captivate the viewer’s senses.” - Otha “Vakseen” Davis - 84 -
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www.facebook.com/latomateragaleria
Artistas Exponiendo en La Tomatera Actualmente/ Artists Currently Exhibiting at La Tomatera: Nathalia Gallego Iv谩n Salazar Silvana Pab贸n Mauro Rebolledo
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Después de 5 meses de trabajo en el diseño, exploración, experimentación y montaje, La Tomatera Galería Café abrió al publico el pasado 28 de noviembre en el bario san Antonio de la ciudad de Cali, Colombia. Nos complace anunciar que, a partir de esta edición, Middle Gray Magazine incluirá una selección del arte actualmente en exhibición en La Tomatera. La Tomatera Galería Café, es un espacio pensado y diseñado para los amantes de la ilustración, la fotografía, el diseño, el arte y la buena cocina. El objetivo es ofrecer un lugar para la exposición y promoción de artistas locales, brindándole al publico obras que se ajusten a diferentes presupuestos -- bajo un modelo rentable para los artistas -- así como una oferta gastronómica variada, con el fin de ofrecer experiencias diferentes en la ciudad. “En La Tomatera estamos comprometidos con la diversidad y creación constante de nuevas opciones para nuestro público. Para esto siempre estamos en búsqueda de nuevos artistas, fotógrafos y sabores.” explica el fundador Iván Salazar. The Middle Gray y La Tomatera seguirán trabajando juntos buscando formas de beneficiar y acercar a nuestras respectivas comunidades. After 5 months of design, exploration, experimentation and set-up, La Tomatera Gallery Café opened its doors on November 28 of last year, in the historic neighborhood of San Antonio, in Cali, Colombia. We’re pleased to announce that, starting with our current issue, Middle Gray Magazine will include a selection of the artwork currently being shown at La Tomatera. La Tomatera is a space designed for enthusiasts of illustration, photography, design, art and good food. They have built a place dedicated to showcasing and promoting local artists, providing their audience with artwork for every budget in a model that’s profitable for the artists. This, in addition to a diverse food offering, aims to offer a new experience to their community. “At La Tomatera we’re commited to diversity and to bringing new options to our public. We’re always in search of new artists and new flavors.” explains founder Iván Salazar. The Middle Gray and La Tomatera will continue to work together, seeking new ways to benefit our respective communities and to bring them closer together. - 89 -
Nathal www.facebook.com/pages/GLeo/104661309576440?fref=ts
La artista urbana Nathalia Gallego Gráfico y Licenciatura en Artes Valle de la ciudad de Cali. Natha mentación con diferentes técnicas su técnica en los papeles de su cas de Cali desde los 15. Las líneas d ca poco usual a través de la cua
Genealogia Genealogy En la serie “Genealogía”, Nathalia representa la ascendencia y descendencia de su árbol genealógico a través de 3 mascaras, las cuales son creadas con un trazo intuitivo pero consciente.
In the series “Genealogia trays the heritage and the su through three masks, in a
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alia Gallego
o Sánchez es estudiante de Diseño Visuales en la Universidad del alia es muy apegada a la experis y materiales, y ha desarrollado sa desde los 3 años y en los muros de sus obras manejan una temátial relata sus historias personales.
Urban artist Nathalia Gallego is a student of Graphic Design and Visual Arts at the Universidad del Valle in Cali, Colombia. She’s fond of experimenting with diverse techniques and materials, and her development as an artist has taken her from illustration to street art. The lines of her work reveal unusual themes through which she shares her story.
a” (Genealogy), Nathalia poruccession of her own family tree style that’s intuitive but resolute.
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Iván S
www.facebook.com/ www.fotografiapr
Iván Salazar es un fotógrafo y diseñador industrial de Cali, Colombia. Un amante de las técnicas tradicionales análogas de fotografía, siempre busca observar la luz y la manera en que ésta esculpa el paisaje frente a él. Estudió fotografía en LaSalle College y diseño industrial en la Pontificia Universidad Javeriana, ambas ubicadas en Bogotá, Colombia.
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Salazar
/ivansalazarmicolta rofesional.com.co
Ivan Salazar is a photographer and industrial designer from Cali, Colombia. He’s drawn to traditional techniques of analog photography, and is constantly looking at the way light shapes the landscapes before his eyes. He studied photography at LaSalle College, and industrial design at the Universidad Javeriana, both in Bogota.
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En los últimos años, Iván ha estado trabajando en encontrar imágenes que llaman su atención de una forma intuitiva, basándose en la manera en que la luz recae sobre las escenas a capturar, en sus colores y en sus formas. Iván imagina todo como si tuviese la cámara adherida su ojo y en ocasiones se lamenta no poder llevarla con el a todas partes.
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In recent years, Ivan Salazar has worked with images that draw his in an intuitive manner, based on a visceral reaction to lighting, shape or. IvĂĄn seeks to look at everything as though his eye were the lens of era, and often laments not being able to have his camera with him at
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attention and colhis camall times.
Silvana Pab贸n www.silvanapabon.com + www.flickr.com/photos/silvanapabon
Objetos Imposibles
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Silvan creand del co ta enc transf lo l贸g cepto mor, l
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na Pabón revive la esencia de objetos abandonados, do una nueva percepción a partir del dinamismo olor. En la colección “Objetos Imposibles” la artiscuentra inspiración en ciertos objetos cotidianos y forma su función esencial desafiando los límites de gico para crear una percepción irracional. Su conartístico es caracterizado por el absurdo, el hulas vibraciones del color y la fuerza del movimiento.
Silvana Pabón revives the essence of abandoned objects, transforming the way they’re perceived through her dynamic use of color. In her series “Objetos Imposibles” (Impossible Objects) the artist finds inspiration in mundane objects and transforms their essential function, stretching the limits of the logical in order to create irrational perceptions. Her work is grounded on the absurd, humor, the vibrations of color and the force of movement.
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Mauro Rebolledo www.DecorarConFotos.com.co
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Nick Kanozik www.nickkanozik.com
Nick Kanozik is a composer, multi-instrumentalist, visual artist, and book artist. Born in Munich, Germany, he has lived in Arizona, Texas, Minnesota, Kentucky and now California. He holds an MA in Music Composition from Mills College and a BM in Composition from the University of North Texas. He has performed in a variety of ensembles from symphony orchestras, Indonesian gamelans, marching bands, classical and new music chamber groups, jazz combos to electronic/dance collaborations. Additionally, he has performed in theatrical, improvisatory, and intermedia contexts for luminary artists such as David Bithell, Ikue Mori, and Pauline Oliveros. His compositions have been performed by the Eclipse string quartet, the UNT chamber orchestra, the Mills Contemporary Performance Ensemble, and Roscoe Mitchell’s Improvisation Workshop.
He currently teaches piano, voice, and clarinet at two music studios in the San Francisco Bay Area, in addition to conducting workshops and guest lectures as a volunteer staff member in the Book Art Department at Mills College. In 2009, Kanozik took an interest in book art. The medium enabled him to both organize and present his uniquely visual composition process in an artistic way. Although many of his works present sonic environments in tandem with these visual processes, Mr. Kanozik is also interested in conceiving intermedia works whose components can stand in and of themselves. This pursuit has led him to create Three dimensional scores, theatrical works in which objects are used to conduct instrumentalists, and the workshop series “The Sonically Minded Book”. - 100 -
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Sonically Minded Books
“A sonically minded book is a book made with intent to communicate sound through an aspect of the content (text / image) or an aspect of the production (materials used). We must break the conception that books are silence. We flick pages, we rub corners, we tap spines, we caress covers, we fold, we rip...each action, a sound. By promoting discussion that traverses music and book art we develop tangible venues, instruments with pages, artifactual modulations, etc. Let us create books that strengthen content through integration of sight, sound, and touch. We must break the conception that music is intangible or invisible. We feel the vibration, the pulse, and meter. So too touch is integral to any musical instrument. To those that see landscapes of objects, shapes, colors, or lines it is time to create your lexicon. Contribute to the creation and cultivation of a genre. Concern yourself with a book which: I. activates an internal sound when manipulated. II. activates an external sound when manipulated. III. can be performed as an instrument. IV. implies sound through sonic metaphor, text, image, or symbols. V. is read like a score in three dimensions. VI. always makes sound. Let us not compete with technological advancements and instead utilize them in artist books as a means to augment the vocabulary of sonic, visual, and tactile cues. Partner with the similarities and, most importantly, emphasize the differences. Be assured, there is no end in sight for the sentimental, the nuance, the feel. Let us make circuits with spines, amplified folios, sonic book sculptures, synthesizer books, three-dimensional scores.” - 101 -
Synthesizer Books Collaboration: The Phlegmatic (2012)
4.5”x2.4”x2.2” Synthesizer Book | Mixed Media Circuitry built by Nick Wang The circuit uses two oscillators that produce audio frequencies and a single transistor voltage controlled amplifier (which controls volume). The two oscillators are built using 555 timer integrated circuits with photo-resistors added that give an element of light sensitivity to the pitch of the sound. There’s also a low-pass filter that uses a photo-resistor so that the light alters the color of the sound as well.
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Covenants Not to Compete Volumes I, II, and III (2013)
Synthesizer Books | Mixed Media Nick Kanozik and Taurin Barrera Three volumes were sculpted into interactive music chimes, contact microphones, as well dia artist Taurin Barerra. This work elicits forms in a way similar to the text’s function
art objects by embedding prepared as synthesizers built by multimea pact with visual and sonic artin law: a covenant not to compete.
Volume I: Light For this circuit, two photoresistors and a C74C14 chip turn light into sound. Very subtle gestures and movements that cast shadows upon the photoresistors can produce wavering and harmonic oscillations. When this circuit detects bright sunlight it’s pitches are incredibly high - beyond the range of human hearing. When shadows are cast upon this circuit, its tones enter the realm of human hearing and turn movement and light into twinkling sequences of analog enlightenment.
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Volume II: Pulse Built with a CD4093 chip, this circuit drives two oscillators that may be controlled in terms of pitch, tempo, and volume. This synthesizer can generate a full spectrum of flanging drones, phasing polyrhythms, and rhythmic pulses. Meant to be played and performed with, this synthesizer is intended for use in the exploration of the otherworldly sonic realms. Touch, twist, and modulate the invisible waves that surround you.
Volume III: Touch Based upon two LM386N chips, this circuit generates beautiful oscillating white noise that responds to atmospheric electromagnetic waves. This circuit is the unique result of experiments with white noise, feedback, and skin capacitance. When touched, conductive pads diffuse electricity through the skin to create a palette of “fierce� sounds. Applying full pressure to both pads shorts the circuit. However, by applying very delicate pressure, this circuit produces harmonic sirens, fierce bobcat tones, and polyrhythmic clicks and pulses. To generate a variety of sounds it is necessary to apply the most subtle touch, just the right amount of energy.
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Three-Dimensional Scores Papillon (2011)
3”x3”x.5” Mixed Media Floor Tom | Cymbal | Piano | Crotales A hand held three-dimensional score. Papillon exists in a series of pocket 3D scores that explore space in notation. The materials used in this artifact were compiled specifically for the instruments used in the performance. Mylar stands in place of silence, a single drop of violet ink for a piano articulation, white glue for cymbal accents, two pieces of book board covered in black fabric translates of two drum articulations, and three colors of thread (light violet, pink, and magenta) communicate three pitches to be performed on crotales. The crotale player is to trace the thread with their eyes at a rate of five seconds per inch. The score dictates a linear order of events (drum, cymbal, piano, crotales, cymbal, drum) that seeks to account for the symmetrical appearance of the object.
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Butterfly and Mariposa (2011)
Pocket Score Prototypes 3”x3”x.5”
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Klangfarben Structure (2012)
25”x10”x10” Tenor Saxophone | Cello | Percussion | Piano Thread | India Ink | Bristol | Mylar This sculpture is read like a score at a rate of five seconds per inch. The thread tells the musicians how loud to play (width of the thread), what pitch and/ or timbre to play (color), and when to play (surrounding structural elements). Klangfarben Structure extends the ideas in Papillon to explore space in notation. This object’s form is constructed with two main ideas. The first being the structural component which utilizes three 140lb bristle paper sheets that dictate information to be performed by percussive instruments (snare with brushes and piano). The second aspect is the content of the structure, colored thread. A hierarchical color system is implemented to solidify which aspects of the structure are to be read by which instrumentalists. Dark orange/red, and orange sewing thread is to be followed by the cellist. Orange book thread is to be followed by the saxophonist. Magenta and orange/yellow sewing thread for crotales. All unhued articulations stand for unpitched percussion (grey is to be performed on the snares themselves). Ink is again used for piano. Utilizing the same pallet in sound and in color allows for a visual and sonic pairing that exemplifies a monochromatic reception.
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Mag are ongoing. Please click on the correspondent link for more information on how to submit work: Letters Music Visual Arts Other Media
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MiddleGray • 3
THE
MIDDLE GRAYCafé On Etsy
The Middle Gray Shop on Etsy was born in an effort to support the The Middle Gray project by integrating Visual Arts and Culinary Arts and forming a sustainable Arts Café. All The proceeds from our Etsy Shop go towards funding the growth of The Middle Gray through various projects.
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