Midnight Muse—Issue 2!

I s s u e 2

S p r i n g 2 0 1 2

Cover Artwork by Featured Artist

Andrew Newell Midnight Muse was created by Neebinnaukzhik Southall and Sarah Page.

All photographs and layout designs are from them. Want to contribute? Email us!

Call to Art!

Table of Contents

Front and Back Covers, Designed by Neebinnaukzhik Southall

Who Are We?....................................................................................................1 Artist Submissions Conner Allen, The Kids of Yesterday..................................................................................................................................3 Lacey Ward, familiar., ................................................................................................................................................................4 Marguerite Crooks, Silk Ear & Silk Eye.........................................................................................................................5 Elena Galuza, Kings Cafe,........................................................................................................................................................6 Laura Witham, Regina................................................................................................................................................................7 Pat Moran, Smoke with the Women.................................................................................................................................8 Derrek Becker, My Branch.......................................................................................................................................................9 Jennifer Lommers, 51 Birds..................................................................................................................................................10 Amanda Heigel, The Adam that Moves........................................................................................................................11 Sandi Elle, Trapped..................................................................................................................................................................12 Carrie Brandon, Anti-gravity..............................................................................................................................................13 Harrison White, Remembrance of the Olive Girl...................................................................................................14 Stella Starr, Cattail....................................................................................................................................................................15 Nathaniel Allen, Untitled........................................................................................................................................................16 Samantha Hatfield, Home......................................................................................................................................................17 Brittany Novak, Noname........................................................................................................................................................18 Marc Lehman, Untitled.........................................................................................................................................................19 Amy Booker, Violin Stories...................................................................................................................................................20 Sasha Williams, Three Daffodils.......................................................................................................................................21

Featured Artist: Andrew Newell...........................................................22—28 The Challenges.......................................................................................29—30 Figure Session.........................................................................................31—32 My Little Blue Jar...........................................................................................33 Challenges by Elena Galuza.................................................................34—37 Sugar Does Portland..............................................................................38—41

Who Are We?

We are a small group of passionately ambitious

artists

located

in

the

beautiful Willamette Valley! We are

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awesome, and love other awesome people. Like you! We want to become a resource for artists of all creeds.

We are here to support, inspire, and teach one another and everyone who wishes to create. We represent visual, literary,

musical,

theatrical

artists

and everyone in between. We are a network of infinite possibilities of creation.

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Artist Submissions

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Conner Allen

familiar.

by Lacey Ward

It’s easy. Easier than it should be. We slip quickly in to that old rhythm, guard up then down, testing the waters. Tonight, we give in. Let the walls fall as we melt into each other. Familiar doesn’t begin to describe it. Like remembering the words to a song you havent thought of in years. Realizing its been there the whole time. Each touch brings a comfortable thrill. Each breath reels me back in. Your lips match my memories. Exact. They’re all still there, your easy smile, the curve of your back.

Filling with things I didn’t know I was looking for. Our fingertips, like magnets, keep finding each other.

Leaving me breathless on impact. I feel dizzy and controlled.

We continue for hours. Spinning, careful and unfiltered. When I trip up you take over. We make sense, of things, the past and each other. Its different than I imagined. More than I expected.

You’ve been gone for hours and I still can’t catch my breath.

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Stillness takes over. Your words flow cooly, unsteady but consistant. I take them in slowly, sip after sip.

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Marguerite Crooks

Elena Galuza

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Regina

by Laura Witham Stir it up weird sisters.

You’re nothing but a Scottish play of gimme, gimme, gimme this and that.

Satisfy yourselves on my feast of good intentions.

It takes chowder thicker than hair to cure your illness.

Simple soap won’t wash out the tarnish on your crown or spots on your hands.

Oh my ladies, ladies, ladies. do I need to loan you my ovaries in place of weak intestines?

As if I’d trust you with my children.

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I apologize.

My mother didn’t render me invertebrate.

How dare I learn to turn a kind phrase and away from the likes of you.

Cry and kill, Mary Tudors.

Your tumor’s near done cooking and ready to burn.

I am the 12-fingered woman with a full brain you called a conniving whore.

I’m quiet and crafty, back from the dead.

They can’t kill a headless specter such as me--my mind now kept in much safer places.

I rise and dive, disconcerting you.

It’s only what you’ve done to me with your badly-played chess games.

Mount my black knights’ heads on your wall.

Send red bishops after me and I’ll take you myself.

Tear up treaties I never signed with my sharp, sharp plume.

Scream off with my head.

Look more foolish than you already do.

You can’t see the rage wrinkling my brow, or deem me a two-faced peer of the realm when I have none at all.

Mes reines de coeres, you are only two dimensions. You blow over like paper-thin skin.

I have no other cheek to turn but my rump. Kiss it.

Pat Moran

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Derrek Becker

Jennifer Lommers

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Amanda Heigel

Sandi Elle

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Carrie Brandon

Remembrance of the Olive Girl

by Harrison White

I. Five years and some score days I have waited since we left the grove.

There was to be, I think, a new priest, The slave drawn to the dagger.

We last met, pre-dawn, our hands Sap-sticky with the pine A shepherd kept the lonely vigil, Crook and hand against the heart.

No flowers, then, were open, Ready to receive the warmth and light, Not when we broke at last.

All the world of sound seemed set asleep: No bug, nor brook, nor cooing dove, Nor even breath between us broke faith.

Wetted, bloody tongues met a moment: Your father’s eyes and blows lined The arbor-trail behind you, Cast off But for a moment, As with your mantua and petticoat.

Were we discovered, your body, too Would line those paths-You should be the mulch for me Who exhorted you to the sin.

What confidence was kept?

Dear harts might only smile, Striking through the surrounding glade In search of some respite.

And all around the sheep settle And their herdsman, too-- who knew-Succumbed to the quieting night.

We were but a painting then To be hung forever after fading: Some better artisan might care, retouch.

Then swift, the slave, his eyes hung between

The pine-shadow and fading moonbeam

He caught his mark and made his move—

The knife – connect – the priest – he shrieked

All the world came rushing to the grove.

From all around, as red sun rose, Came mower, parson, butcher, all.

All but our friend, the shepherd, kept

Within some idle, peaceful dream

We were found out as he just slept

Beneath some tree beside a stream.

The slave, he rose, enrobed In crimson coat of hierophant blood:

And in the town they laid out a feast

Of mutton, birds, and other beast

(And some fishes caught in the east)

And made vesper prayers with their new priest.

Chilled face of stone, your father came, And set a cloud of blows against my frame (So he did, with yours and mine).

Instructed to forget your name, I left, by law, upon the end of day, (Sentenced to chains for my crime) And I have traveled, traveled far since that time.

III. Now, five years, and some score days, I have waited since we left the grove.

I clutched tight these memories of our love And vowed I would some time return:

Tonight, there is for me a feast,

As I have slain an evil beast

Returning secret from the East--

Tonight I am this country’s priest.

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The slave, snake-eyed, dropped down And through each tangle-brush He moved with serpent’s ease. His Step on rock, through spring, unheard: And priest in flight still took a care-We barely held a moment there.

II. Like flower pressed between Pages of a once well-remembered book Now recalled only by wafting hint of scent We stayed collapsed upon that halted second.

And then the owl-cries came on

Mourning for the night, come dawn.

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Stella Starr

Nathaniel Allen

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Home

by Samantha Chisholm Hatfield Ph.D. The snow glistens as it radiates the moon’s beams into the bedroom . . . filling the room with a peaceful glow that only arrives with a snowfall. As I stand looking out the window into the night, the softness of the ground appears like soft down on top of the grass, and the tree branches hang heavy under the weight of the beautiful powder.

Silence fills the air, and gray clouds cover over the night sky, so that the wintry scene envelopes us as we sleep like the warm wrapping of arms safely around us all. . . a cascading snowy peace that rarely comes in the valley of Oregon.

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I watched today as the hummingbirds darted back and forth, to and from the feeder. They maintain their stamina it seems; although I worry about them, my worry appears to be in vain. Their behavior is not common . . . the other birds flit and scrape for seeds now covered where there used to be easy access. They are noisy with their arguing, scolding, demanding voices. The squirrels are nonexistent. Even the neighborhood dogs are silenced with the exception of an occasional short bark.

The driveway has tracks, one way. I have come and gone, but it has snowed over each trace of my prior departures and arrivals. I have stayed put the past 24 hours, feeling more comfortable, feeling at home, even as I am alone. I get to watch the hummingbirds, which have become like companions over the past seasons.

I watch the snow glisten with color from the sun’s rays hitting it, like sparkling jewels, and the iridescence of the icicles hanging from my backyard roof. I sit in my living room and watch as cars drive cautiously past on the street, and feel the security of being secluded and hidden, holing up on cold wintery days. There are not many opportunities like this . . .

I can hear the neighbors chopping wood, knocking off snow and ice. The snow brings a peaceful calm, even here, in town. It settles into one’s soul, and brings about a sense of renewal even amidst its destruction. It is quiet, and I hear no coyotes, no cougar. I rarely hear hawk and eagle, though I know they nest in the tall firs out back one street over. I hear none of the familiar sounds that comfort me at the farm, and yet it is ok.

This is my home, where my heart has found a comfort. Where calm and safety reign.

These are the things that are sacred, that money cannot buy, that brute force cannot produce. My cousin Lisa was right. These walls now hold love and laughter of my own; of my life as a woman; and they are welcoming when I walk in. It has been a long time since I felt at home in a place of my own.

And so, it is apt the snow fell and remains . . .that I am blessed with a peace, inside and out.

Brittany Novak

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Marc Lehman

Amy Booker

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Three Daffodils Sasha Williams

In the garden of my grandparents three daffodils sway in the breeze one new budding, one in full bloom,

and one laced with decay.

Those these sunny flowers deceive me into depression Though bright, yellow,

softly fragrant, they make me sad

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Many days o’er the past eight years to be exact I would run, skip, and laugh

to ask, “Can I pick some?”

My grandfather, always stern would crack a tiny smile Pick as many as you want

carnations, daffodils, lilies I would visit, empty tummy’d leave full and mixed emotions with flowers in my cup holder

bright and smelling sweet Now, I stand before a house their house is empty now, a nest of what it used to be

dust, and expiration How in the world could these three, happy, yellow flowers remind me of my loneliness thus?

Vanguard, sentry, island Slowly, taking a breath in, deep, I take a knife to those three and put them in my cup holder

one in budding,

one in bloom and

one laced in decay

fea t u r e d artist

NA nd ewrew ell

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Y

ou loved the cover to Issue 2, right? No doubt! It’s one of several awesome landscape sculptures created by our Featured Artist, Andrew Newell. And by landscape sculpture, I don’t mean trees and cottages on the horizon line, or a pretty creek trickling down a mountain valley. He doesn’t just create a solitary object, or even a few, unlike what is commonly found in sculpture. He creates his subjects as well as their surroundings, and every inch reveals an intense amount of detail.

Neebin and I met with Andrew a couple weeks ago to learn more about him and his work, and we were also pretty eager to check out his space. As you can see, his work is very unique and reflects a sort of post-apocalyptic plane of existence. Every artist is different, but every artist’s studio or creative space tells a similar story representative of its master. We thought, “Andrew’s work is so meticulous, outlandish and wicked...what kind of story will his studio tell?”

Andrew’s space was awesome, and totally reminiscent of his work. There was so much...STUFF! Just lots of random bits and pieces all piled around with his workspace in the back. And these are the bits that he often creates his pieces with. It was very visually stimulating. He was like Lord of the Junkyard, and these were his prizes. On their own, they don’t seem like much...but once he takes his hammer to it, a bit of glue and some painting here and there, it becomes an absolute masterpiece. Of course, his process is much more complicated than that, but this artist can’t even begin to explain it. We asked some questions, but I really think the pictures speak for themselves.

One thing we were dying to know was his source of inspiration, and we found his was all over the place. For example, I joked about Lord of the Junkyard, but actually his grandfather, who was a self-taught blacksmith, had a junkyard and Andrew spent a lot of time there when he was a little kid.

He also did a lot of model making for wargaming, such as War Hammer, and this got him into the mindset of creating an entire world, not just a single object. This experience also helped with some basic techniques when he began creating his own artwork. He is also a US Veteran and spent 14 months in Kuwait and told us, “I’ve seen some weird stuff and bizarre areas.” I told him some of his

Sometimes I just think,

WHY am I creating such tiny things with such

GIANT hands!?

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pieces reminded me of the old Heavy Metal and he said the mags and movie were another source of inspiration. He also likes H.R. Giger who, if you don’t know, is the surrealist painter who created the character design for the aliens in the movie Alien (google Necronom IV). Apparently, he’s not the only artist in the family. It seems like his entire family was hardwired and motivated to create!

Andrew spends hours crafting each piece over a long period of time, so although he is currently working on creating a larger body of work, it is slow moving. In the studio, there are quite a few works in progress that he just hops around working on, as inspiration hits him. And it’s usually a particular piece that speaks to him - he doesn’t tend to sketch his stuff out before hand. He’ll find something he can use and think AHAH! I know exactly what to do with you.

Aside from Andrew’s mind-blowing portfolio, I’ve got to say he’s very modest about his work. If you are involved in the art community in Corvallis then chances are you’ve seen his stuff and heard his name. He’s won the Peoples’ Choice Award at the Ruth and Jim Howland Community Open Exhibit at the Arts Center these last 2 years. His work received thousands of hits in only a few hours after being posted to Reddit.com.

Basically, we love Andrew’s work and felt his dedication to the craft was so inspiring, there was no way we couldn’t offer the feature to him! We hope that everyone takes a moment to check out some more of his work at http://armed2theteeth.imgur.com and we will continue to touch base and post updates from him.

d lastly, Call to Our Readers!

And lastly Call to Our Readers!

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When we asked Andrew what he wants people to get out of his work, he told us it’s not so much the story he has created, he said it’s more about what it does to the viewer and how it makes them feel. SO. Tell Andrew. Go to our Facebook wall and tell Andrew what his artwork means to you!

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Challenge: Collaborate

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Model: Neebin Southall Photographer: Sarah Page

During every submission period, we offer two unique

CHALLE oppertunities to submit we like to call the

Challenge: Add a Sentence Contributors: Harrison White, Shaylynn Allen, Daniel Page, Neebin, Sarah

I woke up to the intoxicating aroma of cinnamon rolls.

Raula, who’d raised me after the unkind death of my Capitoline Wolf at the cold hands of the winter river, called me down to take my breakfast.

Inspired by the tantalizing scent, I swung off my covers and plodded downstairs, in clumsy defiance of the morning chill.

Raula was old enough to be my grandmother, and she was still the most beautiful woman I’d ever love.

And how could I not love a woman such as her?

I had no choice in the matter, really, my soul was bound to Raula now…I belonged to her forevermore and I loved it.

That is the usual result, I am led through study to suppose, of the accidental application of a philter of love meant for some entirely other figure.

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The very thought of her desiring any other before myself sickened and enraged me!

I was not good at hiding my anger, and I hated when it broke free onto her.

Descending down the staircase, I called out her name. ...to be continued in Issue 3! Submit in May!

LENGES Each challenge focuses on collaborating with other local artists to create a totally unique piece.

Figure Sessions 31

by Sarah Page Like most artists, I began my journey with a yellow and green box brimming with waxy, colorful goodness. I realize now that even in elementary school I honed my observational drawing skills on the people around me. Not flowers and beloved cartoon characters like my classmates.

And not just stick figures either. I would really concentrate on what I was looking at and try to outline the girl sitting in front of me. I remember drawing her over and over again, for days with different styles of hair and outfit changes, and every day little bits of detail became clearer to me.

I can still draw her from my memory almost 15 years later.

One day it hit me. There were people sitting on either side of her. I looked to her right, and to her left. These two were just as fixated on their work

Sketches by Neebin Photographs by Sarah as she was and were sitting just like her, but a totally new perspective was revealed to me. They had certain physical attributes that the girl in front of me did not. One of them wore shirts a tad too tight, revealing some pudge and stressing wrinkles in the shirts, which were super fun to draw!

The other had short hair and I was introduced to the intricacies of the human ear.

I continued my love of the human form from there. Through middle and high school, my portfolio work consisted heavily of people, twisting and contorting their physiques. The theme for my college review portfolio was expressive portraits, with dewy eyes and grasping hands. I went from learning about the different bones and muscles and how they worked with one another to breathing life into a two-dimensional face.

We set Kaylie down in front of the window so she was backlit - the contrast was stunning and gave us a lot of fun shapes to play with!

When Neebin and I started Midnight Muse last October-ish, the idea of

hosting live drawing sessions was one of the first YES moments in our conceptualization stage. We had our first session, a trial run if you will, in late January.

We found an awesome model whom we had both photographed in the past (Hi, Kaylie!) and prepared to cram as many people as possible into my small photography studio! There were only 6 of us, but the interest and response we received was HUGE and gave us a lot of hope that this can (and

hopefully very soon WILL) turn into an awesome monthly event.

And who knows? Maybe with time, these drawing sessions will become monthly, or even bi-monthly! That, my friends, all depends on YOU. That’s why we are here, you know. We want to provide each other the resources to pursue our respective work. If we can help in any way, we will.

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However, one thing I never really had the chance to do was draw from the live sessions that were frequently held at my school and other various locations throughout Houston. I always wanted to, but it seemed I was always caught up in one thing or another.

Once my husband and I moved to Oregon and things began settling down, suddenly I had all the time in the world to do whatever I wanted.

NEXT DRAWING SESSION: Saturday April 28th at 2PM!

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www.mylittlebluejar.blogspot.com

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Challenges

An Artists Journey in Albany, OR

by Elena Galuza

Birth happened;

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and there I was emerged out into the world, taking my first breaths as nurses and family gathered round with amazement. It was a girl!

“We shall name her Elena…” The challenges were set on that glorious night that an artist and their destiny would unite. And so the story goes…

I was five years old when I started kindergarten. Perplexed with the entire concept of public schooling, I was introduced to assigned seating. There, I laid my eyes—for the first time—on “the creature”. In front of me sat a raggedy, giant, plump girl with short blonde hair who displayed severe devastation.

She wailed and wailed as her mother being ripped away, out of her sight. I remember watching the creature in disgust as her hefty pink nose ran thick yellow-orange snot down her lip…the snot was so thick that it literally hindered her breathing and distorted the sound of her cries. The cries were so loud that I could swear I heard the same from a fire-breathing dragon. They were monstrous.

Having never seen anything like her, I would appease her and talk to her nicely. But deep down inside I fantasized about her turning into Reptar from Rugrats. She’d be tearing up the room and swallowing us alive, and I would be the only one to tame her because I knew she was fragile and I could outfox her and eventually slay her and become hero of the school. Alternatively, I held my head down and stuck to my drawings…

By first grade I was entering the world of “full days” which meant more time being around strangers—which meant more time living in my head. I was shy, and I hadn’t made too many friends.

Also, I was singled out for special language classes. Mind you, I was the one who was “different” because I was learning English, my first language being Russian. I loved the learning experience, but truthfully what I loved most was being exposed to paper.

We weren’t a wealthy family by any means, emigrating from Ukraine with the five of us and only one suitcase. So paper to me was valued as if it were a child of mine, appreciating it always being there for me.

Paper was what got me up in the morning to want to go to school and what kept me there throughout the six hours of structured insanity. Slowly but surely, the meaning of my obsession would certainly be exposed.

It wasn’t until the second grade when I learned a very important word. It was my “ah huh!” moment, if you will, that molded an artist out of me. This life changing word was talent.

Talent gave me the confidence I needed and the backbone it required to show pride in my work.

As soon as I started to show progress in all areas of my life I had moved. Socializing (or “shining”) became less of a priority. I felt a little cornered—back to square one again; taking a nose dive into the can-do-no-wrong perception of sketchbooks. You can see how drawing really meant everything to me. It pacified my entire grade school experience.

An example of the side effects included my slow surfacing personality. Being so shy and so exhaustingly afraid to make the slightest movement during class resulted in my isolation. I remember this one time I really needed to use the restroom but in order to do so, you had to raise your hand. This was a colossal challenge for me. I would sit there sweating, stressing over how many pairs eyes would look and imagining them

burning holes through my soul. I didn’t want anyone to know I existed.

I was already strange to begin with being bilingual and all. It was like I was asking for it.

All I wanted was to get away; to let my bladder breathe and to keep my sanity intact.

I wasn’t fully sane yet when I entered middle school, but I did have an edge by now. My edge was being that weird girl who could draw.

Opportunities began to flow, tiny doors began to open. This was the time for me to enter submissions to all the drawing contests that were made available to me. In result, victories arose along with the loses, and big assurances were made concrete.

Confidently, I started the eighth grade after another move and with the assurance of a clearer understanding of my talents. I felt alive! Not only that—I was creating buzz amongst the teachers and students. Things were looking up.

Then high school hit like a tornado.

Substance was soaring everywhere around me! Inspiration! New faces to lurk at, new opportunities to battle over, and more blocks to build with. The chaos itself was more beneficial to me than the drought I had come from. It had spiked my creativity, my confidence, and the passion I had for art that lives in the depths of my core. By the end of my first semester of my senior year I felt my calling, and I was packing up and hitting the road. Next stop: college town.

College turned out to be one of the greatest opportunities in my life. It also has been the most rewarding and challenging. There I felt a sense of a community; a coming together.

The feeling evaporated as it was short-lived after graduating and being released into the “real world”. Out there (in my home town)

I’d discover the stunt in the growth and lack of art appreciation. Locally, I’d wish for something I could get myself artistically involved in.

It wasn’t until a miniscule spark of hope ignited in me following the vision I saw in front of me.

There was a sign for an opening of an art gallery in town two year ago. In spite of doors shutting, there seemed to be a glimpse of hope for art in Albany after all. But as usual, perhaps the dream was too small to survive…

Elenas 1st sketchbook, yo

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Designer: Tina Marie

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Designer: Totally Trashed Fashion

Designer: Tina Marie