LO-HI MAGAZINE
A portion of profits will benefit the Genesis Foundation
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Lo-Hi Magazine Est. 2020 Made with love in Miami, FL Editor-in-Chief Christopher Menendez Creative Director Moises Esquenazi Art Director Pedro Fajardo Director of Distribution Carolina Esquenazi Proofreader Henry Chinea Contributors: Robert Andy Coombs victoria diez Ariel Francisco Benjamin Fredrickson Nicholas Lattimore Zoe Lukov Cynthia Matty-Huber Lisette Morales Neil Vazquez Thomas Bils, Still Cheaper Than Paying (49), 2020
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Editor’s Letter The best part about putting together a magazine is convincing yourself that everything is inspiration. Going on a long walk with your dogs (hi, Buddha and Ooby!), traveling, and rubbing shoulders with strangers are activities I file under “brainstorming”, meaning one gets to declare everything as a company expense, right? When everything changed last year, my traditional wells of inspiration seemed to dry up. “How will I find stories worth telling if no one is talking to each other?” In early 2021, my friend Sofia (one of the models in “Have You Met the Neighbors?”) invited me to go hiking in the Everglades. We headed west on Pa-Hay-Okee Trail and made it to an observation deck in time to watch the sunrise over the river of grass. Hissing alligators, 17,437 mosquitoes, and wild orchids reminded us we were in their territory. I felt small, I felt inspired, and I needed bug spray. After almost two years of dealing with losses from the pandemic, I find culture to be in a directionless state. Sure, I visited museums (the Peter Marino Foundation in Southampton, New York is a MUST), listened to Lil Nas X, and read One Hundred Years of Solitude, but nothing seemed to move or inspire me as much as nature did. Is this what being in your 30s is like, or am I onto something? The second issue’s theme of “cycles” leapt out at me during a visit to Montana. During my short tenure as a cowboy, I met Cynthia Matty-Huber, a documentary filmmaker whose award-winning film I Am Still Here calls attention to the changing of the guard happening out West. Her film follows John Hoiland, a 94-year-old rancher whose second generation 200-acre family ranch is at risk of being subdivided into summer vacation homes for Silicon Valley execs and the “hottest” celebs. As I witnessed Montana’s winter turn to spring, I came to two conclusions: one, opening a beer with gloves on is hard, and two, everything in life is a cycle, and nature can be our greatest teacher if we take enough time to listen.
In this issue, you’ll be guided through four cyclical stages: Extinction, Rebirth, Climax, and Freedom. We kick off with Extinction or a big bang of sorts. Here, our resident dark angel victoria diez (she likes her name in lowercase, ok y’all) highlights the end of trends like farm-to-table and the toxic positivity exerted from baristas at chic coffee shops. Next, we enter Rebirth, where we meet two unlikely leaders protecting the environment, John Hoiland, the 94-year-old rancher I mentioned, and Betty Osceola, a Miccosukee elder in Florida. For our “climax”, curator Zoe Lukov gets us hot and bothered with her hand-picked collection of sex-positive art work. I love how her article provokes us to think about the sexual nuances in our post-pandemic lives; turns out everyone is still thirsty, and I’m here for it. The last cycle you’ll experience is Freedom. For this stage, we tapped into Miami’s eccentric elite. From Cuban grandmothers in Westchester who practice Santeria to Art Deco divas on Miami Beach’s Collins Avenue who can spot a bullshitter walking into a room faster than anyone I know. I could write a full article on each of these people; maybe it’s a video series I’ll never get around to making. Anyways, check out the issue, and play our IG scavenger hunt on the inside back cover to find new weirdos to follow.
Love, Chris @lohimag @theonlychristhatmatters
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Hosting a seated dinner with your finest tablecloth, silverware, and china... and serving KFC.
The Lo-Hi Is... The Lo-Hi acknowledges style in authenticity. If there’s grit, then it’s a good fit.
Thinking life is over because of a pandemic only to find a better way to live it.
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Forgetting to pack cocktail attire and getting away with wearing a poncho with heels to the function.
Finding a city’s vibe at a local bar, then indulging at the nearest Aman hotel.
Strict weekdays, gluttonous weekends. Supporting an organization anonymously.
Australians have a strong foothold in the coffee shops of Manhattan. I pride myself on my seldom trips to Brooklyn, so I can’t speak to the Australian imprint there. Nothing against Australians, but at times, their joie de vivre is a bit too much for me to handle. This year, I’m opting for Starbucks. I want the person making my coffee to look miserable. I want to hear the words “fuck this” being muttered as they brew that shittytasting roast. It’s validating. It confirms what I know I feel. Why does every customer service experience have to be an overly pleasant one? I’m down for some attitude. Hit me with the sass. Let’s go. As a society, we need to learn to embrace the bad. Things can’t be great all the time. The vibes can’t always be good. It’s unrealistic. And these great expectations often lead to immense disappointment. Also, that Australian joie de vivre is a giant farce. I’ve witnessed an Australian lose his cool real quick on a Sunday when the cappuccino orders frighteningly overwhelm the amount of baristas on call.
Trends are so pendular it’s exhausting. I wouldn’t be surprised if frozento-table became the new norm in a few years if you can get past the stigma. Besides, frozen produce contains far more nutrients. These goods are flash frozen to prevent nutritional decay. I know, fuck, as if living isn’t hard enough, here’s some more bullshit you need to be aware of. Most restaurants rely on supply chains to receive their farm fresh produce. I’d be pretty daft to assume every supply chain company executes with optimal efficiency. That allegedly farm fresh produce was subject to the brutish whims of a logistics manager somewhere. For the sake of this narrative, let’s call that oafish logistician “Mike Negri”. Under his stewardship, more often than not, these goods are subjected to major routing fuck-ups that lead to extravagant delays in delivery to your idllyic farm-to-table restaurant. What’s the nutritional half-life of broccoli? But more importantly, does it even matter? There is so much that is out of our control. The less you know, the better. I’m just trying to save you some coin so you can buy drugs to help quiet the white noise.
If I see another farm-to-table advert for a restaurant, I’m going to do nothing, because I try not to get angry anymore. That being said, this farm-to-table concept is starting to feel a bit tired. I’m calling out those establishments that like to pair their thirty-dollar, grass-fed cheeseburger with arugula and some ritzy fig jam spread. No thank you. Also, please stop putting Swiss cheese on burgers. It doesn’t work. Let’s get something straight. A cheeseburger should only be dressed with American, maybe even cheddar cheese; it should never—under any circumstances—contain arugula. Stick to the basics. Iceberg or nil. A single thick slab of tomato. A crisp red onion ring. Back to farm-to-table.
I’m perversely indulgent. I tend to get carried away often and push the limits of excess. I’m weary of people that can cap it after one drink. Or maybe I’m just severely envious. I’ve come to learn that the line between love and hate is a very fine one. So one drink is something short of a cardinal sin, two drinks is just too short, and anything more will have me spiraling for the next two days. That’s why I’ve been recently toying with the idea of sobriety. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to handle the lows induced by a proper bender. I’m not referring to physical pain.
I want that two-buck chuck we used to buy in college. I want it taped to my hands for a game of Edward Scissorhands on 28th and M street. These days, I’m presented with a long list of biodynamic bullshit. Don’t get me wrong. My iconoclastic tendencies led me to natural wine a few years ago, but now, they have pitted me against it. So these days, I like to be prepared. I carry a bag of sulfites with me in the event I have to purify a flat glass of biodynamic gamay somewhere. At this point, a bottle of rancid balsamic vinegar sounds more enticing to me. It’s got more grit. And as a society, we need more grit. Hell, come to think of it, Whispering Angel might have more grit. Maybe natural wine got too mainstream like Wes. Wes got ruined by the diletantes. Or maybe it reminds me too much of the present and I’d rather go back. “Victoria, you’re such a hater.” Well, maybe I am a hater. And you know what? It feels damn good to be a hater. Especially when you do it with finesse. Isn’t it better to expel animosity to an inanimate object like natural wine instead of harboring it inside?
Old people depress me. Sometimes, it’s hard to make eye contact with them on the street. I usually grimace and look the other way. It’s funny that a pregnant woman induces the same reaction. I think it’s a testament to my immaturity. Or maybe it’s my way of temporarily rejecting the inevitable. The next phase of this socially constructed reality that I had no part in designing. Maybe that’s why I’m so resistant to the future. I’m resistant to old age, heartbreak, and the inevitable disappointment of it all. I think that’s why I like to glamorize the past. It’s an escape from the present. A quick flight from reality. And it prolongs the future for a few minutes. It’s my way of buying time. And it’s completely irrational. And you tend to only remember the best parts, so it’s relatively pleasant, right?
You know that feeling when you’re on your second martini and you feel so goddamn suave because the words keep flowing out of your mouth so poetically? Ideally, you’d end the night with a cigarette and go home, but you don’t. You opt for that third martini and another cigarette. Before you know it, you’re holding a vodka soda and you’re on your 10th cigarette. Someone, call the guy. It’s 11:30 PM on a Tuesday night. How did we get here? You’re about to wreck your work day tomorrow, but you don’t give a damn because you hate your job anyways. Fast-forward to four hours later. You’re down $200 and you’ve snorted a gram’s worth of industrial-grade rat poison. I don’t care who you know. You can’t get quality cocaine in New York. You simply cannot. Your standards are exceptionally higher if you grew up somewhere decently near the equator. Fastforward to another couple of hours. Now, it’s 6:30 AM and you’ve crushed at least half a dozen beers. You have to be up and at your desk in 2 hours. Jesus Christ. At this point, you’re completely sober and can’t even rely on all the alcohol you consumed to put you to sleep. Hell, you can’t even take a Xanax to help you fall asleep because you’ll sleep through your alarm. So now you’re going to spend the next two hours in bed, teeth chattering, tossing and turning, and entertaining half-thoughts because that’s all your brain can manage to compose. Today is going to suck ass, but didn’t you feel really cool rolling up that dollar bill and snorting a fat line of nothing? Hell, I did. I made myself feel like Mia fucking Wallace, cuz guess what, Jay? You’re wrong. This is a fucking movie.
LO-HI MAGAZINE
By victoria diez Images provided by the artist
“I mentally prepare myself for the descent and ask, “Is this martini worth it?”
I hope this excerpt wasn’t too self-indulgent. I hope you can relate. Actually, I hope you can’t. But if you do, I hope it helps you feel less alone.
I spend a nice chunk of my day trying to figure out where it all went wrong and always come to the same quiet conclusion. A relationship I let deteriorate because of my inability to communicate, which is hilarious because I’m a writer. That declaration just made me gag. Who knows. Maybe that experience informed the decision. Maybe I had to let one go so I could have the other. Maybe I’ll never find out because I continue to resist the future.
“This year, I’m opting for Starbucks. I want the person making my coffee to look miserable.”
That sucks, but it’s always easier to manage. I’m referring to those feelings of low self-worth and painstaking doubt. The crippling kind. The two days that follow a hearty bender are cruel. A temporal limbo of self-analysis through a severely harsh lens. You create your own hell. And in those 48 hours, you’re going against the best: yourself. I try to be more calculated these days—especially with everything going on. I mentally prepare myself for the descent and ask, “Is this martini worth it?” When I’m feeling especially self-destructive, the answer is, “Hell, yes.” But sometimes, I hide. I try to avoid the situation altogether. Like everything, this is a work in progress. Meaning, I haven’t been able to get it right yet. And I think a big part of life is being okay with that and I think a big part of life is being okay with that and trying not to die until you do.
ISSUE 02
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By Chris Menendez John Hoiland photography by Cynthia Matty-Huber Betty Osceola photography by Lisette Morales
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There’s no space more freeing than nature. Its open door policy, a mirror that enlightens and coerces perspective to our otherwise narrow view of life. What would become of us without rolling waves to quiet the committee in our minds or mountains that challenge the egoic chapels we build inside? After two years of radical change, we’ve come to notice that the directionless culture that once fed our souls perils in comparison to the freeing effects of nature. This rebirth of connection and respect for nature is being led by unlikely heroes. Take Betty Osceola, a Miccosukee Tribe elder whose fight to protect her native land is preventing the Florida Everglades from overflooding. In Montana, John Hoiland, a 94-year-old rancher, is dedicated to keeping his 900-acre ranch intact and undeveloped for centuries to come. (Sorry, Silicon Valley bros with summer homes.) Doomsdayers, conspiracy theorists, and scientists can all agree that the urgency for the preservation of nature is arriving at the 11th hour. While shocking environmental statistics try to scare us into caring, the unlikely heroes pioneering this movement are focused on protecting our accessibility and connection to the rawest source of freedom known to man. It’s during these moments of accelerated change where the wisest voices are tapped into the evolutionary pulls of the future that can improve the quality of life for the rest of us.
Hoiland lives and works on his ranch in McLeod, Montana, just an hour drive from the fastest growing micropolitan city in the country, Bozeman. His long gray beard, deep wrinkles, and weathered clothing are a testament to decades of hard labor. If you asked Hoiland if he’s an environmentalist, his answer would probably be “no”. But his actions and his life’s work prove otherwise. In actuality, he’s a symbol of the change happening in Montana’s ranching culture and the star of documentary filmmaker Cynthia Matty-Huber’s I Am Still Here. “I started photographing him about ten years ago but felt his story needed to be told cinematically. That was when I decided to get an MFA in science and natural history film. We developed a relationship over the years, and I’ve spent many days with him on the ranch. As a matter of fact, I’d spend a lot of my scheduled filming days having to help him tend to the ranch. There’s a lot of work that goes into it.” Matty-Huber’s award-winning film follows Hoiland’s 14-hour days spent tending to his land—from towing hay with a rusted red tractor to feeding the cattle through torrential blizzards and storms. In another scene, a neighbor alerts Hoiland that his cattle broke out of the perimeter fence and are roaming free.
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Modern inconveniences like watching your “Likes” grow on an Instagram post or finding your favorite overpriced French soap feel futile in comparison to Hoiland’s responsibilities. Hoiland’s father started ranching the farm in 1919, and soon after, Hoiland was born on the land and became his father’s right hand. Using the ranch as bait, Hoiland’s family forbade distractions like marrying, drinking, and smoking. Though there was no time to celebrate, his father kept his promise and passed the ranch on to Hoiland. Tireless winter after tireless winter, Hoiland watched the world change around him as he clung to the only way of life he knew. Now his neighbors, once multi-generational ranchers, look different. Ranchers cashed in on incredulous property values and are being replaced with tech CEOs building mansions with temperature-controlled Japanese toilets. Hoiland knew the fate of his ranch laid on him and that the property would soon catch the eyes of developers. For scale, you could fit Central Park AND Grand Central Station, two Monacos, nine Vatican Cities, or 70 Pyramids of Gizas inside the ranch’s 1.4 square mile area. These high stakes mark the beginning of Hoiland’s unlikely rebirth as an environmentalist.
Tireless winter after tireless winter, Hoiland watched the world change around him as he clung to the only way of life he knew.
To understand the impact, without wide open spaces like Hoiland’s, the West’s ecosystem is restrained from its organic cycle. Subdividing the ranch would affect migratory species who cross the wildlife friendly fences and leave behind their Hershey’s Kisses on the soil. Excrements nourish the composition of the soil, which then breeds life to native grasses that suck up carbon, help mitigate flooding, and prevent fires. On a cultural level, subdividing ranches signals the end of the tradition of public land access. Historically, if a hunter, fisherman, fisherwoman, or hiker wanted to enter private land, they’d ask the owner for permission and often be granted access. This is based on an unspoken Western rule that the outdoors is for everyone. Hoiland’s been letting hunters use his land forever. They help control predators, and his cows get to live happily ever after. Try asking his neighbor, actor Michael Keaton, if you can go fishing on the river crossing his property and see what he says. (The Lo-Hi reached out to Mr. Keaton for comment but received no response.) Having a solitary experience with nature is the best way to connect with it. The more celebrities and privileged individuals purchase subdivided lands, the less opportunities there are for people from all backgrounds to have these intimate experiences. The resulting crowding of public areas like national parks and public hunting grounds are chipping away at the pioneering spirit that the West (as we know it today) was built on. When did being financially privileged become the ticket to having a one-on-one mushroom-fueled conversation with a river? There’s got to be a better way.
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Matty-Huber, aside from creating a portrait about Hoiland’s plight, has taken an active role in helping him sort out the preservation of the ranch for future generations. In I Am Still Here, Hoiland meets with lawyers to explore his options. “His parents instilled a sense of mistrust in him right from the very start. They didn’t want him to marry because they feared he’d lose the ranch through a separation. Inheriting that mistrust from his family made coming to an agreement with lawyers difficult. We explored donating the land to the government but he didn’t trust them either.” As of now, 94-year-old Hoiland hasn’t finalized any arrangements to protect the ranch. Matty-Huber plans to continue filming him until he passes and will be creating a feature film about his life and the final destiny for his land. It’s ironic that the pioneering culture that originally developed the West is now a proponent for its preservation. It’s like a sugary cereal brand concerning itself with offering healthy options or an oil executive becoming the head of the EPA. But wait, that already happened. Almost three thousand miles southeast in the Florida Everglades, there’s another game of environmental bingo at play. Before the U.S. and state governments were in control, Indigenous Peoples coexisted and ruled the land. Betty Osceola, the aforementioned Miccosukee Tribe elder, has lived her entire life in the Big Cypress National Preserve, just 45 miles west of Miami. Her long black hair is typically pulled back in a ponytail, exposing a warm and meditative smile. Growing up, Osceola’s neighbors were panthers, raccoons, and alligators, but due to mankind’s manipulation of the water flow in the Everglades, wildlife sightings are now sparse.
LO-HI MAGAZINE Around the turn of the century, all eyes were on South Florida’s first land boom. Promises of year-round crops and oceanfront homes were too juicy an opportunity to pass on. It wasn’t long before the yankee’s dreams were dripping in denial. Seasonal flooding and hurricanes made the first attempts to inhabit South Florida and the Everglades extremely difficult, but the allure of a new tropical frontier kept people coming in droves. In the first half of the 20th century alone, Florida’s population grew by 500%. During this period, the euphemism “drain the swamp” was coined, gaining national attention and support. In order for Cuban sugar crop growers, agricultural investors, and real estate developers to realize their gains, they needed to control the flow of water from Lake Okeechobee and the Everglades. In 1947, the Army Corps of Engineers broke ground on the Central and South Florida Project (C&SF), a massive infrastructure initiative that would span 1,000 miles of levees and canals, 15 square miles of water reservoirs, 150 water control structures, and 16 pumping stations. While the sugar, agricultural, and real estate industries scored their holy dry land, the wet and dry cycles of the Everglades were displaced by a constant flow of water. As a result, 70% of the tree islands or “hammocks”—where the majority of wildlife lives—have been washed away. To make matters worse, the water flowing through the Everglades has become polluted with high levels of chemical runoff from the agricultural fertilizers, causing non-native plant life to take over. Needless to say, the Everglades was thrown out of kilter. Since then, many efforts to reverse the damage have been enacted, including the Clinton administration’s Everglades Restoration Act, which at $7.8 billion marks the world’s largest environmental restoration effort. Like a Renaissance masterpiece exposed to the elements, the damage done to the Everglades is tragic. Seventy percent of its original flow has been rerouted by levees, canals, and farming, and its bird population has plummeted by 90 to 95 percent. Even with all the efforts of government legislation and environmental organizations, someone has to keep the fight going to ensure long-lasting issues won’t prevail. In the 20th century, Marjory Stoneman Douglas used her sharp tongue to pioneer the preservation of the Everglades, educating politicians, developers, and polluters about the threat to Florida’s future. Osceola’s approach aims to foster awareness by connecting our souls with that of the Everglades. She’s found a glitch in society’s matrix that proves connecting with nature yields an inverse healing relationship.
“Split a piece of wood and I am there. Lift a stone and you will find me,” Osceola wrote in a recent Facebook post. Instead of protesting for environmental reform, Osceola’s intuition guides her to lead with education to help others find their truth. “The only way we’re going to solve environmental issues is if we find our truth. It’s all about the rebirth in finding ourselves in nature.” Think of finding truth in nature like going on a first date. It’s not until you’ve spent time and experienced that bonding “Aha!” moment that you find yourself invested in the relationship. In an effort to help foster these “sparks” with nature, Osceola hosts seven-day prayer walks in the Everglades and around Lake Okeechobee. Sharing these experiences with the public came from Osceola’s own loss. After her husband passed away two years ago, she discovered great solace from taking daily walks in nature, which helped clear her thoughts, improve her health, and catalyze her healing. We asked Osceola if she ever envisioned herself becoming a guardian of the environment. “Oh, no,” she says with a chuckle. After a brief pause, she recalled the pivotal moment where she knew her path would lead to activism. “I remember taking artist Nicholas Petrucci and his wife Connie Brandsilver out on an airboat to meet Buffalo Tiger, the then chairman of the Miccosukee Tribe,” Osceola recalls. She went on to share that Nicholas was painting a series of portraits of the “Guardians of the Everglades” and was including Buffalo Tiger. The chairman was ill at the time, and Brandsilver asked her who was going to take over if something happened to him. “I looked at her and said, ‘Don’t look at me!’ Famous last words, I guess,” Osceola says, with a laugh. The teachings of the Miccosukee are that the Everglades are the kidneys of the earth and that the Amazon Rainforest are the lungs of the earth. Osceola asks me, “You know what happens to the human body when the kidneys go bad, right? “No bueno,” I say. She replies, “Well the same thing happens with the earth—no bueno.”
Split a piece of wood and I am there. Lift a stone and you will find me
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Osceola’s ability to captivate and educate audiences on the importance of being one with nature is reviving an awareness stripped away by technology’s cold touch. John Hoiland’s fight to prevent the subdivision of his land in Montana, though not a movement at face value, widens our perspective on the meaning of environmental protection. Both are understanding their value as land protectors and gatekeepers in real time. They symbolize that environmental consciousness is in a constant state of renewal as the world changes, and we can all play a part.
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- My cat has picked up a smoking habit because of them.
- I saw her pulling out of the driveway in a convertible wearing a bikini. Who does that?
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- I heard she walks her dog in heels.
- This used to be a respectable neighborhood. - Does she have a gold tooth? I think I saw a gold tooth when she smiled at me.
- I was doing sunrise yoga and heard her screaming on the phone. Something about a board meeting in Beijing?
Photography by Nicholas Lattimore / Jewelry by Secret of Manna / Hair and makeup by Harol Prado / Styled by Brianna Dooley / Models Sofia de Cardenas & Estefania Gorrin / Photo Assistant Pelissier Etienne / Vintage goods courtesy of Fly Thread
She asked me if I wanted to come over for kava happy hour. Kava, really?
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Derrick Adams, Floater 100, 2020
I S S U E 0 21
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Gonzalo Fuenmayor, The Beasts of Conscience III, 2019
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How might we explore climax now—the ecstasy, the point of I ascension, S S U E 0 1the zenith, el colmo, the finale, the opening of the flood gates, the point of no return, the orgasm, la petite mort, the little death, the union with others? And how do we understand this at a moment when our selves are mediated by screens, touch is scant, sickness is rampant, death is close, travel is precarious, homes have become whole worlds, FaceTime is flirtation, and digital dates have become necessary precursors to sex? The inaugural issue of the Lo-Hi was launched just prior to the pandemic, and so for me, this second issue might be considered a second coming out of sorts. We may be tired of seeing everything through the lens of our own isolation, our sorrow, our survivor’s guilt, the partisan politics, the fear, the “to jab or not to jab” questions, and the mistrust and conspiracy that has swirled around all of it. But we can’t remove this publication from this context—in fact, for me, “Notes From a Pandemic” might be a fitting subtitle. My hope has been to invite artists to these pages who explore the edges of the erotic. Their works dance—or slide around an explosive and insatiable center. Slipping towards a cavernous core, their work illuminates the fringes of religion, sport, performance, and sex, while nipping at the coattails of the taboo. The artists assembled here are giving us images that mark the margins of a hungering. Is implying an idea of our most intimate thoughts as close as we can come to actually identifying them? Soft sensuality alongside tortured physicality, bright caricature and muffled realism—silhouettes and outlines that bring latent selves into being—a collection of images that might act as a freaky family album of sorts from the holy rites to childhood fantasy, from intimate selfies to sexualized landscapes. Recharting religious fervor and the latent violence of sacred iconography are touchstones of work by Carlos Betancourt, Carlos Motta, and Gonzalo Fuenmayor. Betancourt’s images, which have been made over more than 20 years from his studio in Miami with his long-term lover and creative partner, are explicit in their adoration. In Rincon Flamboyant (2005), Alberto is bound to a tree like a modern-day Saint Sebastian, patron saint of plague victims and those who desire a holy death. But instead of being pierced with arrows, he is tied with roses, his skin splattered not with blood but with what might be paint or even makeup. Carlos Motta takes the religious iconography even further into the terrain of BDSM with “Requiem,” in which the artist appears suspended like an inverted Christ figure, his chains held by two semi-shrouded men who might be executioners or torturers from the Inquisition. The image feels eerily like something from a snuff film—the depiction of ancient torture confounding in its presentation bordering on the pornographic—a homoerotic rendering of the most iconic and arguably most violent symbol in Christianity. Gonzalo Fuenmayor, a Barranquilla-born, Miami-based artist, makes charcoal works that are magically realistic in nature, lush and delicate imaginaries that bridge a sensual tropicalia with fierce activism. Here is a figure on fire, running toward or away from something we cannot see. Where there should be a head, there is an upright bunch of bananas. Is this the burning bush, the sacred word of God as miracle of light, or are these the last vestiges of a banana republic, the violent and burning end of an empire?
By Zoe Lukov Carlos Betancourt, Rincon Flamboyant, 2005 Florencia Giles Rodriguez, Sonámbulas, 2020 Carlos Motta, Requiem, 2016
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Pornography, longing, sex work, voyeurism, mediation, and collective desire are both the landscape that surrounds us and the fertile terrain for explorations of self in works by Jane Dickson, Erin M. Riley, and Tosh Basco. Jane Dickson’s flickering neon lights lick at the darkness of the seediest Times Square in New York City in the 1980s and 90s. Painting on asphalt and other textured materials, Jane’s images have a kind of sandpaper roughness, a manually made pixilation that predates the Internet. The work pulses with a hypersexualization and exhibitionism of the human body, but at a clear remove from the “live show”—an aestheticizing of sex that sells, the foreshadowing of the future of OnlyFans subscriptions. Erin M. Riley turns the camera on herself—taking sexualized selfies and webcam imagery that’s then rendered in textile. The textiles, hand-woven into elaborate tapestries, tell a story of modern love and sex across the borders of our browsers on the Internet. The works are made to be touched, their softness begs to be held. Tosh Basco’s photography is raw in its stark and unfiltered intimacy—explicitly sensual and sexual, her most recent series stems from her desire to fill the void in what she calls “good lesbian porn,” as she documents life with her lovers. In “Safi’s Pup,” Tosh poses on all fours in nude lingerie. A floor lamp is perched above her body, illuminating her backside like the white light of an interrogation chamber—but Tosh’s beckoning gaze is fixed on the viewer, she herself doing all the questioning. The relationship between human and animal—the very taboo potential of the body to escape its own confines and delve into interspecies territory—is a branch of inquiry that I would argue is alluded to in winking and humorous ways by artists Florencia Giles Rodriguez, Urara Tsuchiya, Elizabeth Prentis, and Derrick Adams. Florencia’s charcoal drawings render half-human and half-monster figures in astonishing detail as strange tongues lick a multitude of eyeballs—or as a disembodied vagina overflowing with wetness is penetrated by a dolphin’s snout. Urara approaches the relationship head on by positioning her “cute” ceramic figures in almost childish, fantastical orgies between various genders and species—monkeys and manatees are bedmates with humans who wear masks and take dick pics. These imaginary menageries are miniature rooms for pleasure play.
Jane Dickson, Paradise Alley, 1983 Elizabeth Prentis, Carousel 2.0, 2020 Tosh Basco, Safi’s Pup, 2020
ISSUE 02
Elizabeth Prentis renders herself as a caricature, legs spread astride a carousel where all the horses have turned into mythical centaur versions of her past lovers. The carousel, once a most idyllic childhood landscape, is now a bizarre sex game. Derrick Adams is perhaps best known for his paintings of Black figures at rest and at play enjoying summer beach and pool days. His work is often understood in terms of the radical nature of presenting Black joy and rest, as opposed to the mainstream desires to reproduce images of Black suffering or activism. The artist is quoted as saying, “Malcolm and Martin went to the beach, too.” That said, the two images included here must also be recognized for the latent eroticism of the figures in their pool floaties. One woman is intertwined with a flamingo, her legs lazily wrapping around the long pink neck; another woman is on her belly atop a floating yellow duck, her buttocks perched in the air. The artists’ works give us taboo and violence, but also display a deep understanding of the darkest areas of pleasure. These are notes on transmission, as well as the barriers—and possibilities—of our skin. This is about indulgence amidst scarcity. There is pornography and sanctity, hedonism and decadence, but there are also tidal waves of swelling climactic joy. Poet and novelist Ocean Vuong writes, “Is that what art is? To be touched thinking what we feel is ours when, in the end, it was someone else, in longing, who finds us?” These works of art transmit feeling; they offer porousness to the page so that we might reach out and feel (with) each other via unadulterated touch—not with the sticky slime of a Purell hand sanitizer, but with the pulpy juice of bodily release.
Derrick Adams, Floater 84, 2019 Derrick Adams, Floater 17, 2016 Erin Riley, Webcam, 2020 Urara Tsuchiya, Just close your eyes and imagine I haven’t evolved, , 2016
LO-HI MAGAZINE
Florencia Giles Rodriguez, Sonámbulas, 2020
ISSUE 02
Driving across state through Alligator Alley heading home from a mistake—this late, this far from city lights, a streak slashing the star-strewn night could be anything: a meteor wearing itself out into nothing in the heat of atmosphere, a shooting star come loose from Earth’s childhood ceiling and drifting down in a cold ashen heap; an oddly shaped plane flying a little too low, a little too fast, or... I pull over anyway, cut my headlights, step outside and look up in hope, an old habit. I’m not saying I believe, I’m just saying my urge to leave this watered place has never been stronger.
Photograph by Moises Esquenazi by Ariel Francisco
Bridgehampton, Long Island, NY
Stop and smell the hay.
West Point., New York
Head up the Hudson and go rea l slow when passing West Point.
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You can always lean on Richard Serra.
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The Other Side, Eleu
thera, Bahamas
ever too old. You’re never, ever, Get on the swing.
ok up. Bozeman, Montana
Break into abandone
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COVID curfews only mean the venues (aka a living room) get smaller. Featuring @marvinmorley96.
Photog rap hy by Mois e s E s qu e n By Chris M azi enendez.
Blue Ridge Parkway, North Carolina
Open the windows and treat every tunnel like a music video.
ISSUE 02
LO-HI MAGAZINE
Photography by Moises Esquenazi By Chris Menendez
ISSUE 02
Freedom Ah, the sweet frontier of freedom. Where confidence meets experience and strong personalities grow into themselves and fill rooms with life. What is it about Miami that attracts and refines eccentricity? Is it the city’s unconventional history or the heat? Is it the exposure to different cultures and forms of crazy, or it’s unruly nature that makes being yourself easier? Whatever the case may be, we dedicate this section to all the Cuban grandparents who wrote the rules on tough love, to the Art Deco divas who rule Collins avenue, and the art teachers in mumus living in Coconut Grove.
LO-HI MAGAZINE
Tim O’Brien, Me #135, 2009
ISSUE 02
Arnaud Pagès, Havana Affairs, 2020
LO-HI MAGAZINE
I want to be spanked so hard I can feel again
Robert Andy Coombs, Master with Two Subs, 2017 Benjamin Fredrickson, Basement Wedgie, 2020 Benjamin Fredrickson, Anal Hook Wheelchair Wedgie, 2021
Having a great photoshoot is equally as hot as fu%$ing
ISSUE 02
Robert Andy Coombs, Untitled from Garden of Adam, 2020
Neil and Chris love to kvetch, aka complain. They’re frenemies, nay, snippy besties with a penchant for screaming at each other in public settings. Who knows how they met, but let’s just say these two have very big personalities that tend to shut up whomever they’re around. Naturally, we thought, what better way to waste time than to have them engage in a thoughtful dialogue with interesting victims… I mean subjects. For the inaugural (and likely last) edition of Kvetching, Neil and Chris sit down with Robert (“Bob”) Andy Coombs and Benjamin (“Ben,” duh) Fredrickson, two queer artists, to get the skinny on wedgies, social media, and other kinks. This little pow-wow session follows up on Garden of Adam, a site-specific installation and photo booth by Bob, curated by Neil and Chris, at last year’s Subtropical Affair exhibition by Good To Know.FYI during Miami Art Week 2020. Chris: All right, well now that we have all the parties gathered, we can start getting into the goody-good. Robert, you’re so lovely, always making everybody feel so comfortable around you. You make everybody around you feel normal, which is why we love you so much. Robert: I’m just a normal everyday gal. Chris: Who likes to be spanked really hard.
Neil: The wedgie press release. Ben: Wedgie press release, yes, you got it right there. Neil: That’s interesting. I was thinking, with all the stuff that’s been going on about Facebook and Instagram in the news, I was curious to get your take on how you use social media in your projects? Ben: I’ve always put my work out there, on the web. But with Instagram, the algorithms, and censorship, I think what works is finding the right balance. With this specific fetish work, the wedgies, there’s fabric involved, right? It kind of defies censorship in an interesting way. It’s exciting to try to figure out how make this erotic, sexy work that can defy censorship. I know Bob and I have both had issues with social media censoring us like a lot of queer artists do. Robert: I still make work where I know I’m not going to be able to show it online, just because I still want to make that work. It’s also fun making work where you can get away with that shit, you know what I mean? Artists like to restrict themselves on certain things in order to create good art. Whether it’s the equipment we use or just seeing what you can get away with on social media, it’s a good exercise. I think artists need those exercises in order to make good work. Chris: I want to hear about what part turns you guys on the most about receiving or giving a wedgie. Is the climax when you feel the lift?
Ben: And wedgied too. Robert: I want to be spanked so hard I can feel again. Neil: That’s the pull quote! Robert: I love that. Neil: I have so many questions for you, but I mostly want to cut off Chris, because he’s talking too much and it’s making me nervous. Ben, I want to know, how did the wedgie thing start? Like, do you remember the first wedgie you got? Ben: Yes. So, when I was a kid, I remember being chased and getting a wedgie from my older brother outside in the yard. But I think the whole wedgie thing evolved. I’ve always been photographing the male figure in my work. I love butts, and I just completed a project and really wanted to do figurative work. I was working with a model in my basement *corrects himself* in my dungeon basement studio. I had him in a leotard, and it was like, super stretchy. The fabric went in between his butt cheeks and it was super hot. He had this great tan line, and he was oiled up; it was just like everything made sense. From my point of view, he looked statuesque. It was one of those moments of realization, where you’re working on something and all the points come together, and it was like “Oh, this is great.” Over the pandemic, it evolved into doing Zoom wedgies and videos with people all over the world, but I still feel I have a lot to explore with it. So yes, that’s sort of my wedgie back story.
Robert: I mean for me, like I can’t feel it, so I don’t know what the sensation is like anymore. But I’m such an exhibitionist. Honestly, it was selfish for me, because I just wanted to be in Ben’s work so badly. I wanted to be that crippled faggot who got a wedgie, and because we’re both creatives, and we just have such a great friendship that our powers combined, and we were able to make something that was super interesting—not something that everyone sees every day. Neil: I love that. The other thing that you said that really resonated with me, is when you were talking about how you can’t feel the wedgie, but there’s something erotic in the voyeurism of it. Robert: And the act of doing it, like, it was just so hot to do. Whether I could feel it or not, it’s the moment and the chemistry and just like, yes, the whole thing was just so exhilarating, and that’s what I love about sex. Not just sex, but the creation of art is just so hot to me, it’s one of my turn-ons. Having a great photoshoot is equally as hot as fucking. Benjamin F.: It’s the best.
by Neil Vazquez Photography by Robert Andy Coombs and Benjamin Fredrickson
LO-HI MAGAZINE
SECURE
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1. On Instagram, navigate to the account listed on the right column.
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4. Questions with subjective answers will be judged on creativity and humor
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