issue 3 / nov ‘20
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orange blush zine
cover art image: White Head Bust in Museum by Jose Antonio Gallego Vรกzquez
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6 what is orange blush zine?
10 all of the art
74 contributor glossary & obz team
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When people think of us, we want them to think inclusive, eclectic, bold, welcoming, experimental. We like art that makes us feel things, art that makes us glad to be alive, art that reminds us why we create. We believe the word ‘artist’ is an umbrella term. If you make things — with your hands, your words, your surroundings — you’re an artist, and you’re more than welcome to consider this your home. You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like. Call your friends too. There is a light on for you here every night for as long as you need it. 6
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Orange Blush was created when artist Komal Keshran’s longing for an artistic sense of belonging led them to create an art space that dreamt of being all-inclusive, yet curated. Komal has been submitting their work to various journals and magazines for three years now, but they felt as though creating a new space, and inviting other people in would feel a lot more like home. (They were right.) They edit the Zine with Sophia William, Sangeetha Nyanasegeran and Jack Joseph at present.
Welcome to our third issue. There’s a lot of work within the pages of this issue that don’t fit into any boxes. We hope they inspire you to break out of your own boxes. We hope you love it. Thank you for stopping by. Will the last person to leave please turn out the lights?
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welcome to the issue.
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Sunsets Over Petaling Jaya by Aarani Diana I want to swallow the sunsets over my hometown. They’re all crisp tangerine, cotton candy strips across. I imagine they would taste sweet and familiar, filling up my body with that warm light. I imagine they would comfort me, embrace me from the inside out. I’d be wrapped in that burnt amber blossom, softened with the clouds. A blanket holding me, right in my home. Like the womb. I want to own a part of where I belong. Instead though, I lie watching them —so very hungry.
On Loneliness by Aarani Diana I want to know all the words in all of the languages —as I gaze out my window, the shadow of the leaves and the movement of the trees, how a garden can grow in the an empty city I think there’s a hidden language between people who understand each other, their movements like a long practiced dance, each coming and going, a spontaneous routine, every touch, new and rehearsed. all of my words, all of my education fail me at this language. why do we touch each other if not to remind ourselves that we are real? why do we reach out if not to experience love?
I want to know all the words in all of the languages —perhaps then we shall understand each other. 10
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by Rhian Bolton
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Laundry Lines by Rhian Bolton
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I am inspired by historical notions of femininity and the rituality of household chores. I've found with the days melding together into a hazy mess, my most lucid moments are while performing these rituals of washing, folding, hanging - and with this I have been questioning the role of myself in the home while I complete these tasks.
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Sickly Child by Alicia Cara Sickly child, Weak of constitution Indoor bound Grows tired Of only seeing the world From a window Curiosity is compelling Scent of fresh air Is tempting Working parents Don’t need to know Saved up trust Still miles to go Won’t leave the house Just want to see the world Up close Without glass barriers Feel with their own fingers Previously crossed Behind their back With a promise To keep warm Sickly child Breaks the rules For a single glimpse A couple of hours each day When no one is there To say
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Breathe by Natalia Lopes
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Luck Of The Irish by Lynn White The Irish love their horses. It’s a long tradition which survives urbanisation among young working class people in parts of Dublin, people seemingly like me. They take them along the city streets, into supermarkets, on buses, even up in the lift to their new home on the balcony of an apartment. The stories are legion. And the Irish love their stories.
But I was not like them. I couldn’t be part of that story. I find horses just too big, too strong, too high from the ground. Even on a seaside donkey I was afraid I’d take a tumble from the saddle or be nudged and trampled into the sand. I was sure that it was only by the luck of the Irish that I survived. Yes, Lady Luck loves the Irish. But I know for certain now that when I join that wild eyed horse on the balcony the luck of the Irish is bound to desert me.
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The Fall by Lynn White First published in Spillwords, October 2016 I’m running downhill running faster and faster. I’m crossing the bridge now, still running, running to the end of the bridge, trying to see the end. But there is no end and I’m falling now, falling, falling. falling into the arms of the demons below with their waving arms outstretched and their claws primed waiting to break my fall and swallow me up into their depths. I grasp at the air, cling to the wind flailing, falling. flailing. Then, I’m clinging to a hopeful ray of sunshine to carry me up, to take me with it into the light. Now I’m floating, floating, floating upwards or down. It’s not clear, am I still falling or am I floating upwards into the light. 17
orange blush zine
Bulb and Soju 1 With these incidental objects (a new vintage bulb and an untouched bottle of Soju) I was looking for a pretty accident of lens and light. You can get lost in the abstractions when you go on that kind of search, but then I found that trace of text, which I couldn't read -- it gave me an anchor, a place to orient the open space, but that was abstract to me as well, in its way. It felt like a brilliant discovery... I trust the text doesn't say anything embarrassing.
Bulb and Soju 2 A few clean edges to define the space, a hint of symmetry, and a trapped vortex of warm light... I don't have much to say for this one, whose shapes either speak to you, or remain silent. I don't want to start dancing about architecture.
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Orange Light by Lynn White First published in The Blue Nib, Issue 8,, July 2017
Orange is at the cheerful end of the spectrum. It should spill out it’s zest so I can live and love in a golden shower, taste exotic fruit, engulfed in an ecstasy of orange light, be part of a story with a happy ending, full of sunshine. Bright gleaming reds and yellows are not far away. Orange is their combination, inevitably. Yellow and red. Cowardly, acidic and dangerous when parted from each other. Colours have different moods when separated. As we do. So this palette can hide more than it reveals. And now it forms a mask on the face of black despair, a bright new dawn that breaks the surface, but one which is not wanted, not desired. A flash of lightening breaking up the continuum of my horizon. There’s a cloud of bright dust swirling in a stormy sky, with darkness following blocking out the sun, destroying the light Rain like tears must follow as the light disperses and the golden sun is cracked open to reveal it’s inner stone. This bright cloak of orange light is wrapped round me like a comfort blanket hiding my spilt zest in it’s brightness. Fear, sourness and hurt lie within, inseparable and undiminished by the brightness outside, the golden glow which is coating this time with sadness.
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Mummy by Erhan Us Criticism on disidentification of women by exploiting freedoms and preferences.
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Lies & Traditions by Erhan Us The artwork consists of two editions as paper and installation; focuses on all the hypocrite contents which are imposed to every individual, with its evolution in all ages, as fancy packings.
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whatever happened? by Linda M. Crate in your monochrome world of absolutes it is only black and white, you ignore all the other shades and vibrant hues of the universe; you search for reasons to divide people from you because you don’t want to admit your own vulnerabilities and flaws— it’s okay to let the innocent to take the blame for the guilty because in your world you are the only one doing good in the world, and you are the only one worthy of being respected even if you do not give respect; you want to say that the person with the opposite side of the opinion is evil or vile or oppressive because they do not have the same perspective— whatever happened to agreeing to disagree? whatever happened to civility?
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hoping my prayers are enough by Linda M. Crate i pray for futures where people can be respected for their accomplishments, character, and abilities; where their skin color or their religion or their sexuality isn’t more important than their very life— we are all blessed to be here, and each of us has a purpose; everyone has talents it’s a pity some are shoved into boxes or closets or live in fear of being killed simply for existing— i pray for a world where that doesn’t happen, hoping that my prayers will be enough.
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everyone should respect that by Linda M. Crate i dream of futures where everyone has autonomy over themselves, and dreams are more frequent than nightmares;
where the fragrance of flowers is something people can focus on and sorrows are less than they are now— i dream of futures where everyone can be recognized for their talents and abilities
a person defines themselves everyone should respect that.
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I Loved You by Valerie Lau She took inspiration for this painting from The Creation of Adam. It originally was an ink drawing but she painted over it. She was tied in a toxic relationship while painting this but she didn't realise it till later. She thinks it was a subconscious thing.
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Mirage of Nehalennia by Samuel Strathman A swarm of x-ray thunder smatters purple clouds. The S.S. Daltry skips and kerplunks through waves, retch and pull of a tempest. Nehalennia rises, lifts the yacht to a sky temple made from gin bottles, scrapes the excess water off starboard. Her alloyed palms land us back to sea, only to meet whirlwinds that strand us on an unmarked island. The gale brings water snakes that eat us half to death. We wander zombified until we’re rescued by the military. Now that we’re out of surgery, we amount to one hell of a white suit worthy of Graceland.
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Woodlands by Samuel Strathman Larches are a cocoon, thunderclaps irradiating the mausoleum of dead fauna. High on the mountaintop, echoes a madrigal anthem firing from all tendrils – closest thing to sirens out here.
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Stasis by Samuel Strathman Waves from two separate oceans converge inside of me, obliterating the island. I lapse further and further into myself, an embryo in stasis, internal susurrus of wishful thinking.
Transition to a less stressful career, inverted arrangements.
Change can only happen when the blame game gets dropped from the equation.
Meet a tall tale named Bob, and be prone to disappointment,
Reach. Hold on to what looks safe. I choose a lathe, add a wedge that causes a schism between confident self and true confidence.
mutual irreverence. Bob puts all relationships through the wringer, jealousy, hypocrisy – They were just a volunteer.
I’d never do that to you again. Pure sublimation! It is easy to spin circles around a fork in the road until it’s not.
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Approximation by Alexandra Grunberg
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Women’s Vociferation by Thais Lopes Like ashes, like oceans gathering themselves, the chilling wind of rage rattles my bones. No longer stifled, timid sparrow, wasps explode from my mouth. Like dust, like crippled, battered birds, victims are silenced. But no more. How dare those lions, roaring, and tearing at our wings, they forget we form the gold of their crowns. Like storm, like strong howling flame, we shall claim our rightful perch. Caged doves of the master, prepare the tempest, sing the song faster. Like shouts, like one heaving united chorus, our voices ring as one. No lion shall rule us now. Like ashes, like oceans gathering themselves, the chilling wind of rage rattles my bones.
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Untitled by Thais Lopes Marginalized mothers on the rise Hungry for justice, tired from the fight Beaten down but still on their feet. Holding each other close as they moan their Children’s names. Tears flowing from their eyes Bloodshot in the hot sun. Another one stolen from them Taken away to God knows where. “We can’t find them.” they say, “Nowhere to be seen.” As they shove the mothers through the wall. “No.” the mothers cry. “Not without our babies.” But silence as they pass through the wall Where the corpses of their children lay. And they all fall to their knees and wail.
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Afropunk by Vijit Kumar
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Sunshine by Vijit Kumar Humans have this wonderful tendency to provide with a feel of home, of joy, of happiness, of hope and of love. Through this artwork I aimed to portray the invaluable capacity of humans to act as a ray of sunshine in times of despair and sadness in the lives of their loved ones.
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Stomacher by Rebecca Aldam A spider’s web embellishes the stomacher; it gleams and winks as the wearer turns with slow deliberation. Cautious, hiding the pains of pins and points. Why arachnid, over floral or pastoral patterns? You may as well ask, why not a sequinned leotard? The triumvirate enmeshment of her father, her brother and her betrothed tie her tightly with silk ribbons. As is the fashion, every move is halted by spikes into soft flesh. Blood, money and obedience: the Trimurtiarchy. Embroidered with coloured silks and lined with braid, her life is designed. Complete as the tapestry framed by ribs. Unmoving stitches. Unmoved by salted cheekbones or jawlines, or cold, shiny throats. The fingers that pull deftly at that needle wrap the ages in twinkling thread. I am wound in silk. You are bound in braid. The Others appear to have broken the silks. It seems they wish to tear the bodice, exposing sad flesh, red-marked corseted indents. But the sempsters have them too, by the same noose-like reeling. Not us, nor they, wind the bobbin up. And so, what shall we do today? Smell the sugary fuzz of an August-ripened peach; see a heart shaped smudge in the suncream-smeared rug; listen with patient, raised ears to the plaintive insistence of the buzzard thermalling.
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It is not the consequential by Rebecca Aldam It is not the consequential I wish I could tell her. Like, I have met a person; he is the kettle and the floor-to-ceiling bookcase. It is the so-little. Like, today the Smallest One winked – extremely seriously – with both eyes. Such as, the valley seemed alight as I reached the crown of the hill; sun catching leaves twirling. As I catch myself telling myself I’ll tell her. Reminding myself I can’t.
The Fractal Family by Rebecca Aldam I see how people look. It’s difficult for them to strike a benign smile. Sometimes I think we still Live between the twitching net curtains. When people trope away about not Caring what others think; Not living your life the way others tell you It should be; Love is the whole agenda; That sort of thing. Did you know? They don’t mean it. This pressure of (what feels like) the world, Swings its full force to slap your cheek It’s easier to be Atlas – steady, staid, shouldered. The children we must, be hurting the children. They’re the light right now, but they’ll get older. I mither the bed sheets in a panic With a hand whisk churning and clattering My mother-belly. But the light of day shrugs And the family we chose rubs along.
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Killer Perfume by Patricia Walsh It’s a good costume, being dressed for the job, Switching the heating on to claim expense Not appropriate to cling to, to a deadbeat heartbeat Recounting the days we died to Ireland The free market exploding in an inkling Wasted love a gift that keeps on giving. Rotten to the marrow, persuading all else, We don’t do things like that, knocked-off interruptions Miffed at exclusion, from tales of celebration The uninvited witch spells disaster for all This photographic percentage rules the breaks Kissed out of measure, plotting the demise No right to depression, question of geography, The backstreet broadside a beautiful turn Cracked onto beautifully at the sound of sunlight Faltering into the mornings a weakened state Forgetting the said universe, blow-up supremacy The hardened sympathies run riot in tandem. Crippled in enjoyment, a hard station realised, Spoken up to, decried, a blog undercovered Separating times and misdemeanours gladly Watering same the dark wheels of belonging Not really a monster, the about-turn abiding Tangentially good, licked clean as always.
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Dove Orchids by Natalia Lopes
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Advice to Adolescent Boys with Curly Hair and Messy Handwriting (after Jeanann Verlee) by Landon Generally When your guidance counselor takes you out of class and asks you if you have contemplated suicide, do not close in on yourself.
When the pretty girl with a voice like honey and lips that taste even sweeter refuses to hold your hand in public, learn how to hold your own hand when no one else will. When the handsome boy with ink for hair and glaciers for eyes goes with someone else to the dance you invited him to, do not leave when you see them. This will not be your first lesson in being someone else’s second choice. When your friend’s father remarks that you have the appetite of a bird, do not attempt to adopt a hummingbird heartbeat. It is impossible to sustain yourself on promises that you’ll see your skeleton if you just try hard enough. When you are in high school and your boyfriend (who is four years your senior and seems more monster than man) mentions how your sweetness got him drunk, do not offer to stay the night and nurse his hangover. You are 14 years old, far too young to know that he just wants to take your body from you. When you are in high school and your boyfriend (who is four years your senior and seems more monster than man) continuously runs his tongue over his teeth, do not imagine how it would feel to have them draw your blood; he only likes the hunt when his prey is unwilling.
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When your doctor signs you up for therapy, go. You may not think that you need the help but trust me, You need the help and you will be better off for it. When your father all but disowns you and then reprimands you for standing up for yourself, do not lower your voice. You may think that you are obligated to but trust me, you are not and you will be better off for it. When you grow out of dresses and hair bows and grow into suits and ties, do not be afraid. You do not know what “transgender” is yet, you don’t know why this difference feels so right, but know that your childhood self does not need to die just for you to be able to breathe. When you start seeing yourself as an actual person, learn to embrace the feeling. Learn to embrace the scarred arms and the scraped knees and the poetry that you write while everyone else is asleep. When your guidance counselor takes you out of class and asks you if you have contemplated suicide, do not close in on yourself. No matter how much it hurts, be honest. And then, no matter how much it hurts, Live.
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The Last Day Of June by Landon Generally The glamour fades too quickly But doesn’t it always? The rainbow feels like a new sunrise after a cloudy night, all of the mottos and rallying cries give you a place to belong But it still seems like the police are keeping too close of a watch. It is always an internal struggle Wanting flags and T-shirts to scream of your queer loud and clear But knowing that moguls only brand with your slogan as long as it pays. Love is love - for a few weeks and then you’re cast aside as greedy for asking for an after party that you weren’t even invited to.
But there is no greed here, there is only acceptance. On your walk home your saliva turns sour at the implied funerals for all the identities that have to play hide and seek in the closet for another year. The first pride was a riot. Sometimes you think it should still be one. Still a proclamation that pride never dies Still a protest for everyone else to hear That no matter how many bricks are thrown as us That we are And will always be Here.
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Creation by Landon Generally And the billboard asks me to “Discover why God created me” Invites me to a church that’ll be on my right if I take the next exit and I have to hold back a laugh. Because I haven't been to church in years. Not since my friend’s pastor looked down his nose at me for wearing a necktie; he made sure to denounce “queerdom” in his sermon. But here I am, Shedding the skin of who my birth made me out to be and letting it fall just like a snake. I imagine building a church for all that is deemed unholy Everything imperfect, An uneven number of pews, The cross splintered and crooked, and telling it “I’m sorry. You will enter the world now and it will not be pleasant but you must stay standing.” The same way I imagine God creating me and telling me “I’m sorry. You will enter the world now and they will say that you are wrong but you must stay standing.” But God will never say that to me because he doesn’t know me anymore. And I will never say that to a church because I know to only worship at my own altar.
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Golden Hour in a Lisbon Street by Ashley Darran Both of these works have been inspired by my own photography from my travels around the world (both of these being from separate trips to Portugal). Both of which I have tried to capture the warmth and joy I felt from standing in those places and being about to enjoy the culture around me.
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Sunset on a Beach in Porto by Ashley Darran
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BEFORE by Sally Connors I’m walking through a forest The trees that I adore They turn and smile upon me They’ve seen me here before When faced with ambiguity I always ask for more I love puzzles, not for nothing I’ve been here before The honeyed lies that are so sweet
The panic overtakes me It chills me to the core
When from your lips they pour I’m in love with deception I’ve tasted it before.
Your heart is cold, your eyes are cold I know them from before
You’re always in my head
Tomorrow comes so quickly And yesterday will roar
Obsessively what’s more You fascinate me endlessly As you have before
It’s rage and grief like thunder As it always has before Mercy for the thousandth time I silently implore The stone God that I worship I know him from before I rush toward lights that blind me And throw open the door To see a grey and silent room That I have seen before I weep and curse you shamelessly I whimper like a whore And all will crumble as it has So many times before
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Eternity by Jesse Miksic Catching a perfect moment is a common aspiration for all types of visual artists (not the only motive, but still at the top of the list). I was searching for that when I took this photo... and I would not have anticipated that perfect moment to come in the form of an awkward, almost comical "nosetouch" between the bird and the sculpture. But I think it's the departure that really sets it apart, the fact that the "perfect moment" that landed on the sensor was perfect in a way that's strange, and accidental, and completely irreproducible.
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Cupid and Psyche by Manuel Delgado This artwork belongs to the project 'Painthical'; an ongoing series of inclusive poems (English and Braille) conceived to represent the content of famous Dutch classical paintings from the XV to XVII centuries in a nondogmatic public-neutral interactive way. In that sense, by representing, this is, not describing, the elements of one pictured piece, Painthical seeks not only to prepare each reader to better embrace the final piece of art, but also to boost the transition from being a reader to becoming a viewer.
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The Art, Herself by Vijit Kumar The Art, Herself - I gather inspiration for my art from artists who don’t specialize in my area of expertise because that helps me understand and appreciate other art forms. This is my friend, she is a dancer and she has always inspired me with her art, passion and perseverance. An artist that never fails to inspire me, she is thus The Art, Herself.
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Desire by Prajakta Paranjpe Desire is a pretzelThat dense, chewy, better than nothing option To usually soft, pliant bread. It’s a twisted art form To never dream, much less want, or ask upfront For a love so airy it will rise Naturally, like warm dough. For let it not be said that we weren’t warned! To be careful what we wish for Lest, ironically, it came true As a grotesque form of things one must do! And have it called ‘making love’ too! How else did possibilities become prisons Of dead dreams, Festering desires grown venomous, Forgotten, by one’s own forgotten self!
Directions closed in, that fire In the pit of the stomach - squashed, Horizons beyond gaze Put out. Yet I accost it out of the blue, Walking on a city avenue, A chewy persistence It unfurls- surprisingly sudden Desire, a dance, a fleeting glance, An animal, once alive Now buried under the debris of acculturationIn a dull, sepia stupor of everyday obstruction, Baked until almost dry. Desire, a poem of reversals and meeting points Of licking salty lips and digging teeth into A craving. That reminds me how hungry I am To become newly acquainted With myself.
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Love by Natalia Lopes
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A year changes you a lot by Geneviève Dumas I got the "push" to start taking seriously my art career when I discovered that I had kind of the same sweater at Lady Diana on that collage. It's a funny story and I started creating a lot of collage with the images of her, wearing that sweater. It's pretty much an anesthetic piece.
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Connection by Geneviève Dumas This past spring and summer 2020, I somehow develop a connection with Toronto (I'm based in Montreal, like 600km aways). So this piece represented the nostalgia of my summer and how my life is now involving around that city.
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The Bedside Book of Midi-chlorians by Glen Armstrong Omar considers breaking up with Star Wars. They only do it every three years, and he clearly invests more in their relationship than the franchise does. He could focus his attention on Europe or drinking craft beers or starting a family . . . Some friends of his camp and attend three-day rock concerts. It’s hard to say what the continent feels about the relative stagnation of its drift, but Omar feels that he’s at the end of something. A gunmetal grey tuxedo goes on sale. A pastry chef deletes her Facebook page. There are micro-traces of imaginary racecar exhaust in each of our cellular racetracks. Like love, there’s no proof that they exist, and then something happens, and they do. 52
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Free Books by Glen Armstrong Light temporarily turns the words of an old philosopher into a beautiful young woman she steals a paperback that the bookstore owner was about to move from the shelf to a box in front of the door marked FREE BOOKS light softens edges and assures that the eggs are blended into the mayonnaise there is no trace of yellow light conversely reveals the cracks surrounds the previous owner’s suggestive margin note the book has little to no intrinsic value.
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Year of the Sea Monkey CLVIII by Glen Armstrong I try the hypnosis that starts with a spinning spiral and continues with a deep male voice welcoming us to some deep state, new and bizarre and beyond. The other side of the wheel promises little and nearly delivers. I am still disorientated. I think I’m a chicken sandwich. My sweetheart? A chocolate malt. No fingers snap me out of this high contrast that starts out designed as if by French curves and protractors. The Ferris wheel turns, and I end up universal, as scatterbrained in my focus and any other cult member.
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Untitled by Alexander Daniels Escobar 48in x 36in/121.92cm x 91.44cm. Acrylic paint mixed with heavy gloss gel on canvas.
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Heavy Collapse by Laura Harper Lake Using vintage atlas pages of world maps and watercolors, I wanted to create a connection between potent, overwhelming emotions and how the human form can express them, without using facial expressions. It has been a stressful year, where many of us are feeling a flood of these kinds of emotions. I particularly miss traveling, as the world became much smaller through quarantine and shut downs, so the atlas maps were a way to relate that aspect
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World Sick by Laura Harper Lake
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O Hope by Aldo Quagliotti as light filtered through the crack our faces densely packed with ragged-looking petals were similar to a burgundy variety of sunset we were tangling our majestic spires hands floating like flies falling like spiders along our arms a new day was starting, we were recovering from the night in quarantine debating what season would come next right inside our room a sweaty summer of enveloped bodies or a myriad of autumny impervious clouds Your heavenly fragrance could wake up your own dormancy that feathery smile I hold mirrors your eyebrows, so upward-looking I decided that your wisdom, o God would suit spring better Your heavenly fragrance could wake up my own dormancy that feathery smile I hold mirrors your eyebrows, so upward-looking so I covered you with gratitude to replenish my rebirth You velvety splendor Draping symmetry
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Untitled by Jose Manuel Cordovez
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LIVE by Paul Michael My explorations are centered around ideas on communication, empathy, and understanding. LIVE, is an examination of the Instagram livestream, a space that is both very public yet personal. Since the pandemic took root in the US, I feel like I have been watching the world through this lens. Painting the livestreams of the people I follow allows me to slow down fleeting moments of conversation and imagine myself being present in that space.
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LIVE by Paul Michael
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ACCIDENTS WILL HAPPEN by Michael Gigandet Dear Cynthia,
I don’t blame you for not wanting to see me after all you’ve been through. Not one bit. At first, I thought you didn’t want to see me because of your full body cast. I hope it doesn’t sound chauvinistic if I say women are more vain than men about things like that. It’s part of their charm. That’s what I was thinking, but then your mother told me you said that I could “drop dead”, and I knew you were mad. Later I got to speculating about that: How could you tell me to “drop dead” with all of those wires holding your jaw together? You know how your mother never liked me. She just might have told me to “drop dead” and said it came from you. Does this remind you of Romeo and Juliet? That is what I am thinking. I think it is important in a relationship to be honest so here goes. I take full responsibility for convincing you to get on that skateboard. I just got caught up with everyone else at the party. Admit it, you were having a wonderful time too. I know how the Tequila shots affected me, and I can guess what they did to you since you never drink anything stronger than your beloved dessert wines. Still, I had no business talking you into getting on that skateboard. But you can see that my judgment (like yours my darling) was affected by the alcohol. We both should know the basics of skateboard physics. Obviously a steep hill like that? A skateboard? And why did no one else step up and say “That’s a really steep hill” instead of standing there on the porch like spectators at the circus?
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You can understand the alcohol affecting our ability to consider all the relevant factors like, and I mean this scientifically, you know it has never bothered me, a person’s weight. Healthier people are going to gain more momentum on a hill like that. If it is any consolation none of the gang has ever seen anyone ride a skateboard that fast. Everybody commented on that after the ambulance left. I was amazed at how long you rode upright on the thing. You must have traveled an entire football field…when your ride concluded. Sandra won our little lottery on how many bones you broke. I didn’t even place. Heck I didn’t know the human body had that many bones. There is some good news. This morning when I went to get my skateboard back from that department store, (They’re having a sale by the way. 50% off on selected items. I bought a rug and two super cushiony pillows for my apartment.) anyway, the manager said the store will not make you pay for their show window. Personally, I don’t see why they make glass that big. That’s an accident waiting to happen if you ask me. Cheer up darling, things are looking up.
Love, Norman.
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what they don’t tell you about having a vivid imagination by Emily Mayled you just have a vivid imagination is what teachers used to tell me. to my parents, you should encourage her to write. what they could not explain, however, was how i could bring forth emotion in the same way the young girl sat next to me could picture an apple. no one knew why i chose to make myself sob when i imagined myself breaking up with a girl i’d never met. neither could they explain how i would stop crying at the very moment i pictured the same girl telling me she loved me. i feel deeply. and passionately. and i desire in the same manner. i want nothing more than the love i invented for myself and the girl i met in kew gardens. i don’t know if she exists. and i’m unsure that that type of love truly does either, but i have always found comfort in the abyss of emotions i can so easily call up from the pit of my stomach. if the girl i met on tinder can’t love me the way i need her to, then i shall have to keep doing it myself. at least i am good at writing maybe one day.
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redemption by Emily Mayled there is nothing more powerful than the feeling of revival i take a heavy breath, the stars hold theirs they know who i’m supposed to be and what i’m capable of a born-again woman no longer a false night sky instead, the fog lifts and reveals a post-apocalyptic mindset where i am no longer sinking into my own personal hell a born-again angel, reverse the tape and this time i fall straight into heaven as i go, regurgitate my darkest emotions to find those who shared my story as well as my pain god bless them. our own redemption arcs the stars are smiling now.
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casual magic by Emily Mayled beauty and the power of legs when you fill them with music when in doubt dance around your room until you collapse into a breathless b major i heard lyrical agony is the best kind …and eventually you will bloom but for now i know how you spend your days listening to Gus Dapperton in a cannabis induced trance funny that, weed doesn’t mask the stench of emotional torment. turn the volume up if red walls and the power of your own melodic lungs can’t stop you from screaming i don’t have enough serotonin even for a short while then everything i thought i knew makes me a fraud turn the volume up i don’t have enough serotonin so scream liquid chords to the clouds and pretend you do casual magic.
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The orange by Lucas Zulu She’s born an orange amongst the peaches, pears, pomegranates, plantains plums, paw-paws and other fruits. The yellow oval fruit constantly undermines her orange mien, poking at her visage with a gesture of disapproval that anticipates to poison her confidence with its lexical prickles that bumps into her thick skin. Her belief in herself is enough and doesn’t go out seeking validation and not easily intimidated by any sour fruits. When she walks she steps with a lofty proud gait on her line despite a note of discouragement from other grapes’ perspectives. Seeming content with her orange life and see no reason to be another kumquat or lime or tangerine or grapefruit. Her taste is one of those sweet oranges that never leaves you feeling bitter as much as she’s not all things to all fruits.
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that’s all of the art.
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here’s all of the artists.
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Aarani Diana Aarani Diana is a new Malaysian-Indian writer and poet. She is nineteen years old and has been writing for most of her life. She is a full-time college student and lives in her hometown of Petaling Jaya, Malaysia with her family, including her cat, Ziggy. She runs a literature blog, sparkoftheflames.wordpress.com where she shares essays and poems, and is active on her twitter @aaranistar
Aldo Quagliotti Aldo Quagliotti is an Italian poet, born in a small town in northern Italy and raised near a lake that accompanied his endless afternoons of solitude populated by intermittent voices and cumbersome dreams. Prone to rebellion, he used his tongue as a pair of scissors to carve out a corner of the universe in which he could live and he soon became renowned for poetry: he came across it at conferences he sneaked into in Cambridge and at the Husky races that he loved watching at night during his stay in Austria. Disobedient and allergic to labels, he decided to live in London, where he attended the music critic course and thanks to which he now works as an aspiring music critic for the international magazine, Peek a boo. After several publications in Italy, which were written up in numerous poetry competitions, he decided to write a book that collects all his poems written in English. This was how his first anthology, Japanese Tosa, came about, a sinister journey into human emotions that escapes the definitions of everyday life and climbs in a timid attempt to reaffirm the universality of every anger and acrimony and the sacredness of each time we fall in love.
Alexander Daniels Escobar
Alexandra Grunberg Alexandra Grunberg is a Glasgow based poet, author, and screenwriter. Her poetry has appeared in Honey & Lime, Red Eft Review, and From Glasgow to Saturn. AlexandraGrunberg.weebly.com.
Alicia Cara Alicia Cara is an artist and poet hailing from Scotland. Her work centres around personal desires and internal conflicts. Her work can be also be seen in The Unpublishable Zine, Break Pamphlet published by Eye Flash Poetry and at The Daily Drunk Mag. Or at her personal twitter:@aliciacaracreat
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Ashley Darran Ashley Darran is a string artist who takes inspiration from his own personal admirations and travel experiences. He aims to create a rich tapestry of feelings and wonder both within the artwork and as a treat for your eyes. Each piece of subtly modelled art work is seen as a device for progression, to test and explore the dimensions of the materials he works with, using nothing more than string, nails and locally sourced and reclaimed wood as a raw natural canvas. He enjoys developing a sense of depth through careful toning and layering to ensure that your eye will notice different details as you move around a room, creating your own aesthetic narrative.
Emily Mayled Emily Mayled is a queer poet and student from the Forest of Dean in Gloucestershire. Through her writing she aims to convey the contemporary teen experience. Her primary goal is to inspire other young creatives to use their art and writing as a means to help them process their own experiences and emotions. Above anything else, she believes that having a creative outlet is truly vital and writing from a place of discomfort can often produce magical results.
Erhan Us Conceptual artist and author. 1987, Ankara. After Bilkent University TH Management; he was granted to 25+ local and international / honorary awards, with respect to his eleven NGO presidency and marketing projects. Participated in 70+ exhibitions in 20+ countries. He continues his studies on Sociology & Philosophy at Istanbul and Anadolu Universities. Us is a member of Photographic & Visual Arts Federations, whose book Digital Prestige was published in '18.
Geneviève Dumas Geneviève Dumas is a Montreal based printmaker artist behind the brand Goldengen. She's using collage and screen printing to build up momentum and stories.
Glen Armstrong Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has two current books of poems: Invisible Histories and The New Vaudeville. His work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Conduit, and Cream City Review.
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Jesse Miksic Jesse Miksic is a graphic designer and writer living in Peekskill, New York. He spends his life writing poetry, nursing unfinished projects, and having adventures with his wonderful wife and daughter. Recent placements include Juke Joint, Bodega Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic, and others.
Jose Manuel Cordovez “Photography is the story I fail to put in words” - Destin Sparks. This quote is the only thing that the viewer needs to know to understand Jose, He believes that it’s a photographer’s duty to create a story with the pictures that he takes, and it’s the viewers' job to interpret the story.
Landon Generally Landon Generally is a German-American poet from North Carolina who writes and performs poetry. He was a semi-finalist in the running for Fayetteville’s Detour slam team. His poems often focus on his experiences and struggles with mental illness, as well as his experiences as a young queer man of color. Generally would like to one day tour to perform his poetry. Visit him on Instagram at @landon_thepoet.
Laura Harper Lake Laura Harper Lake of Artful Harper Studios is an interdisciplinary artist who is passionate about being a creative. This thirst for creativity has been with Laura since she was a youngster and that grew into a viable future after attending and graduating from the charming Chester College of New England. Laura began her official business as an artist under the name Artful Harper Studios in 2016, has displayed her work in various galleries throughout New England, and is a permanent artist represented at the Art Up Front Street Gallery in Exeter, NH. Laura also co-hosts a podcast, Creative Guts, that interviews other creatives from all disciplines and explores what we’re all striving to communicate through our craft. Laura resides in a quaint little town on the darling New Hampshire seacoast, filled to the brim with natural beauty, with her dashing husband, a plucky pup with boundless energy, and an omniscient feline who truly runs the show.
Linda M. Crate Linda M. Crate's works have been published in numerous magazines and anthologies both online and in print. She is the author of six poetry chapbooks, the latest of which is: More Than Bone Music (Clare Songbirds Publishing House, March 2019). She's also the author of the novel Phoenix Tears (Czykmate Books, June 2018). Recently she has published two full-length poetry collections Vampire Daughter (Dark Gatekeeper Gaming, February 2020) and The Sweetest Blood (Cyberwit, February 2020). 77
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Lucas Zulu Lucas Zulu is a South African poet whose works has been published in Carapace and Stanzas and New Coin and The Kalahari Review and Africa! My Africa! 2012, South Africa and Fundza, Watch My Rising A Recovery Anthology, Tulip Tree Publishing 2016, USA .Universal Oneness Anthology of Magnum Opus poems from around the world, Authors Press, 2019, India , Naturally Africa! Sun Press 2019, The Best New African Poets 2015, 2016, 2017 Brain of Forgetting Issue, Three, Islands, Ireland .Orange Blush Zine, Trouvaille Review, Litterateur, The Tiger Moth Review and in various anthologies. His native of Siyabuswa, at the age of ten he relocated to Emalahleni, Kwa-Guqa, Hlalanikahle, Mpumalanga Province of South Africa. He studied Transportation Management at the University of Johannesburg.
Lynn White Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She was shortlisted in the Theatre Cloud 'War Poetry for Today' competition and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Rhysling Award. Her poetry has appeared in many publications including: Apogee, Firewords, Capsule Stories, Light Journal and So It Goes. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https:// www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/
Manuel Delgado A Brussels-based Spanish artist, Manuel Delgado is a visual poet. He aims to develop expansive and innovative modes of writing about, with and as art, taking advantage of his theoretical basis in Law, Political Science and Philosophy.
Michael Gigandet Michael Gigandet is a lawyer living on a farm in middle Tennessee. He has a JD degree from Vanderbilt University and has been published by the Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Reedsy, Spelk Fiction and Potato Soup Journal. He recently had a story published in a Palm Sized Press anthology and two stories selected for upcoming anthologies with Pure Slush.
Natalia Lopes Natalia is an illustrator and indie comics artist whose work deals with the eerie and nightmarish. She successfully crowdfunded her first Kickstarter in late 2019 with a horror anthology called Paroxysm. Since then she has collaborated on various horror and eerie-related projects, including a poetry and art zine titled The Chilling Wind of Rage Rattles my Bones, and is working on releasing some new short horror comics. 78
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Patricia Walsh Patricia Walsh was born in the parish of Burnfort, Co Cork,and educated at University College Cork, graduating with an MA in Archaeology. Her poetry has been published in Stony Thursday; Southword; Narrator International; Third Point Press, Revival Journal; Seventh Quarry; Hesterglock Press; The Quarryman; Unlikely Stories; and Otherwise Engaged. She has already published a chapbook, titled Continuity Errors in 2010, and a novel, The Quest for Lost Éire, in 2014. A further collection of poetry, titled Outstanding Balance, is scheduled for publication in early 2021. She was the featured poet in the inaugural edition of Fishbowl Magazine, and is a regular attendee at the O Bheal poetry night in Cork city.
Paul Michael Paul Michael is a printmaker and video artist working in Connecticut who explores notions of attention and presence. His work focuses on the transfer of information between people, misunderstandings, and the desire for connection. By highlighting and sometimes interrupting the way in which people interact Paul explores the mechanics of how empathy is constructed. Paul received a BFA from the Lyme Academy College of Fine Arts where he was a recipient of the Chandler Scholarship. He is currently an MFA candidate in studio art at the University of Connecticut (UConn). Recent exhibitions include the Newport Annual at the Newport Art Museum (RI), Being Without Being at the Alexey von Schlippe Gallery (CT), and Circuits at the Marquee Gallery in New London (CT). Additionally, Paul is a student in the Arts Leadership and Cultural Management Graduate Certificate program at UConn.
Prajakta Paranjpe Prajakta likes to describe herself as a 'little fish in the ocean of multilingual currents,’ because she grew up in India, learning and loving 3 different languages, and to this day, she considers that love of various languages and their colorful literature as her defining quality. Her name, Prajakta (kinda like the word 'project' with an 'a' tacked on the end), comes from a unique flower, said to have descended from heaven, straight out of mythology. The more 'earthly' detail, however, is that it blooms in early winter in India, and as the family story goes, there was a mosaic of Prajakta flowers in the front-yard the day she was born. An English educator in New Jersey, US since 2008, she aims at kindling a love for reading and writing in her students. She’s obtained an M.Phil from Pune University, with a thesis focused on ‘A Feminist Reading of Chekhov’s Tragi-Comedies,’ (2006) followed by a Masters in Education from Rutgers University (2008). Her extensive training in Hindustani Classical music proves to be a constant source of inspiration. She blogs in English and Marathi, on aavarta.blogspot.com and aavarta.wordpress.com, under the name ‘Vishakha.' Undertaking translations that aspire to bridge cultural gaps between the two home countries is her forte. 79
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Rebecca Aldam Rebecca she/her Twitter: @bekialdam Rebecca has written a few things, taught a fair few students, also mothers a couple of small humans. But mostly she reads, or wishes she was reading.
Rhian Bolton Rhian is a multi-disciplinary Welsh artist concentrating on the experience of the everyday. With an inclination towards drapery and it's expressive nature, the beauty of the banal is explored through bedsheets, laundry and rituals of washing.
Sally Connors Sally Connors is an actor and writer living in the Bronx, NY. She has written a children's book: The Diary of Fluffy and several one acts that have been produced off off Broadway. She is grateful to be healthy in these perilous times and hopes that all of you are too.
Samuel Strathman Samuel Strathman is a poet, author, educator, and the founder/editorin-chief of Floodlight Editions.
Thais Lopes Thais Lopes is an artist, storyteller and poet. She loves her cats (Nancy and Ian) and her wife Jocelyn. While enjoying mostly cute things, she has been able to tap into her dark side for the poem she contributed to Paroxysm, a horror zine her sister Natalia Lopes started. Since then, she has written poetry for a nightmare-themed zine and is once again writing for the second volume of Paroxysm. She is currently working on a script for an alternative reimagining of Beauty and the Beast, and hopes you will also check out her adorable cat zine at mystopress.com.
Valerie Lau Valerie is a 20 year old Accounting student that picks up a paint brush instead of dealing with her problems and feelings. She has never formally studied art but she mostly learns by observing other artworks. Every art piece she has painted/drawn is inspired by another art piece (paintings, movies or music). Someday she hopes to sell her paintings but she settles on being an accountant. She actually likes accounting too.
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Vijit Kumar Vijit Kumar is a Delhi based multimedia artist working with digital art, graphics and photography. He wants to work as a cinematographer or a director too in films or documentaries in the future. He believes art tells us stories, they are meant to be personal pieces of work which capture the ethos and personality of the subject and the artist. He feels that art is something that is made to evoke some sort of emotion from either self or the audience. It is something that should be made with an emotional bond. Something that makes people think and maybe even start a conversation. For him, the ultimate objective of any art should be to amplify the voices of the unheard, the voiceless. To provide them with a medium to share their experiences and stories that makes us understand their perspective and help us understand our privilege. As an artist, Vijit feels that the digital is a very powerful medium with the capacity to move people, markets and minds. That is why the work that he does revolves around the personal bond that he makes to ensure that the ideas translate into powerful and meaningful images. Whether it is digital art, graphic design or photography or film making, Vijit believes that a personalized touch creates emotions that have an impact on the audience.
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Komal Keshran Komal Keshran is a young artist from Malaysia. Their work has appeared in APIARY Magazine, The Write Launch and Apeiron Review among others. They are also the creator and editor of Orange Blush Zine. Read their work online at malandthemoon.tumblr.com/poetry.
Jack Joseph Jack Joseph is a fine art student at Plymouth College of Art, England. His work often references his experience with dysphoria and societal expectations of masculinity and femininity, beauty and the ugly, developing distinct aesthetics through unique techniques. His work is created through a multifaceted process of photography, illustration, animation and other digital mediums; forming imagery which appears to be in some liminal space and often grotesque, unsettling or peculiar.
Sophia William Sophia William gives emotional support to the other editors.
Sangeetha Nyanasegeran Sangeetha Nyanasegeran has always been fascinated by any form of art, whether it be poetry, music or even a simple sketch. In something that many people have taken for granted, she needs these things to be and feel alive. They help her articulate or visualise what she is feeling, they help her experience things without physically doing anything and they make her feel less alone. Unfortunately, she does not have an artistic bone in her body, or maybe she has, who knows? Only time will tell. She is incredibly grateful for her dearest friend, Komal Keshran for creating such an amazing platform for people to showcase their art and grateful that they have allowed her to part of it.
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To the 30 artists who contributed their incredible art to this issue — thank you. For believing in a small independent publication, for living for the arts, for your trust and support.
Here’s to art — may there always be way too much of it in the world.
Thank you for choosing to support a small online publication, and thank you for experiencing this issue with us. Consider sharing it with a loved one, or even a stranger.
If you’d like to further support us, you could send some submissions to our inbox, send us a small $2 tip on Ko-fi, or engage with us on social media.
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