Carrier Pigeon #17 Volume 5 Issue 1

Sport of Kings

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Written By: RIT BOTTORF Illustrated By: Andre Da Loba

Fabienne Lasserre

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Premonition

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Written By: Rudy Ravindra Illustrated By: Valera Ishakov

Han Jimin

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More than Enough

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Written By: Lorenzo Cabello Illustrated By: Dylan LaPointe

Ruth Marten

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The Amazing Hancock Brothers

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Written & Illustrated By: John & James Hancock

Beth Sutherland

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Five More Minutes

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Written By: Jacob Mendelsohn Illustrated By: A.J. Springer

Hans De Wit

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The Trees of Echols County

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Written By: Matt Braynard Illustrated By: Lauren Goldstein

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Michael McKeown

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RB ADL

SPORT OF KINGS 1 CP-17

I l l u s t r a t e d b y : A N D R E DA LO BA

SPORT OF KINGS

W r i t t e n b y : R I T B OT TO R F

RIT BOTTORF | ANDRE DA LOBA 2

I swam through my unconscious, battling fleeting magnifying glass. “Go on,” he said, nudging me forth. I dreams as they tried to pull me back under, back into unlatched the door and stepped inside. There were no the sanctuary of their arms, all their wonder and hope, water or feed buckets. There was nothing at all except until I fought free and met my hangover head on. The the lone bale of hay. “Where exactly am i going?” I said. track was still waking up. I could tell from the stirring of “You’re a real pain in the ass,” he said, snatching the thoroughbreds, these gorgeous beasts with bodies like magnifying glass from my hand. He knelt in front of the Trojan horses, sleek and sure-footed. I rose and dusted hay and raised the glass to his eye. “Right here,” he said. the hay from my pants, head still cloudy from the night before. I’d gone out drinking with a jockey named I lay on my stomach and looked through the glass. It Juan. There wasn’t much more to remember than that. took me a minute, but I eventually saw it. I lowered the I tapped a Winston out of the soft pack, sparked the magnifying glass, and then looked again. The mare was end with a Zippo I’d won during a game of rummy, and a quarter inch tall. She had a chestnut mane with a white relieved myself on the side of a stable, tipping my hat star on her muzzle. at Liza as her mud boots clomped across the gravel lot.

“What the fuck is this?” I said.

“Good night?” Liza said, searching her purse for a smoke.

The racing director blotted his forehead with a “Can you pick me up a grilled cheese from Sal’s?” I said. handkerchief. “You have any idea how much you make a year?” he said.

“You still owe me fifty bucks,” she said before ducking inside a stall.

There was a time when I kept track of stuff like that, back when I balanced my checkbook and had an I’d known Liza since my first day at the track. She had apartment of my own, but I had fallen on hard times, the same black curls and bright doe eyes that she had drank and gambled most of my money away. Out back then. At one time she told me that she wanted to be of what I could only imagine was pity, the racing a veterinarian, but then things changed like they always director had agreed to let me stay in one of the stables, did for people like us. Now Liza worked as an outrider, temporarily, until I got back on my feet. helping keep the horses in line during the post parade.

“I don’t understand,” I said, looking around the barren stall.

The racing director wanted to talk to me, so I made my way across the paddock, last night’s liquor still heavy “What’s there to understand?” he said. “It’s a thoroughbred. on my breath, and knocked on the door of his trailer, a Just happens to be a very small one. She’s got good rusty aluminum box that looked like it had been kicked bloodlines. Her father won two races at Saratoga.” across the track by a giant.

“I want a refund,” I said.

“Jimmy,” he said, “come in.”

“This isn’t Kmart,” he said. “You can’t return a horse.”

“My name’s Alan,” I said.

“That’s what I said.”

The racing director was a short, freckled man with steel-blue eyes. He mostly kept to himself, wandering about in the shadows of the track, overseeing the dayto-day operations just as his grandfather did before him.

“Remember that thing we talked about? ” he said, stuffing a pinch of chaw into his lower lip.

I did not.

“Yes,” I said.

“I got you a real beaut. But she’s gonna cost your check for the month.”

“What are you talking about?” I said.

“The mare.”

I had asked the racing director if he could help me purchase a mare. I’d been an official, a clocker, an identifier, and even a groomer, but all I’d ever wanted was to race my own thoroughbred.

We walked past the jockey’s room and to the stables, which inclined toward me as if I was part of their magnetic field. The racing director took his time opening the lock, trying to build suspense, and then with an outstretched hand, pale and beaded with sweat, he snapped his fingers, presenting what could only be described as an empty stall. “Here she is,” he said.

I stood at the window, looking inside. “I don’t get it,” I said.

The racing director pointed at a bale of hay. “Right there,” he said.

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I looked again. “There’s nothing there” I said.

The racing director flared his nostrils and handed me a

“The mare was a quarter inch tall. She had a chestnut mane with a white star on her muzzle.

‘What the fuck is this?’”

When I was growing up in Potter, New York, a town so forgotten that one time I tried to point it out to Liza on a map and it wasn’t there, I remember thinking that I would never end up like everyone else around me— drunk and poor and hopeless. I was smart enough to know that these people once had dreams, that they wanted more than what their lives had become, but that they had given up on those goals as soon as they realized how difficult they were to achieve. It’s easy to think that way when you’re a child and you have your whole life ahead of you, but the real reason I thought that way was because I was a friend of Michael Albright, and Michael Albright was going places.

Michael moved to our school in the tenth grade.

His father had a big job at the hospital, and I still remember how it felt like I was walking into a hotel every time I stayed over at his place—the beds were always made, the towels were neatly folded, and each room had those little hand soaps that smelled like lavender and cherry blossom. Michael’s mother died when he was young, and since his dad was always working, Michael had free reign to do whatever he wanted. We’d skip class to drive around in his Range Rover and smoke cigarettes we’d stolen from the convenience store. We’d break into his father’s liquor cabinet and chug bottles of Captain Morgan, and then go to the school dances drunk. We didn’t have many

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SPORT OF KINGS

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RIT BOTTORF | ANDRE DA LOBA

One night, Michael’s sister—a junior at Oswego “Is real?” he said.

University—sold us a bag of ecstasy. We spent weeks “I think so,” I said. “It’s breathing.” planning exactly when we’d do it, the fun we’d have, the girls we wanted to be around, the music we’d Juan did the sign of the cross, and I wondered if he was listen to, but in the end we decided to take the pills praying for me, or praying for a world where miniature on a cold Tuesday night in the empty parking lot of a horses didn’t exist. A moment later, he leaned against rundown bowling alley. We had unknowingly left the the stable and lit a cigarette. “They ask me to ride headlights on, that and the fact that our car was idling Goodnight Falls,” he said. outside a business that had been closed for six months Goodnight Falls was the most celebrated horse the was enough to catch the attention of a state trooper sport of racing had seen in years, and Juan, based passing by. The officer found the bag in the center on his recent winning streak, had the honor of riding console, and we were arrested and charged with her for the annual felony possession of a narcotic with intent to traffic. I Va n B ro o ke r G ro ce r y knew at that moment that my life was over, but when I Invitational—a race with looked at Michael in the backseat of the police car, it a f i r s t p l a ce p rize o f was as if nothing had happened, it was as if he didn’t “Juan did the sign of the cross, $25,000. If he won, he’d have a care in the world. be given twenty percent and I wondered if he was Michael’s father called a college friend—a lawyer of the purse, enough, he praying for me, or praying in New York Cit y—and Michael, based on some said, to move his entire discrepancy in the paper work, had his charges family to America. for a world where miniature dropped, while I found myself in court accepting a “You don’t sound happy,” horses didn’t exist.” guilty plea, because my lawyer—a court appointed I said, shielding my eyes attorney that I never once saw before sentencing—was from the sunlight. too busy with her other cases to notice the error that Michael’s lawyer had. That was when I understood “Is a lot of pressure,” he said. why Michael was so unfazed by the arrest—he knew all “You’ll do fine,” I said, and I meant it. Juan was the most along that he would get off, not because of any sort of talented jockey I’d ever seen. “You should throw a big work ethic he had, or because he thought karma was party once your family gets here. What’s that thing you going to repay him for some good deed he’d done, but always used to eat?” because he knew that his father would get him the best lawyer money could buy.

“Tostones and chimichurris,” he said, picturing the feasts his wife prepared around the holidays.

Juan knocked on my door and peered inside the stable.

“I no see?” he said, his graying hair a mess in the morning light. Behind him were a dozen other guys from the track, outcasts some would say, men who had lived hard lives—the track was rife with drugs and alcohol, and paychecks rarely lasted until the end of the month— but they were more of a family than I’d ever had, a community linked by flaws and the constant belief that at any moment our luck might change.

SPORT OF KINGS

he had seen a thousand times before, maybe not the size of the horse, but the impossibility of success in a world built to keep people like us out.

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friends, but we had each other, and we had the illusion that we were untouchable, that our actions could live without consequence.

“Yeah, that’s it,” I said. “Cook a whole pot of it. Make ‘em feel at home.”

I started calling her “Bullet” despite it taking my mare over twelve hours to finish one lap. That night, when I got back from the bar, I rang Liza. It took me three tries, but I was finally able to hide my slurring long enough to make sense. Bullet had come down with a fever, at least that was my best guess. She wasn’t moving much, and she wouldn’t touch her food—a single kernel of popcorn that I had pocketed at the Post Time bar.

“Now’s not a good time,” I said, but Juan stepped inside anyway. He was a thin man with cheekbones big as clementines. He had immigrated to the U.S. “Where is she?” Liza said, stepping inside the stable in two years ago, having left his family behind in the curlers and a nightgown—a long flowery sheet of fabric Dominican Republic. He talked about them a lot, that looked better suited for a woman twice her age. about how hard it is to love someone you never see, how you forget things about them because they’re not “Over there,” I said before realizing that I couldn’t there, little things like the sound of their laugh and the remember which corner of the stall my mare was in. way they hold your hand, but that when you do see Liza had gone to veterinary school at Finger Lakes them, whether it’s in a photograph or a dream, how Community College, but dropped out when she learned real they once again become. about the final exam, the part where she would have I handed him the magnifying glass and he bent down to euthanize a sick calf. While she always said that she to take a look. He spent several minutes examining didn’t regret her decision, I never believed her. Once my mare, paying close attention to her hind legs, to I saw her try to hide re-enrollment papers in the glove where the majority of her speed comes from, and then box of her car. he turned to me, nonchalantly, like it was something

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“the part where she would have to euthanize a sick calf.”

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FABIENNE LASSERRE

01.

FABIENNE LASSERRE

Color, lines, and planes carve up space, creating a sculptural environment that slips toward the pictorial. The pieces speak of an “excluded middle”, the part that is left out when things are divided into categories. Objectlike and with bodily attributes, they exemplify a shared ground between the animate and the inanimate. Far from inert or passive, my materials have vitality and are not so different from living beings. Bodies and things are fluid and porous. My work centers on the fundamental connections between entities usually seen as separate.

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This stubborn hope is offset by a forced and learned flexibility toward their rebuke of my intentions. A mutual tuning of the subjective and the practical leads me to embrace the uncontrolled, both in process and outcome. My materials are malleable and admit change. I stretch and elongate shapes, arriving at forms through pressure and touch. I warp, twist, lean, and stack because these actions evoke a rich array of relationships: desire, repulsion, aggression, cooperation, affection, mercy, and cruelty.

FABIENNE LASSERRE

Work in the studio is an attempt to impose wishes/politics on materials: to make them do what I think and want.

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01. Au Monde 2015 Linen, steel, acrylic polymer, enamel paint, acrylic paint, coroplast, cardboard, 75” x 146” x 7.5”

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02. & 03. Another Hour, Another Minute 2015 Linen, steel, acrylic polymer, enamel paint, acrylic paint, coroplast, cardboard, 75’’ X 146” X 7.5”

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03.

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FABIENNE LASSERRE

FABIENNE LASSERRE 16

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04. L’insomniaque 2015 Linen, steel, felt, wood, acrylic polymer, acrylic paint, plastic tubing, 72” x 42” x 22” 05. With 2015 Linen, steel, acrylic polymer, enamel paint, vinyl, coroplast, cardboard, 90” x 70” x 12”

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05.

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FABIENNE LASSERRE

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RUDY RAVINDRA | VALERA ISHAKOV

RR VI

PREMONITION W r i t t e n b y : RU DY R AV I N D R A

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PREMONITION

I l l u s t r a t e d b y : VA L E R A I S H A KOV

Sipping coffee in her sunroom, Stella looked at the backyard. The daffodils had started to bloom, the red bud trees showed signs of a few buds, and in a week or two dazzling bright red flowers would brighten up the yard, the harbingers of Spring. It would only be a matter of time before the azaleas start to bloom.

The yard would come alive with fresh greens of every conceivable shade and chirpy birds flying frantically in search of food. But, the pansies on the deck didn’t look good. The vibrant colors—yellow, purple, and blue, brightened the grey and wet winter. Since they didn’t look too healthy now, she felt a bit of fertilizer might perk them up. On the way back home from work the next day, she purchased the fertilizer, tossed the powder into a mug of water and poured the blue liquid around the edges of the pots, and felt very proud of her minor effort. For the next couple of days she was too busy to laze around in the sunroom but, on Saturday she got up a little late, and while drinking coffee she was shocked at the wilted pansies. Just then the gardener came to clean up twigs and tree branches and throw fresh mulch in the flower-beds.

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RUDY RAVINDRA | VALERA ISHAKOV

She called, “Tom, come see the pansies. They don’t look good.”

“Ma’am, they sure are dead.” He pondered for some time. “Pansies don’t like hot weather, but it ain’t been hot these past few days. I dunno, Miss Thomas.” He shook his head.

“Well, I did give them some plant food a couple of days back, but that shouldn’t have kill them, right?”

“Ma’am, do you still have the box?” She pointed at the tool shed.

“Ma’am, this here say mix one pouch in ten gallons of water. I reckon you didn’t, I mean, by mistake, you use less water.”

It was only then Stella realized she had used less water than the recommended amount.

“Well, I should have read the instructions more carefully.

My God. I feel so bad. I’m a plant killer.”

Tom shook his head, “Miss Thomas, holler at me when you wanta feed them plants.” He cleaned out the offending pots and stored them away.

Before leaving for the day he said, “Ma’am, pretty soon we’ll get geraniums, petunias, impatiens. I’ll pot them so you have color on the deck.”

She felt terrible for being so stupid. She, who conducted such complicated experiments with many different chemicals—some of them less than a few milligrams—how could she be so dumb?

Stella came home a little late, and after an invigorating hot shower, examined herself in the full-length mirror.

Not bad for a broad of thirty something. She was still firm and shapely, thanks to regular workout at the gym. Her face glowed, without a trace of even a single wrinkle. She remembered how Satish used to pay homage to her svelte body. He kissed her everywhere, and drove her wild. Oh! Satish!

After dabbing her hair with a towel, she jammed the wet hair into a ponytail, wore a fleece jumpsuit, and socks. It was a little chilly in the house, but she didn’t want to bump up the thermostat. She preferred to dress warm instead of heating up the house; the heat dried up her sinuses. There was only roast beef and turkey in the fridge. Not in a mood for a sandwich, she ordered a pizza.

After eating, she settled at her computer, took care of all the important messages, and then to The Guardian.

Presidential debates, the candidates raving and ranting about immigrants, a new speaker to lead the dysfunctional Congress, and the President reversing his earlier decision to send troops to Syria. Next, to happenings in India in The Hindu. The Prime Minister’s party trounced in an important state election, the rabid right wing thugs murdering intellectuals for writing critical essays about Hinduism and lynching poor Muslims for eating beef. And the Prime Minister’s deafening silence.

Finally, she read Deccan Herald, the newspaper published from her hometown—Bangalore. T he headline on the front page shocked her: PROMINENT INDUSTRIALIST STABBED Bangalore Mr. Satish Kaul, the scion of the Kaul Industries, was stabbed at the West End hotel. According to reliable sources, Mr. Kaul was with the bestselling author, Vanita Rao when her ex-husband intruded upon the couple and stabbed Mr. Kaul in the chest and stomach, resulting in massive loss of blood. Mr. Kaul was rushed to St. John’s Hospital. At this point his condition is reported to be critical.

DH News Service Stella broke down and cried, and slumped on the couch. She was shaking, cold, and clammy. Presently she got up, wore her heavy velour robe and gulped down a shot of whiskey. She simply sat in the sunroom, watching the neighbors’ distant dim lights; on this miserable night, not even the flickering fire flies uplifted her spirits. The whiskey warmed her belly, and the heat slowly spread to other parts of her body. She poured herself another shot, sipped slowly, and felt much better, calm and warm. She got down on her knees, closed her eyes, and prayed fervently.

But something at the back of her mind gnawed at her, she just couldn’t get rid of a foreboding feeling that the death of her pansies might be an omen of something bad, some calamity, something dreadful.

But she brushed off those miserable musings with a “Loving Father, I entrust Satish to your care this day; shrug, told herself not to be superstitious, that it was guide with wisdom and skill the minds and hands of just an accident. the medical people who minister in your name, and grant that he recover. Satish may be restored to soundness of health and learn to live in more perfect harmony with you and with those around him. Into your hands, I commend his body and his soul. Amen.”

“My God. I feel so bad.

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I’m a plant killer.”

She sat in the living room, read the piece one more time, as if it might provide more clues. She stared at Satish’s picture in a tie and jacket looking so handsome, taken at some grand gala event, probably

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PREMONITION

“She got down on her knees, closed her eyes, and prayed fervently.”

RUDY RAVINDRA | VALERA ISHAKOV 26

a file photo. There was also a picture of the woman being escorted by the police. Even though Stella saw her many years back, she had no trouble recognizing Vanita.

A large whiskey by her side, Stella sat comfortably in the airplane. She thanked the good lord for the few luxuries such as first class travel.

Should she go to Bangalore immediately, be with the Kauls, to give them her moral support? Or should she wait a few days, and monitor the situation? By going right away, she might not accomplish much, as Satish might not be conscious, and might not even recognize her. She preferred not to think the unthinkable, the unbearable, the catastrophic possibility of Satish not surviving. Surely, her prayers would be answered, and he would recover. She would be able to see him again, embrace him, and kiss him once again. It was because of Satish’s kindness she was in this country today, in this good job, enjoying financial independence, and excelling in her profession. He was her savior, the man who sent her to college, taught her about life and culture and dignity.

She reminisced about those days at the St. Mary’s orphanage, and the strict but fair Sister Grace who saw to it that the girls were up at five in the morning, prayed, ate breakfast, did their chores and went to school. When Stella got her high school diploma, Sister Grace told her that she would be a housekeeper in the Kaul residence.

When he learned of his son’s accident, a ver y perturbed Mr. Kaul instructed his chauffeur to drive to St. John’s hospital as fast as possible. At the hospital there was mayhem, reporters and camera-men jostled to get near, and the bright light of flash bulbs blinded him. The hospital security guards rescued Mr. Kaul, and ushered him into the VIP lounge.

The Chief medical officer, a stocky man, with what appeared to be a permanent scowl said, “I’m Dr. Zachariah. I’m sorry about your son. He lost a lot of blood, he was given some three units. The surgeons are doing everything they can. Your son had two stab wounds, one in the chest and the other in his stomach.

The stomach injury is not serious. But the chest wound is deep and the left lung is damaged. The surgeons are trying to repair it.”

A week later, Stella left the orphanage, the only place she called home all those eighteen years. It was hard for her to leave behind her friends, the good sisters, and the helpful staff with the exception of the gardener who used to grab and grope her at every opportunity.

She was much too quick for him.

Stella was stunned at the opulent mansion, the privacy of the surroundings, the green lawns and the colorful gardens. The Kaul residence was big enough to accommodate a small army.

A fast learner, Stella quickly got into the swing of things, and figured out how to supervise the staff and run an efficient household— beds made, dishes washed, floors swept and mopped, gardens well-tended, and “Stella left the orphanage, the cars washed and polished. only place she called home all In the beginning the those eighteen years.” cantankerous cook, being senior to Stella by several years, didn’t take her seriously, but with time and Mrs. Kaul’s prodding, he began to listen to the new girl.

In her spare time she studied and wistfully wished that she had gone to college. While she was browsing science and math books in the backyard one day, Satish walked by.

Mr. Kaul worked hard his whole life, and having passed the torch to his only son, he just now started to enjoy his retirement. But now the whole plan appeared He smiled. “So, you are a serious student, right?” to be in jeopardy. Ambivalent about god and religion, he let his wife manage the spiritual aspect of their lives. Startled, she stood up, and her pallu slipped, exposing He’d jokingly say to his wife, “Ask forgiveness for my her ample bosom. She quickly wrapped the pallu sins too.” He let her donate large sums of money to around. “I’m just looking at these books, sir. Before she temples, mosques, and churches. But today he felt the went to America, Nalini madam gave me these books.” need to pray. He folded his hands, and closed his eyes.

“Oh, these are my sister’s college books. I thought you He prayed that his son be saved from death’s door. He didn’t study past high school.” prayed that his son be well again and they’d banter with each other. He prayed that they’d sit together at “Yes, Sir. But I like to learn, I try to solve the equations Koshy’s to have a drink. His heart ached, he loved his and, and…” boy so much, and was afraid of losing him.

“So, you want to go to college, huh?”

After ten long days, Satish was brought into a private room. He was able to talk, and sit up. All the tubes were removed and he was free to move around.

“Hi, I’m sorry for all the trouble.” He saw his parents’ worried look, felt stupid for putting them in this situation.

Mrs. Kaul bawled out, “Oh, beta, we are so glad you are okay. I prayed to all the Gods to make you better. After you are well enough we should go to the Venkateswara temple at Tirupathi. I’ve made a vow to make an offering of your weight in gold.” And she blew her nose loudly.

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Satish said, “Then I better not gain any weight.”

Mr. Kaul laughed. “Good, good, you are back to normal, you joker.”

She looked down. “Yes, Sir, but it’s not for people like me.”

Ever since she entered the household, Satish was fascinated by Stella’s ready smile, poise and conduct.

He felt that with her thirst for knowledge she would do better if only she got the right opportunities. A pity that such a smart and intelligent girl was condemned forever to be a house worker because of her intrinsic birth. He felt that he needed to help her.

Satish convinced his mother to send Stella to college.

Stella worked hard, did all her chores, ran to college, and was back home to take care of her duties, and then study late into the night. Luckily her chemistry instruc tor spot ted her talent, enrolled her into advanced courses, and was instrumental in securing a scholarship for higher studies in America.

Stella sipped her drink and relaxed. She was glad “She wanted Satish to see what he that Satish was out of danger, and now it was only a matter of time before he got back on his feet. It missed all these years” was a great relief, her prayers were answered. She wished the airplane flew a little faster so that she might reach her destination quicker, and embrace Satish.

Embrace? How could she, a low-caste woman embrace him with that high-caste female—what’s her name, Mrs . Kaul hugged her. “Stella, it ’s been such a hovering around Satish? Come to think of it, how did long time.” that haughty female snare Satish into her web? Even “Madam, how’s Satish sir?” though it was only for a few fleeting moments, many years ago, the dismissive way that stuck-up Vanita “Mr. Kaul and I just got back from the hospital. Satish is behaved was etched in Stella’s mind. She had simply getting better.” Turning to a servant who stood in the ignored Stella when Mrs. Kaul introduced them. hallway, she said, “Keep madam’s bags in the guest room upstairs.”

Stella wished to have Satish all to herself. She would wait on him hand on foot, nourish him, and help him “Come, come. Have a seat. Let me call Nalini.” She regain his strength. If no other woman competed for pressed a but ton on the intercom, “N alini, beti Satish’s attention, he’d surely choose her, his Stella, to are you up? ” be his companion. She knew everything about him— “No, this is not Nalini. You called my room, this is his likes and dislikes, the way he wanted his tea, the Vanita.” She sounded irate. precise amount of milk, the right temperature. Rice, fluffy and soft, but not pasty. There were so many Mrs. Kaul was flustered. “Sorry, Vanita, sorry to disturb things she knew about him, even Satish didn’t know you.” Turning to Stella, she whispered, “Vanita is some of them himself. She made it her life’s goal to staying with us. After that incident at The West End, study him, and fulfill his every whim and fancy. Not Satish felt that she’ll be safe here. Satish and Vanita that he was a demanding man. No, no, far from it. But are engaged to be married. She writes all day, comes he appreciated what she did and rewarded her in his down in the evening only. Okay, let’s see, this time I own special manner. better press the right button.”

Bleary-eyed at Bangalore Airport, in the middle of the night, Stella took a taxi to Windsor Manor. After a hot shower, she laid down, planned to get ready as soon it got light. But she must have dozed off, and it was lunch time when she woke up. She pulled on a pair of jeans, and went down for a quick bite. Back in her room she debated about what to wear to visit Satish.

Should she wear her navy blue pants suit and the ivory white silk blouse? Or should she dress informally in jeans and a T-shirt? Or should she wear a simple kurta and pants? Or how about a sari? For an otherwise decisive and organized person, she agonized over her choice of clothes as she wanted to present herself in the best possible light. She wanted Satish to see what he missed all these years. She wanted him to realize what he lost by sending her off to America. She wanted him to know he was wasting time with that arrogant woman.

PREMONITION

Examining herself in the mirror, she thought here is a stunning lady, she’ll be the cynosure of all eyes—male as well as female. No man—young or old, would be able to resist her sex-appeal. She called Mrs. Kaul.

The matriarch was displeased that Stella checked into a hotel and beseeched her to come home. She was sending a car.

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Cabin lights were dimmed, and an air hostess asked, “Ma’am, another drink?”

earrings. She brushed her hair and tied it into a low bun fastened at the nape of her slender neck with a couple of romantic tendrils on either side. She brushed off a few strands of stray hair from her kurta, gently sprayed lavender perfume on the pulse points on her wrists and rubbed them together.

Hearing a muffled voice, Mrs. Kaul asked, “Nalini, come down for lunch.”

Indistinct words, Mrs. Kaul interpreted, “She’s up, she’ll come down shortly.” She went into the kitchen.

Stella was surprised that Satish was engaged to Vanita.

What she assumed was a casual affair had turned into something more serious. She felt uncomfortable to stay under the same roof with the snotty Vanita, and her first instinct was to return to the hotel. but she didn’t want to offend Mrs. Kaul who had been so kind to her.

So, after meeting with Satish, Stella decided to leave Bangalore as soon as possible. She’d tell a white lie to the Kauls that she had to fly to Delhi, to meet a scientist at a drug company.

Nalini hugged Stella. “It’s been such a long time!”

Nalini inherited Mr. Kaul’s good looks, the same kind, brown eyes, narrowing as she smiled.

“Yeah, the last time I was in San Diego for the Chemical Finally, she wore a pink cotton kurta and a pair of Society meetings, I really wanted to meet you. But you cream-colored pants. She never wore any make up, were away. After that we didn’t get a chance.” never used any lipstick—she didn’t need any of those “Yeah, yeah. I was looking forward to spending some to enhance her looks. She wore a simple but elegant time with you, but in the last minute my boss wanted platinum chain with a diamond pendant and matching me to go Washington, D.C. for some dumb meeting.

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During those four years, Stella and Satish developed a friendship which later became intimate. They both knew that the relationship was doomed from the very beginning. He couldn’t disregard the age-old traditions to marry a penniless orphan, probably from a backward caste. And she was not naïve enough to assume that she would ever be his wife. She was only his mistress, that too after dark. They dared not be seen together in public. Stella took good care that no one, particularly Mr. and Mrs. Kaul, were aware of her affair with Satish. But her love for Satish only grew with time. And when it was time to catch the airplane to America she was heartbroken.

HAN JI-MIN 36 CP-17

01.

01. Breath_ The climax of a familiar moment 2014 Linocut, silk screen & collage, 39.4” x 47.2”

HAN JI-MIN There are moments when natural phenomena, like the passage of time, appear to be frightening. Beneath this fear resides the finitude of a human’s life cycle, the uncertainty of life, and the frustration felt by the alienation of human relationships. Life’s imperfections often lead us to rely on the abstract power of symbolic representation.

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My personal totem in the Night at Dawn series is a bird. This comes from a childhood memory where I used to adore the freedom and strength reflected in the bird’s wings and beak. The series displays images that combine birds and human bodies. Here, the bird’s figure is a symbolic representation of perfection, in contrast to the human body that represents insecure emotions like anxiety and fear. Through these symbols I seek emotional liberation and discusion about our desire to be perfect. The images of the halfman/half-bird are similar to the imagery of religions, art, mythical gods, symbols, and narrative structures from different cultures and time. It can be the manifestation of what Carl Gustav Jung explained as being the archetype of a collective unconscious — the inherited historical and collective memories that are the essence of a superhumanity existing before personal experiences.

HAN JI-MIN

Worshipers convince themselves that they share an extraordinary power with beings that are superior to humans and find psychological comfort by possessing a figure of the subject they worship.

Borrowing from the principals of totemism, my work demonstrates my personal totem i have chosen.

The sacred subjects of primitive religions usually represent the group symbolically. Nevertheless, the fundamental nature of totemism is more of a solicitude or reliance that is based on the faith.

According to this inherent nature, I take the totem as my personal symbol of the network that is related to my memories.

While the Night at Dawn series embodies the desire for perfection, the Breath series depicts the ritualistic actions of desire. Performing rituals as the mediator between humans and gods, a shaman returns to the primitive condition through a ‘ritualistic death’ and comes back through a ‘cognitive rebirth.’ This process encapsulates the universal ancient idea that all things must be extinguished before they are reborn in other forms of creation. In this series I present this process of being a shaman in order to reach the primitive condition and show ritualistic actions to repress my fears, while confronting imperfection in myself.

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The white background and black figures used in the works represent the black silhouette that travels from night till dawn. At dawn, time passes from extreme to extreme, from night to day, and darkness and brightness intermingle and mix. I apply the linocut to emphasize the contrast between darkness and brightness at dawn, or complete the figure with delicate lines using a pen, fine brush, and carving tools in order to express the emotion of an incomplete body. (A linocut is a technique of relief printing that brings deep black as the relief presses the paper and the ink is absorbed in the print.)

A night always moves into dawn. Just like this natural principles I wish this imagery and ritualistic movement in my work to become my own myth, leading us to the transcendental space beyond reality.

HAN JI-MIN 40

03.

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03. Breath_ Embedded in every moment a piece 2014 Linocut & watercolor, 33.6” x 23.6” 04. Breath_ The Moon 2014 Linocut, 36.6” x 26.4”

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04.

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HAN JI-MIN

HAN JI-MIN 42

05.

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05. Night at Dawn_ Water-butterfly dance 2013 Linocut, 39.4” x 27.6” 06. Night at Dawn_ Ancient Moment 2012 Linocut, 27.6” x 39.4”

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HAN JI-MIN

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LORENZO CABELLO | DYLAN LAPOINTE

LC DL

47

I l l u s t r a t e d b y : DY L A N L A P O I N T E

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W r i t t e n b y : LO R E N ZO C A B E L LO

MORE THAN ENOUGH

MORE THAN ENOUGH

LORENZO CABELLO | DYLAN LAPOINTE 48

The pulsating remnants of the thunderous show lingered upon the crowd’s skin. Electricity surged through each and every bone within the ballroom, long after the band exited the stage. Outside, shadows crept around each corner, speaking gibberish, selling knockoff purses and rhinestone watches. The moonlight sunk into the streets. Paths were illuminated—to pharmacies and pizzerias and pubs for the liberated city-wrecking party-goers. Jack and Fry, dazed in the aftershock of sweaty dancing and frantic stage-diving, stumbled upon a lonely, dim diner.

“I know, man. The encore. Whoa,” said Jack.

“Yeah, that encore. I mean, the whole damn room rushed the stage.”

“Did you see me singing along with Pepper?”

“That was you?” asked one of the girls sitting behind Fry. “Yeah,” said Jack coolly. He eased his shoulders back and glared his best glare. Fry was put off by his friend’s ability to change into a cocky son-of-a-bitch on a dime.

He had seen it, this side of Jack since middle school, but still hadn’t figured out a way to not be jealous of it.

Inside, it was desolate apart from three grown men hunched underneath baseball caps. Jack found “That’s so cool,” said one of the guys. “That was one of a booth. Fry sat across from him. The waitress was the best shows I’ve seen.” pretty, with raccoon eyes of drowsiness and gapped “Me too,” said Jack and Fry in unison. buckteeth. Post-concert hunger plagued the boys. They ordered cream sodas. Windowed plastic boxes selling “Did you hear about the after-party? It’s just a few subpar food in the midnight dreariness are havens to blocks down from here.” the youthful exiles of society.

“Of course we have,” said Jack, though they hadn’t.

“Fry.” “What’s the address again?” asked Fry, picking up “Jack?” where Jack left off.

“What a show.”

The waitress returned with tingling glasses of soda in her bright blue raven claws; the talon on her right pinky was chipped away slightly. She took out her notepad and her pen and looked at the boys.

“I’ll have apple pie,” said Jack.

“Fry was put off by his friend’s ability to change into a cocky son-of-a-bitch on a dime.”

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“Cheeseburger,” said Fry. In came a lurching group of black-clad fellow concertlovers, all with bloodshot eyes. The four freaky friends, two boys and two girls, sat in the booth behind Fry. “That show,” one of them said. “Yeah,” said another, “What a show.” Fluorescent light bulbs in the back of the diner flickered like the wings of a moth. Fry watched the lights. His eyes glazed over. His mouth shut and his fingers trembled. The stuttering beat of his heart shook him up. Even now the show still had its grip on him, letting go and squeezing at random.

“Dude, that show,” he said, as he recalled the ripping screech of guitars and the deafening boom, bang, pow of drums.

Outside of the bar they stood waiting—the whole lot of them. Many cigarettes were lit and offered. Jack and Fry denied them all. They had made a commitment to stop damaging their lungs. They gave up the fad. It was no longer cool. A few fools went up to the bouncer and asked if the band was there yet. The man with neck tattoos of bloody arrows and skulls, with skin as smooth as the moon, with cracked lips that hadn’t felt the warmth of a smile in centuries, looked at the idiotic underage kids with glaring eyes. He sent them off. Panic settled in for our heroes. They were underage

MORE THAN ENOUGH 49 CP-17

as well, and they had the misfortune of being fake-free. “Yeah, yeah, of course! But, uh, listen. We want to get into the bar, my friend and I here,” he said, pulling Fry “Jack,” Fry whispered as he pulled him aside. “Those over by the arm, “but we’re underage.” dumbasses just blew it for the rest of us. Now that ogre is going to ID every single one of us and we do “This damn country, right?” not have fakes.”

“Yeah,” answered Jack, and Fry nodded his head.

“We’ll find a way in, man.”

“Alright, well…just follow us in. Me and the guys will try “What makes you so sure? ” Fry’s rampant anxiety to sneak you past the bouncer.” kicked in as it always had. But Jack knew this side And so they tried. And failed. The manager of the of Fry well, and he knew that the only way to keep establishment let the band in first. The numbskull even let him calm was to stay calm himself, and so he said, some other underage lanky white kid in, thinking he was “We’ll find a way.” And shortly thereafter, a shabby van part of the band—he played it off with confident silence. pulled up to the curb, a few feet from the entrance of the bar. Out came the band, four of them, wearing Jack and Fry stood outside for a half hour, waiting stylish English shoes and thrift-shop shirts. They were for Pepper and the gang to reemerge. They waited the kind of guys girls wouldn’t look at twice if they and waited. They rethought their pact to stop smoking weren’t in a band; they were charming, untouched by as they paced along the sidewalk. They held on, their sudden rise to fame, enjoying life and their very impatiently, hoping to see everyone stagger out of the young careers playing music for the run-down teens bar in a drunken haze, hoping for a chance to spend a of New York, of Cincinnati, of Whereverton. night out with their favorite band—they imagined what it would be like to go bar-hopping with them and with Jack seized the opportunity and approached Pepper, other famous musicians, drinking, doing drugs, doing the man whom was once deemed “The liveliest, loudest time, doing anything and everything. The rest of the bassist of all time” by a well-known music magazine. underage bystanders left.

“Hey, Pepper!” yelled Jack in the most sheepish way “Bullshit!” said Fry. Then the beast of a bouncer stood he’d ever spoken. up and walked out from the doorway and said, “You “Oh, hey, enjoy the show?” said Pepper with a sloppy better walk down the street,” to which Fry replied, “Or British accent. what?” Jack grabbed Fry’s arm, pulling him away from the entrance of the bar.

LORENZO CABELLO | DYLAN LAPOINTE 50 CP-17

Down the stairs, into the subway terminal, it was “Me too, man. But then what are we gonna do?” asked damp and smelled the same as it had in the Dark a hopeless Fry. His smoky eyes churned with sadness, Ages. Graffiti and urine and desperate bums huddled like a child leaving its favorite ice cream shop. along the tiled walls, the floor was painted by the “We’ll figure something out.” filthiest imitator of Pollock, Jack’s blonde hair looked dingy beneath the low, cramped ceiling. Fry’s eyes Times Square, this late at night, swerves with the long mimicked the metallic skin of the whizzing trains; silent lost rhythm of the seventies; the pimps, the crooks, commuters, wishful losers, lost and panicking tourists the dealers, the users, the prophets and princes, the all stood together, waiting for the next train to take mechanically enslaved patrons of the city, come out them home—home, or away, to another chance at an and hang around in the debauched festival that is afterartificially poetic sense of life and death in New York City. hours Midtown. Jack and Fry, reluctant Jersey boys, walked with ease. This land is their land. New York They hopped the train back uptown looking for Times City: their home sweet playground. Neon billboards Square. The excitement still squirmed with efficiency boast their shameless advertisements smack-dab in in their veins, though it had dwindled noticeably. They the center of the universe while the headless chicken overheard phone-calls, cowardly exposés, and they sightseers scurry to find the next cheap, material thrill. listened in to keep themselves occupied. Fry listened with childish dedication. Jack then nudged him and J a c k a n d F r y b e l i e v e d t h e y w e r e a b o v e t h e said, “I don’t want to go home yet.” consumerism. They abandoned their desires for flashy food and appetizing attire; they sought the wild ride of “Me neither,” said Fry. “What do you want to do? We’re life that roared beyond all of the mindless hysteria of headed uptown as it is.” petty obsession; they knew they couldn’t stay in Times “We’re definitely not hanging around Times Square, Square for too long. that’s for damn sure. Even if all the damn tourists were But they were sucked in immediately after they crawled to get deported or something. I’m sick to death of that out of the subway. The lunacy of stragglers and dirty kiddie pool.” window-shoppers strangled their hopes for vivacity.

Pleasure had evaporated. The concert became a distant, unobtainable memory.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here, dude,” urged Fry. “I hate this place.”

“Here, Port Authority is right down the block,” said Jack with a pointed finger.

“So, that’s it? We’re just gonna go home?”

“I dunno, man!” Jack’s instinctual leadership skills vanished in the crowds of pedestrians.

“We have to do something! I’m not just going home after a concert like that.”

“Okay, well, what do you wanna do? Anything around here?”

and into the street. The car swooped around the turn, onto the main street, flying like the hawk it was designed to be.

Fry laid back into the comfort of the dark leather seats and opened his window. “Where do you wanna go?” he asked.

Jack shrugged. His eyes blurred in apprehension.

They drove around with nowhere to go—within their small, suburban town, there’s nowhere to go. They passed the CVS, the town library, the dance studio, the gas station, the old high school. Streetlights led the car into circles; stop signs broke their necks in the wearisome realization of being at a standstill; police cruisers with nothing better to do than to patrol, patrolled, which only pissed off the ruthless punks behind the wheel of a Mercedes-Benz—they even proved their rambunctious rebelliousness by giving fingers to the “pigs” once they had turned around the corner.

Then the old high school showed up in front of the windshield like a desolate painting of forgettable nostalgia. Jack pulled his car into the parking lot, a few yards from the front entrance. They stared at the heavy blue doors, familiar to them in ways they would never admit. Jack tapped on the steering wheel; Fry bounced his legs off the balls of his feet; anxiety, restlessness,

“Back to the same old routine. Back to school. Back-to-back days of boredom.”

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And so they walked down the road from CVS to Jack’s brick fortress of a house. They stepped lightly as they approached the front lawn, for they both saw that Jack’s mom’s window was open, and Jack’s mom was the lightest sleeper of all light sleepers. Jack unlocked his stately, pearl-colored car, and the two of them jumped in. They gently rode out of the driveway

51

“Listen,” started Jack, with his hands still upon Fry’s Jack yawned. shoulders, “I don’t know what you want me to do, “We should just live in the city, man.” exactly. This place is shit, we both know that…”

“Yeah, I think we should.”

“Yeah, it is…”

There was the town library, again.

“So then, what?”

“Yeah,” continued Fry, “I mean, why not?”

Fry relaxed and slipped himself below of Jack’s hands.

“I guess we could just go back into town,” he said. Then “Yeah? On your Petco salary?”

Jack felt the oncoming dread of returning home. It Fry turned his head to the window, saying nothing was inevitable. Back to the same old routine. Back in return. to school. Back-to-back days of boredom. The same old faces he saw everyday would reappear in front “After college, I guess,” sighed Jack, “after college.” of his eyes—the very same eyes that were hazed with “Man, fuck school!” yelled Fry, angrily screwing his smoke and fire and music just the night before. It was head back around to face Jack. “You don’t need that incredible, he thought, how one night could be a pointless shit.” dream and the next day could be a nightmare.

“We’ve been saying that since middle school, Fry. “I wish every night was like tonight,” Jack finally said.

Nothing’s changed.”

“Me too,” whispered Fry. “Well let’s actually do something about it, dammit!” screamed Fry as he hit the dashboard with his palms.

Then there was silence.

They found themselves in the middle of the CVS parking lot, in the center of their hometown. The city There was the dance studio, again. was behind them. The concert was behind them. It was “Jack, listen to me. You really think we need school?” late into the night and their respective parents were waiting for them. Jack was expected to be well-rested “What do you mean, we?” for his early Sunday morning ride to the university, Jack drove through a stop sign, passing the gas station, awaiting the next installment of awful Monday morning again, yelling, “I’m sorry, Fry! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean classes. Fry was expected to keep his mouth shut at the to say that.” He bit his lower lip in anger. Fry stared breakfast, lunch, and dinner table, mentally preparing out his window, speechless. himself for yet another work week at Petco.

“Fry,” continued Jack, “look, I don’t know, Fry! I don’t “You wanna drive around or something?” asked Jack. have a damn clue, to be honest! Do I really need “Sure,” said Fry. school? Probably not. But that’s all I’ve got right now.”

MORE THAN ENOUGH

Fry’s eyes snapped into a lean look of disgust, and he said, “What the fuck do you think? Yeah, sure, let’s just hang around this damn place.” His voice was stretched and loud and it was hard to hear, and it was even harder to argue with amidst all of the people. Jack Then they saw the red glow of CVS yet again. grabbed a hold of Fry’s shoulders and led him to a corner store deli.

“There’s nothing to do in this damn town,” complained Fry.

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01.

56

RUTH MARTEN

RUTH MARTEN FOUNTAINS (AND ALLIGATORS)

57

Given the technical stranglehold I exert over my work, it is the only instance of accident or serendipity. I love “collaborating” with the past and manipulating the content into a new meaning. The prints one finds at “ye olde print shoppe” or at Flea Markets these days, were once illustrations cut from books, copper plate engravings depicting commerce or the natural world for those members of society first able to buy a book of their own. Now that we are increasingly living in a post-book era, these plates can be appreciated for the innocence of their ideas and execution.

RUTH MARTEN

It’s been my practice since 2006 to work with found prints, chiefly 18th century prints and then to perform surgery if necessary to alter their meaning.

Aside from the history, I derive pleasure from the line work, especially the wonkier drawings. Photography has made it impossible to accept a rendering of a reptile that was clearly an anecdotal description from a friend of a friend who actually saw the specimen, pickled or dried. The artist ended up etching a scaly dachshund, but who, in those times, would know better? Such was the slow and whimsical manner in which information travelled in agrarian, pre-industrial times. Being a lifelong fan of surrealism and dada, it suits me to a T. These “Costume Parisienne” plates, mostly from 1808, were made into hardcover fashion catalogues whose styles remained reliable for the year it took to direct a small army of illustrators to depict 1809. Drawn with a simple grace, by 1827 the incidence of bows, corsets, and excessive frippery turned the female into an objet d’art. In the window at Argosy Print Shop where I had run the elevator as an after school job many years before, I saw wonderful hydraulic schematics for public fountains from the late 18th century and saw how I could team up the two, fountains and fashion. The alligator, a personal totem, arrived soon afterwards as a necessary element of danger and navigator of all that water.

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01. (895) 2015 Watercolor and ink on 18c. print, 7.75’’ x 4.75’’

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02.

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RUTH MARTEN

RUTH MARTEN 59

03.

03. (821) 2015 Watercolor and ink on 18c. print, 7.75’’ x 4.5’’

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02. (792) 2015 Watercolor, ink and collage on 18c. print, 7.5’’ x 4.75’’

RUTH MARTEN 60

04.

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04. (2) 2015 Watercolor on paper, 9” x 9.5” 05. (907) 2015 Watercolor on 18c. print, 7.5’’ x 4.5’’

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05.

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RUTH MARTEN

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JOHN & JAMES HANCOCK

JH JH

W r i t t e n & I l l u s t r a t e d b y : J O H N H A N CO C K

THE AMAZING HANCKOCK BROTHERS

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THE AMAZING HANCOCK BROTHERS

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& JA M E S H A N CO C K

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JOHN & JAMES HANCOCK

“THINGS THAT I USED TO DO, I DON’T DO ANYORE” seeps out of a cassette tape marked “prehistoric Texas blues B.C. part 2” - through the screen door Guitar Slim walks into the backyard crosses himself, them bows to the shinto god of wealth places the food scraps from supper: a bit of cornbread, 5 red beans, and the ass end of a red chile pepper onto the food stump altar a fat grey glistening slug gorges out on the morsels “The Cycle of Life” he whispers

It’s 7o’clock now RULE #7: If you have pimples on your buttocks DON’T LET HIM FUCK YOU IN THE ASS (or engage in sexual congress in the anus) Whores, dope fiends and wrestling clubs What is becoming of our society?

Certainly these are the END TIMES making men into monsters Dogs and cats living together in high-rises downtown condominiums Fried chicken raining from the heavens The waning moon has become a watermelon slice floating in the night sky in the dying days of summer Passion fluttering, flickering and the lingering scent on fingertips providing the hope that prevents all the dirt from falling in on me in this hole of utter joylessness

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time to watch NCIS

69

Slim goes in

THE AMAZING HANCKOCK BROTHERS

the screen door slams shut

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72

JOHN & JAMES HANCOCK

THE AMAZING HANCKOCK BROTHERS 73 CP-17

“All thing weird are normal in this whore of a city”

BETH SUTHERLAND 80 CP-17

01.

01. Dead End 2012 Etching with aquatint, spitbite and hand watercolor, 7” x 8.25”

BETH SUTHERLAND

81

I work only from direct observation, usually doing watercolors, drawings or other preliminary work from my car. Being on site brings a sense of urgency to record the transitory light and weather, and to seize my image before a new paint job or even demolition alters it. What had first seemed solid and stationary becomes more complex and alive as I observe. Sometimes a small detail that I never would have noticed, had I not stopped to draw, morphs into the focus of the piece. I love the feeling of being a part of what I’m observing, enjoying or suffering the heat or the cold, having the ability to inspect my subject more closely. And then, after having depicted it in two dimensions, I get an added thrill out of walking through the actual space again, because in a way I now own that space by having tried so hard to understand it through drawing it.

BETH SUTHERLAND

The subject of my work – the architecture and landscape of the urban/suburban environment – is my potent reflection of the lives we live. Much of what I paint is in plain sight, but it is often deliberately or unconsciously overlooked. I search for sites that reflect their human occupants, both past and present, evoking a physical transformation over time.

I ponder over what brought people here and how they chose to decorate or ignore their surroundings. I try to imagine the former landscapes upon which a building stands and how those landscapes might have affected a building’s size, shape and position, or how the landscape itself may have been altered to accommodate a structure. As I spend more and more time with a subject, the underlying abstraction of shapes and surfaces becomes clearer along with any larger meaning that might be lurking within a particular place. While I sit in my car and draw, thinking of all these things, a particular grouping of buildings or an odd embellishment often suggests an unarticulated imaginary narrative of the occupants and passers-by.

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I go back to the studio and use all my “research” to edit and work from those drawings and memory to create what I hope looks like a fresh, concise,and composed image which retains the mystery (and sometimes comedy) that attracted me to a subject in the first place.

BETH SUTHERLAND 82

02.

02. Pollard Tree 2010 Etching with aquatint and spitbite, 5.75” x 6.75”

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03. Squirrel 2012 Etching with aquatint, spitbite and hand watercolor, 8” x 8” 04. Factory with Hillside 2010 Etching with aquatint and spitbite, 8.125” x 5.875”

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03.

BETH SUTHERLAND

BETH SUTHERLAND 84 CP-17

05. Green Wall 1998 Oil/panel, 11.75” x 16.25” 06. No Parking 2014 Watercolor, 60” x 22”

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BETH SUTHERLAND

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90

JACOB MENDELSOHN | A.J. SPRINGER

JM AJS

91

I l l u s t r a t e d by : A .J. SPRINGER

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W r i t t e n b y : JACO B M E N D E L S O H N

FIVE MORE MINUTES

FIVE MORE MINUTES

JACOB MENDELSOHN | A.J. SPRINGER 92 CP-17

“Giraffes moving in and out of focus. Giraffes both real and of a half-recalled dream, a déjà vu within a déjà vu within a...”

So he gave her—gave them—five more minutes. Hell, he would have given them ten minutes or an hour. It was Saturday, and neither of them had to be anywhere until three and Suze Swanson’s birthday party.

As he lazed in bed, Wally watched the sun eat the shadows off the wall of their bedroom. He recalled the sundial at the observatory when he was little and the time his father taught him how to read time by it. He had forgotten how to do that over the years. So many memories were gone now, like shadows themselves blotting out the sun.

The living room.

Helen lay in front of the TV watching Betty, Bing & Ming.

“Where are they off to today?” Wally asked as he sat next to her on the floor.

“O -stralia,” Helen said without taking her eyes off the adventure.

Betty rode her cartoon motorcycle, with Ming steady and steadfast in the sidecar. They raced through the Australian Outback, the sky a blur of unnatural colors.

Months back, Wally discovered that he liked the show as much as his daughter did. Perhaps more.

In the kitchen.

It was Saturday and therefore Helen’s choice. She picked Tutie Frutie’s, and Wally opened one of the single serving boxes and dumped it into a bowl. Helen poured too much milk in, and it splashed onto the counter. She paused for a second, and Wally saw the wheels turning in her head. Then she got off the stool, retrieved a couple sheets of Brawny, and wiped away the mess.

“I thought I told you five minutes.” Jean said as she yawned down the hall in her pajamas. “That was like an hour ago.”

“You had a rough week.”

“I did?” She kissed him, bent down, and did the same to Helen’s forehead. “Morning, sweetheart.”

“Tag, you’re it,” Wally said, playfully slapping his wife’s backside.

Jean had had a rough week. She always seemed to have one of those weeks where all you want to do by the end is sleep through Saturday and Sunday.

Unlike his wife’s, Wally believed his own life was mostly undeserved, his bounty acquired with little effort and less skill. After graduate school he was hired by Romack, Fowler & Associates. Low on the ladder at a company of over four hundred architects, he was

Wally tried to recall the last time he struggled at his job, when the math was too difficult or his creativity turned from a torrent to a dribble, the point at which he had no recourse but to turn to his father’s idealization of hard work. He could not, and this inability to grasp the gleanings of his own history troubled him. Soon this glancing disconcertion dissipated, to be tucked away in that place that held such morning oddities as ashy smells and giraffes.

He turned to Jean. “I’m going for my run.”

The run.

He cut through the breeze, and a wispy non-corporeal patchwork of memories flicked past him like images out of an old nickelodeon.

His father reading the newspaper over his morning coffee, always politics, never sports. Grad school, where he met Jean at a rally for some group’s rights.

Trudging through the snow to get to a job interview.

His childhood schoolyard when he was twelve, where, with a punch to the nose, he stopped Mike Deller from picking on Jason O’Malley. Driving through a rust belt remnant in Ohio, blasting the Hi Jumpers’ second album, Madmen & Morlocks. Holding Jean’s hand during the way-too-long labor that brought them Helen. The unveiling of the model for the IMC Building, his first as lead. His second date with Jean when they got food poisoning off cheesesteaks at that awful place in Wellington Park. Helen’s first word, which was not “Mama” but “Dada.” His own father reluctantly congratulating him on being the first in the family to finish college, this despite the old man’s wish for his son to follow in his own blue collar footsteps. And giraffes. Giraffes moving in and out of focus. Giraffes both real and of a half-recalled dream, a déjà vu within a déjà vu within a...

FIVE MORE MINUTES

Wally blew on the back of her neck. Jean grumbled and muttered “fi mo mnmnsns,” and closed her eyes again.

Hard work. That is all a man needs, his father used to say. Whether he succeeds or fails is immaterial. It is the toil, the sweat, the pain of the labor that is the reward.

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The giraffe faded, as it did every morning. He opened his eyes, its spots disappeared, and the flavorless egg-shell color of the bedroom reemerged. A chill hit him from the drafty window, a reminder of what he needed to fix but always found an excuse to put off until tomorrow. He turned to his left and the stillsleeping form of Jean. In her hair he detected all those things that had fallen into it the day before: the morning’s shampoo, flowers she picked fresh from the garden each day, the almost-new car smell of the Ford Caprica, and something slightly burnt, like the remnants of a campfire.

expected to lead a humble life of the seen and not heard. Still, the few times he did speak up with an idea all his own, it was rarely rejected out of hand.

He soon garnered a reputation as a confident man without being (too) cocky, possessing the imagination of the future married to the wisdom of the past. During his third year, he was given plum assignments, working with the firm’s brightest stars. Once he was the one being groomed, now he was the one doing the grooming. He reflected on the idle ease of it all.

He ran up the long hill on Briarcliff, took a swig of water, and stared at the city’s skyline in the distance.

The Trident Tower lorded itself over its lesser brethren.

Wally’s office was on the seventy-eighth floor. From there he sometimes looked down at his neighborhood of Cedar Grove, imagining Jean at her computer talking with Europe or Asia and Helen doing her homework at the kitchen counter.

At the cul-de-sac on River Road, Wally turned and began the run back. The risen sun was at his back, and it made his neck hot.

The shower.

It was too strong, again. He made a mental note to fix the pressure. He made a mental note to fix the pressure every day. Every day, mental notes and asides, self-promises and self-nudges. Not so long ago, he wrote a list of to-dos and now wondered where it

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In bed.

could be—his dresser? The kitchen counter? Under a magazine on the coffee table? He made a mental note to find his physical note.

“What’s the weather like?” Jean asked as he dressed.

“Nice. Gonna be a good one.”

“Thank God. Last couple of her parties got rained on.”

“Why do they always do them outdoors? It’s always too hot or raining or something.”

“They’re kids, they want to be outside.”

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JACOB MENDELSOHN | A.J. SPRINGER

He had to agree with her. Besides, this was Suze Swanson’s birthday, and her dad had money and had pulled strings to secure the venue. Even Wally was looking forward to it. When he was growing up he never had real birthday parties. You’re no more special than anyone else, Cyrus once told him. We are all equal in God’s eyes and under the eyes of the Law. We can’t elevate one man above any other.

Wally told himself he loved Cyrus because if you don’t love your father, what kind of man are you? Cyrus had appeared to the untrained eye as principled and honest, never hypocritical in his dealings. Those principles, however, had smacked of bullheadedness and the desire never to compromise on the basis of emotions. He had never even sent Helen a birthday gift. If we give children unearned and unnecessary playthings, they begin to think they are special. That is the road to coltishness and fascism. As he toweled himself, Wally wondered whether his father had any idea what he was even talking about, or whether he spoke merely to hear the words leave his lips.

He looked at his father’s son’s face in the mirror and debated whether he would take one of the allergy pills today—animals were death to his sinuses.

In the kitchen (2).

Wally and Jean ate eggs and toast at the pass-through while Helen watched Witching Time.

“Do you want to pick up the paint before or after the party?” Jean asked.

“Why do we need paint?”

“You promised to redo the guestroom, remember?”

He didn’t and then he did. A momentary hiccup where his brain didn’t even register the concept of what a guestroom was, let alone the fact that his house had one or that it needed a new coat of paint. In that stretched-out second, he could not even remember when they had decided on this chore or where the paint store was located.

“I guess we should go before the party,” he said.

“Helen’s going to be conked afterwards.”

As Wally and Jean washed the dishes, Helen sang along with the Three Wise Witches.

Rumble rumble, foil and fumble.

Lions roar and tigers mumble♫ He let her watch until a commercial, then he turned the show off and they made their way to the car.

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In the car.

The odor would not go away. They’d had it for – what?

– four, five months, and it still smelled new. Wally didn’t mind it, but he didn’t want to get used to it either, didn’t want it to become a habit of the senses, one that

would leave him empty upon its finally fading away.

The radio switched to top-of-the-hour news. Riots in Seattle, again. The Yen crashing. The Middle East still in flames. The Orioles needing one more game to win the World Series. Ray Metiff, bassist for The Greymen, had died. And now, back to All Rock All the Time.

Wally and Jean never once considered that having Helen listen to the woes of the world was wrong. Both of them were progressive that way. They figured it was unfair to hide from her the misfortunes of others. “We have a good life,” Wally explained to her one day when they passed the homeless shantytown known as The Bungalows. “Other people don’t. There’re a lot of reasons for this.” He tried to think of what those reasons were. His father would have said it was because of the government and the corporations. These were easy scapegoats for a man who could barely scrape two nickels together. Wally had grown to understand that regardless of the actions of men, the universe settled back into its own amoral equilibrium. There would always be rich people, and there would always be poor people. Some were lucky or cunning enough to rise to the top; others teamed with misfortune or the curse of conscience.

Over the years they had attempted to explain the concepts of rich and poor to Helen. They fumbled over words and euphemisms, and tried to balance hard truths with a modicum of sugarcoating to make the nature of the world a bit more palpable for a sevenyear-old. In the end Helen had asked whether they themselves were rich or poor. The two parents had looked at each other curiously until Wally said, “We’re neither. We’re just normal.”

Lumbertown.

“Hello and welcome to Lumber town, if you need any assistance…”

Wally didn’t need any assistance. He knew exactly where he was going. He always did. Turn right, past the potted plants, down the aisle with the power tools, make a sharp right, and there were the paints.

Helen loved the paint aisle. “Blue green red yellow,” she recited as she passed each one. She’d touch a name, read it off, and go onto the next one. Some of them were harder like “cyan” and “magenta,” but she never got frustrated when she got stuck on a difficult word. She sounded it out, and if she couldn’t get it, one of her parents gave her a linguistic tap in the right direction.

Wally saw the man on the ladder twenty feet away.

At the bottom stood his wife and son. The man was up at the third level taking down a can of the same off-white that Wally himself needed for the guest room. He’s me, Wally thought.

Except he’s going to fall, and I’m not. The “He’s me, Wally man would pull out one of the cans and thought. Except not be able to balance it. He would lose his footing, the can would drop, and the he’s going to fall, man would reach for it, but miss. The can and I’m not.” would tumble and hit the man’s wife who would fall backwards. The man, unable to re -balance himself, would follow the can and hit the ground hard. There would be a crack as the man’s leg broke. The little boy would start bawling.

I could stop this, Wally thought. But I won’t. He grabbed a can of yellow and took Helen’s hand.

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FIVE MORE MINUTES

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01. Boulder 2010 Pastel/charcoal on canson-mi-teintes paper, 110” x 60”

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encounter each other, but enigma and transparency, phenomenon and insight.

If enlightenment does occur, it does so no through the establishment of a dictatorship of lucidity but as the dramatic self-illumination of existence”

-Peter Sloterdijk

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it is not theory and practice that

General Advice: -You are advised to watch carefully and not to overestimate your skills in pre-judgements.

-Prepare to encounter and be reasonable at once regardless of whether or not you get overwhelmed -If you notice ‘normal’ air doesn’t function anymore, stay hopeful but also alert.

There will be a solution in an instant if you act peacefully.

-If you lose a part of your hearing do not hesitate and search for an animal with sharpened ears.

Or better: give ear to the call of the artist.

-If you suddenly get black areas floating around in your vision, please move your eyes very fast from left to right or even right to left. This is the only way to see things awkwardly again.

-You may burst out in tears when it is too hard to choose between a formal or narrative interpretation.

Ingredients: Pastel, charcoal on paper (300 gr. Saunders & Waterford) Application: Reduces the time required to get in a situation of conflict Warning: If you look too superficially or too fast, your senses will be irritated for a while and the only remedy for this affection is a slow rehearsal or playback.

Dosage: One image a day will be sufficient but if you prefer more it is admitted but think it over first Appearance : 11 leaves of paper, size 2.90 x 1.52 m (114’ x 60’) Use before: Eternity

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“In the drama of conscious existence,

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MANUAL FOR PHENOMENOM: ‘DRAWINGS’

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02. Pearldivers (for C.D.Fr) 2010 Pastel/charcoal on canson-mi-teintes paper, 114” x 60”

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09. The Oracle 2015 Pastel/charcoal on Saunders & Waterford paper, 114” x 60” 10. The Vehicle 2012 Pastel/charcoal on canson-mi-teintes paper, 114” x 60”

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120

MATT BRAYNERD | LAUREN GOLDSTEIN

MB LG

THE TREES OF ECHOLS COUNTY 121

THE TREES OF ECHOLS COUNTY Wr i t t e n by : M AT T B RAY N A RD

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I l l u s t r a t e d by : L AU R E N G O L D S T E I N

Tree Four. December 19. The decorations are sparse, cheap and, like the tree, probably purchased from a big-box department store sometime in the 1980s.

There are no lights strung on the tree and no presents beneath it. Situated in a corner, far from a window, as if trying to hide, it would go unnoticed had the living area been decorated with anything other than a few old photographs of happier times and a calendar, still set to June.

When the light turned green, the deputy stopped texting, put his cell phone in his uniform shirt pocket and clunked the Crown Vic’s gearbox from park to drive.

He didn’t look at the man seated next to him, but he felt as scrutinized as a sixteen-year-old taking his permit test.

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MATT BRAYNERD | LAUREN GOLDSTEIN

Charlie Gonzales hadn’t always driven so carefully, but then, he hadn’t always shared a squad car with his boss, Sheriff Elmer Wiegel.

Wiegel sat at his desk, quiet and motionless. When Charlie finished, the sheriff didn’t say a word but took a sheet of stationery from his desk and began writing.

When he finished, he turned the paper around so that Charlie could read it and laid his pen next to it.

It was a list of promises, starting with the promise that Charlie’s hand wouldn’t touch a cell phone or other electronic device except when the car was in park.

Charlie read the document slowly with a squinting, frowning countenance as if carefully inspecting every curve, dot, and cross on the page. He signed his name at the bottom, and the sheriff filed the document away in his desk. They never spoke of the incident again.

There was also the practical consequence: the sheriff and his deputy had to share the department’s one remaining patrol car. It would be several months before the leisurely pace of rural county government completed the requisitioning process for a replacement vehicle. I think after a long intermission from the tree theif in the first paragraph, this dialogue sort of comes out of nowhere. Maybe a sentence or two to bring it back. Ex-Now, Charlie tried to focus on the situation at hand, Echol’s Christmas tree theif.

Three weeks ago, the deputy posted to Facebook from his smart phone while driving and rear-ended a horse trailer carrying the 4-H Club’s state champion stallion.

The impact from the crash did little damage, and the “Thought maybe he moved on since no one claimed the horse was uninjured, but the collision set off the patrol last tree. Suppose I was wrong,” said Charlie. car’s horn, and the blaring that echoed inside the The sheriff nodded, and Charlie continued. “This has got trailer spooked Mr. Checkers. to be the biggest news around here since, uh….” Recalling The stallion kicked open the rear gate of the trailer and the Mr. Checkers incident, Charlie trailed off and the sheriff trampled the hood and roof of the patrol car before cut him a sideways glance. bolting in front of a packed school bus. The bus and its “Well, anyway, I’m just glad no one’s been hurt and children survived. The horse and the patrol car did not. nothing’s been stolen just yet. Just some damn weirdo Charlie’s career came down in the middle. on the loose.”

Charlie, son-done-good from a community of migrant farm workers, was well liked. After his tearful apology in front of the county council, he was quickly forgiven by the people of Echols, but not as easily by Sheriff Wiegel.

The day after the accident, Charlie stood in the sheriff’s office, explaining what happened while

Charlie didn’t much mind the carpooling. He was glad to have someone to talk to while driving down the long, lonely roads of one of only three completely unincorporated counties in Georgia. The sheriff never had much to say, but he didn’t seem to mind the chatter, either. He just listened, occasionally nodding or giving up an “uh-huh.”

The patrol car pulled up to a small ranch house with a bare lawn. There were no trees or shrubbery to hide the pastel blue linoleum siding. The only exterior decorations were faux shutters painted green and a wreath – not a real wreath, but a flat, cardboard picture of one – stapled to the front door. Tire tracks, worn into the lawn, led to a large pickup truck parked next to the house.

Mr. and Mrs. Sessions, an elderly couple, were standing in front of the house near the road like residents who had escaped a home fire. They were dressed in heavy coats accessorized with woolly hats, ear muffs and scarves-- too much clothing for the mild winters of southern Georgia.

“God bless it, it’s about time you got here! We’ve been waitin’ for nearly an hour. We could catch the pneumonia in this weather,” said the old lady to the officers.

“Now ma’am, I do apologize, we got here as fast as we could, but why are you waiting outside?” asked Charlie.

“My home has been violated. I just don’t feel safe in there anymore.” She started to tear up, and her husband put his arm around her and pulled her close, consoling her.

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Charlie took out a pen and a small notebook.

“Whereabouts were you at the time of the break-in?”

Mr. Sessions tried to talk, but his wife cut in: “We were inside the whole damn time! We were asleep in our own bedroom! He could have done anything to us, just anything!”

“Did you hear or see anything?”

“We had no idea he broke in until my daughter called me up at seven this morning. Deputy, I do not know what this country is coming to, when you can’t feel safe in your own house! Can’t feel safe in the house you’ve lived in for forty years!”

As his wife buried her face in his shoulder, Mr. Sessions answered calmly: “No, deputy, we didn’t hear or see anything.”

“Anything taken?”

“No, sir, not that I can tell. I mean, we ain’t got much, so I would know pretty well if somethin’ got took.”

“Any idea how he got in?”

Tree Five. December 20. This robust Fraser Fir, draped with dense needles and standing tall and straight as if still planted in the ground, is welcomed as the honored guest in a large colonial home. The lowest branch leaves two feet of clearance above the floor, an area densely and artfully packed with large, richly decorated presents. The tree is ablaze in white lights common to the Christmas aesthetic of the American South. Red and gold spheres are suspended in an even pattern around the perimeter. At the top is a softly illuminated golden star. Located close to a window, like a Macy’s display, the tree is a symbol of status, style, and wealth.

Charlie was a slim man, but the sheriff was too fat for a booth, so they sat a table at the small diner. Charlie ordered a burrito. Sheriff Wiegel lusted for the burger and fries he spied in front of a nearby customer. He ordered a wedge salad.

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“I swear, they seemed almost flattered, like our guy paid them a compliment,” said Charlie, shaking his head.

“Wonder if their neighbors won’t get a bit jealous and Mrs. Sessions regained her voice and aimed it at her start leaving their doors unlocked, you know, hoping husband. “I goddamn told you! I told you how many times that photos of their tree end up on the Internet with to get that damn lock fixed? I told you!” She lost her voice some kind words.” again, this time in a crying rage at Mr. Sessions’ housechore betrayal.

Sheriff Wiegel smiled, but the smile disappeared as he looked past Charlie out the window, where a crowd “Mind if we have a look around?” Charlie asked. had gathered. Behind them, he saw vans emblazoned “Yes, please, go ahead,” said Mr. Sessions. “My wife and with the logos of cable news channels. Charlie caught I, we’re gonna stay with our daughter in Tuscaloosa and the sheriff’s glance, and the two men bolted up. we done packed up. I’d like to get on the road now so we Outside, a man wearing a calfskin jacket and broadcan be there before dark. I barred the sliding backdoor brimmed hat stood in front of the cameras, a shotgun with a piece of wood. Would you mind locking the front cradled in his arms. Behind him stood a phalanx of a when you leave?” half-dozen men and a few women.

Charlie and the sheriff walked through the living room, “Attention, attention, attention. My name is Robert Kearney, heads on a swivel. They stood in front of the Christmas and I’m president of the Echols County Citizens Watch. tree and, finding nothing of interest, locked the front door We are a county under siege, and in response to these and walked around the back of the house. current developments, I and members of this here Kneeling down beside the sliding door to look for squadron will be patrolling the city in the evenings, and footprints, Charlie asked the sheriff, “You think he’ll stop we shall be armed.” after Christmas is over and all the trees come down?”

A reporter shouted a question, “Do you intend to use lethal “Don’t know,” answered the sheriff. force on the blogger?”

THE TREES OF ECHOLS COUNTY

“I figured maybe he’d come in through the back. We’d been having a little trouble with the lock--”

“Thankfully, the state legislature of Georgia has been enlightened enough to enact ‘stand your ground,’ so when confronted with a threat, we’re legally allowed to use lethal force to defend ourselves,” said the man, to nods and utterances of “Amen” from those behind him.

“Follow up: are you threatened by a camera?”

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“Do you intend to use lethal force on the blogger?”

The gathering of reporters laughed, but the man and his posse stood stone faced. Another reporter joined in: “Does the Second Amendment cover DSLs with burst mode or just point-and-shoots?”

“This isn’t funny,” Kearney stuttered. “You don’t live here, and you don’t have a stranger sneaking into your house in the dead of night where your wife and children are sleeping. You haven’t been violated. We have, and we ain’t gonna tolerate it no more.”

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MATT BRAYNERD | LAUREN GOLDSTEIN

A member of the press noticed Sheriff Wiegel standing outside the diner and called out to him. The swarm quickly scattered away from Kearney and reassembled around the sheriff and his chief deputy.

The early, winter arrival of nightfall brought an electric tension of anticipation to the air. Charlie pulled up to his house and got out of the car. As the sheriff got out of the passenger seat and walked around to the driver’s side, Charlie said, “Why don’t you come on in? Jessie’s made a mess of chili tonight, way more than me and the kids can manage.”

The sheriff smiled and waved him off.

“I think it’ll all end come Christmas, when the trees are gone.

I say we ride it out till then. I don’t think he’s violent, sheriff.

He’s not going to hurt anybody.”

“Oh, I’m not too worried about that.”

The sheriff pulled out of Charlie’s driveway and drove Kearney, sensing his fifteen minutes of fame slipping off down the two-lane rural road into the darkness, away after only two, shouted angrily, “If he was doing searching for something. his job, we wouldn’t have to do it for him. Funny finding you here, Sheriff, at a restaurant.” Kearney’s joke fell flat, “Come here, James. I have something for you.” and the journalists launched their first salvo at Wiegel.

Elmer, who was as slender as Charlie back then, “Do you have any leads?” called out to his son. James was waving good-bye to the guests departing his birthday party. It had been “Is there any DNA evidence?” quite an affair in the backyard. Thirty kids, a clown, “Have you been able to track the blogger’s IP address?” a magician, and a horse that gave rides around the perimeter of the yard. Paper plates smeared with “Because the owners of ‘Tree Three’ haven’t been identified, uneaten cake icing and torn wrapping paper were do you suspect they’ve been murdered by the blogger? Or scattered all over. taken captive?”

James came running over to his father who was holding Charlie looked at the sheriff with a dubious expression. a brown leather case. James knew it was a present Could his boss, sixty years old and unaccustomed to from his father, and he knew it was going to be good. national media in a county where the most common Elmer placed the case in front of his son on the picnic crime was running stop signs, handle the international table that had seated a herd of rambunctious ten year blaze that“TheTreesofEcholsCounty.com” had ignited? olds earlier that afternoon.

Overnight, after “Tree Five” was posted, the story James slowly lifted the hinges and then opened the went viral, and every American news agency and a lid. When he saw what was inside, his face expressed few foreign ones rushed to get a reporter down to an awe that only children are capable of. “It’s mine?”

Echols. The county’s lone motel was at capacity, and some residents were profiting handsomely by renting “Yes, son, yes, it is. And I’m going to show you how to use it out extra rooms in their homes at nightly rates that properly. It’s not a toy. You’re too old for toys, boy. This is exceeded their monthly mortgage payments. a piece of professional equipment, and I will be expecting you to treat it as such.”

Sheriff Wiegel held up his arms like Moses parting the Red Sea. “The investigation is ongoing. I would encourage James gleamed, honored by the adult treatment he people not to panic. The last thing we need is someone to was receiving from his father for the first time. He make a mistake and start a shootout.” thought to himself that this was what it must feel like to be knighted.

“Can you track the blog electronically? Have you tried to have it shut down?”

Elmer had had his eye on the camera in the station’s evidence room since he got a job as a deputy a few The sheriff, knowing his limits, gestured for Charlie, thirty weeks back. After a jury convicted the pornographer it years his junior, to take the question. belonged to, the state’s attorney said Elmer could have it.

“Not yet,” said Charlie. “We’ve been coordinating with James’ obsession with photography had begun three the state attorney general’s cyber-crimes unit. They’ve years earlier when he discovered a large box of told us the perpetrator has been hopping onto open Wi-Fi National Geographic magazines at a neighbor’s yard networks in and around the county. But we’re keeping an sale. He bought the whole box for two dollars. Out of eye on it. We want to keep the blog up to help identify the school for the summer, he spent days lying on the floor victims and because our guy may slip up and update it in of his bedroom, flipping through the pages, viewing a way that will lead us back to him.” each photo with the wonder of the blind men upon “Sheriff, have you had any success in locating the victim whom Jesus laid hands. He begged his dad for a of ‘tree three’?” subscription of his own and, despite Elmer’s concerns about exposing the boy to pictorials of naked tribal Sheriff Wiegel shook his head. “We’re still working on it. women, he gave in. It was, after all, educational.

And that’s all we have to share with you. Now, if you’ll excuse us…”

Soon the boy discovered his grandmother’s Polaroid camera. Within thirty minutes he had used all of the Reporters continued shouting questions as the sheriff and film and burnt out twenty of the disposable bulbs Charlie walked back to their patrol car. Kearney stepped taking nighttime photos of birds, trees, houses, and the into their place and tried to re-insert himself. “We have laundry that hung wet and heavy on the clothesline. no evidence that this here criminal is not affiliated with a terrorist organization…”

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THE TREES OF ECHOLS COUNTY

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MICHAEL MCKEOWN

MICHAEL MCKEOWN

My work is provoked by memory, a repeated memory, a memory that insists on coming to the fore. Incomplete, broken, needing to be exorcised. Some memories you really don’t want, some are so powerful and destructive they have a profound physical effect, think PTSD. Other memories are blissful and joyous.

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We bought some shrubs for the garden all tied up with burlap and string. After planting the shrubs and cutting the string allowing the branches to fall, I found a bird’s nest with three perfect pale blue eggs inside. Taking the nest to the studio, I placed it on the table.

Returning a week later, the eggs had gone, no trace of them remained. Another week went by and I returned to the studio and the nest was gone. No trace, very strange.

MICHAEL MCKEOWN

The first ice piece was a complete disaster. The mould exploded and 400 gallons of water flooded the studio floor. This instantly froze, turning the studio into an ice rink. I closed the studio door, and went home to wait for the Spring thaw.

My grandmother’s Monday wash day tradition evolves into “Winter laundry.” An outdoor sculpture installation of clothes made from recycled materials, doubled in scale as if from a child’s perspective.

A small black and white television in the early 1970’s exposes a child who realizes true evil for the first time. The bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki and the horror of their murder result in a lifelong distrust of the industrial military machine.

A missile made from garbage cans and used construction materials towers 23 feet high – a monument to a colossal waste of recourses worldwide. The Missile Museum coming to a mall near you.

The older I get (I am 55 now), the smaller my future becomes and the greater my past.

I don’t have either, really. Just this moment and the memories it provokes.

Oliver Sax, the noted neurologist, saw his “perfect indigo” in a flash for a few seconds in 1965, this color so moved him, so perfect and pure, he spent the next 50 years trying to find it again.

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My sculpture, drawings and photographs are touchstones into a past, a past that created this artist.

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01. Studio Shot 2010 Foreground: studio ice #1, 48” X 48” Background: vertigo – ink on paper, 96” X 96” 02. Studio Ice #2 2013 Water collected from the studio roof into a mold and allowed to freeze, Varies 03. Nest 2012 Ink on Paper, 32’’ X 28’’

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04. Russia/Poland 2015 Ink on Vintage map, 18’’ X 24’’

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05. Bushwick 1 2015 Recycled materials, Height 23’ 06. Japan 2015 Ink on Vintage map, 16’’ X 10’’

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