Labor and Leisure Fall 2023
Affirmations of leisure and lo e
sing to the sk ith the birds and the histling inds. gi e no heed to those ho ma hear ou.
let our e es take in the color the orld. e er blade of grass glistening in the sun, e er bubble of laughter. dig our bare feet into fresh soil and gro roots.
e tend them deep ithin the earth and connect ourself to the forest of communit . mundanit is in the e e of the beholder. gi e in to the ecstas of e perience. let our rough edges become soft as silk, just as the ri er ears a a its rocks into smooth stones.
open our heart to others, offering it up on a sil er platter ithout fear of carnage. a heart that is used is stronger than a heart that is not. gi e all our lo e to this orld and ou ill be lo ed in return.
Field Notes #3
The animals in the Salt Plains National Wildlife Refuge Park in Alfalfa Count , north-central Oklahoma, do not kno this land has been set aside for them. Despite ha ing been set aside, it has not mo ed in the ph sical orld. This is h the animals didn’t notice. The li ed here before 1900, and the li e here no , and in bet een their habitat as purchased b the United States Fish & Wildlife Ser ice ith funds from the federal duck stamp. The refuge consists of 32,187 acres, including salt flats, mi ed-grass prairie, herbaceous etlands, forested riparian areas, rolling sand hills, and open ater.
Accipiter cooperii . . . . . The Cooper’s Ha k as named in 1928 after William Cooper, a collector and categorizer of their stuffed and mounted corpses. The birds don’t kno their name belongs to him. S ainson's Ha ks li e here too, and ould be relie ed to kno he as the t pe to spend hours dra ing them ali e instead of o ning them dead. These are migrator birds, but toda the ’re here, perusing the clearing, one limb of pine hosting three ha ks perched side b side b side. Are the thinking hat I’m thinking? fair is foul & foul is fair ho er through the fog & filth air.
Lontra canadensis . . . . . The North American Ri er Otters basking on a flat, sunbleached rock, ha e ne er, and probabl ill ne er, meet an Enh dra lutris. the North American Sea Otters, li ing three states a a along the California coast. It’s probabl for the best. The sea otters are three times hea ier, almost t ice as long. If ou met a ersion of ourself but si teen feet tall, ouldn’t ou ish ou hadn’t?
Cicindela tranquebarica . . . Oblique-lined Tiger Beetles scurr across the pebble shore. Their shells are a dappled, half-hearted bro n. Each measures less than the length of one knuckle of m pointer finger. It’s possible that these scuttlers ha e met Cicindela splendida So called “Splendid Tiger beetle.” I admit the name is deser ed: bodies maraschino-cherr red, heads gleaming electric green. If the met their less resplendent cousins, ould the feel superior? I ouldn’t ha e the heart to tell them that the humans agree. I find it in m self to forgi e them their h pothetical anit .
Celestial Bodies
Aren’t we all just wandering celestial bodies? collections of stardust and sunlight that amble through space and time? how strange then, that in all the stars and suns and planets in this universe, i ended up here with you. oh how lucky we are!
The one electron universe
I wake up naked on a mountain and the barbecuers aren’t even staring
Let’s ask the metal on the grill: how does it feel to forget your roots?
I curl up at your feet like a cat
In a synagogue i pray for a free Palestine a living wage, Saturn over the mountain And the sun yawns and whips out a cig
Let’s go back to the Euphrates and start over I feel the same sand underneath my feet and your same wind static and gold in my mouth
The Trade
Leisurel da s…. nourishing, happ , sa oring this moment here & no , for e do not kno hat tomorro brings.
We must of course prepare for it, et to endure for it makes it a little bit s eeter.
Ma I fill these memories ith pure and authentic moments. Free to li e.
I think of ou in this moment and ho ou s ept me ith a thousand little glimmers, the ones I’ll hold onto hen e must return.
You ere the breeze mo ing through meparts of m brain lit up that I didn't e en kno e isted.
You’re nourishing, m dear. For ith ou, I am cared for, supported, admired, seen and at peace.
The armth in m heart e pands like a heart full on fire. What is the name for that sensation? Wh can't e name it if it's something onl e kno ? For it's something I can onl feel ith ou.
Because I feel for ou, so much of this feeling. .
The labor of tomorro can ait, for e onl ha e this moment no . I refuse to trade a second ith ou. And e breathe e er ounce of fresh air, along ith each other’s breath. Surrendering to each other’s lips.
For ork ill come, it's ine itable. But e create moments of freedom.
To Rosalind Franklin, ith lo e
You do ph sics?
Oh god.
Wo that’s impressi e. I could ne er.
The sa , Ho do e make this en ironment more inclusi e? And ait for me to ans er –the ho propose these to n halls but prepare nothing. the just s i el in their chairs, glance to ards us so the can listen, not talk. from abo e and belo , professors and students e pecting me to pla the oman card, to call it se ist.
i kno the can’t in m fa or here.
if the spoke too much it ould churn m stomach, too. but the in all the time.
i’ e come ith an agenda, ma be e en a no el. i hoarded it in m memor , a squirrel collecting nuts before m inter struggle for sur i al, but i’m alread so tired.
I don’t like ho ou’re talking to me. hat. You’re talking to me like i’m an idiot.
i don’t think ou’re an idiot. I don’t appreciate the a ou’re talking to me.
i don’t appreciate that ou didn’t ask for m help hen i did the problem. What are ou e en talking about. That’s craz . What. He scoffs, laughing in m face and Ha. Ha. Ha. echoes through m head, pounds on m skull, stings m e es. i need to go. i need to go NOW. before i cr here and gi e him the satisfaction or the fuel for gossip that i pla ed the ictim.
i make m escape slip into the hall. silent, finall
Until that muffled oice in ades it. still not far enough.
it’s another one of the few who finds me crouching in the bathroom stall red-faced with puffy eyes. i just need my hat. i still need to do the problems. what could i do better? do i need to flirt so they like me? was i speaking to him like he was an idiot? what do i have to do to be treated like everyone else? why do i do this? why do i think i’m smart enough? why do i even try? when the attack comes from all directions support comes from the few who understand, have their every claim second guessed, have their questions interrupted and their work stolen over and over and over again. in solidarity: thank you, rosalind franklin. fuck you, watson and crick.
Elegy to Poetry
forget the rhymes, the music, your laurel withered, and lie to rest against the stone shrouded by oblivion: postmodern prometheus, your murderer ugly beast, still wanders free and calls me crazy for still I kiss your purple, frozen lips, and though from time to time I may with your imposters flirt the nuptial ring I hold to sign them off my eyes athirst; lie, lady, lie your words still give me life, the truth is ugly enough to make me die; lie, lady, lie for if I live, you still have life in every word I think or speak or write, and if I fail I pray you pardon me and kiss me more to give me death at once.
purple eve
we sit against the window the phthalo shadows dance beneath the olms and the white senile church sits with wrinkled scraps of paint
your blindness is also mine to difuminate these things: Coleridge’s yellow rose, the compass and the astrolabe, your seniorial eagle cane... you point outside to the afterglow’s golden ring, that false dream the dreamer knows as dream, interrupted by the scarlet blast of a bouquet of mockingbirds –you cannot tell how many (somewhere between five and ten) and in that uncertainty, God dwells
the silent, silver mirror at the of the hall your silhouette and mine adjoined in blackness copulating images inside images that lie frozen beyond our rotting flesh
but now the bell howls its odes
you gaze a gazeless stare and say you’ll catch me later knowing, just as well as I, that you will not
Collage in Quarantine
I’ e been keeping notebooks all m life, but I’ e made a habit of carr ing a journal ith me at all times since m freshman ear of high school. Not onl is it con enient in case an idea suddenl pops into m head, but I like to think of it as a a of keeping a personal histor . Whene er I find m self creati el adrift, I’ll rifle through these old journals. Doing so, I return to old ideas in their moments of conception. I reacquaint m self ith personal dramas that ha en’t mattered in ears. I find sketches for ideas that ha e ne er full been realized. These tra els back into the past often spark inspiration for future projects.
Subsequentl , I can pinpoint the e act moment I got into collage. It comes about half a through a pale green notebook I got as a Secret Santa present m senior ear of high school. After countless pages conceptualizing ideas for ne stories and plans to end m final ear of high school ith a bang, e arri e at the middle of March, 2020, a fe eeks after school mo ed online due to the COVID-19 pandemic. M plans of an in-person prom and graduation, or e en just of seeing m friends, ere out the indo . M famil as health , m situation as a luck one, but I couldn’t shake a feeling of loss from m life being so suddenl different and from these e periences being canceled, like e er thing had been torn up into pieces and scattered to the ind. It as an isolating and difficult place to be in.
Whether due to a lack of inspiration, moti ation, or e en the feeling that creating as irresponsible at a time hen the orld as so fraught ith strife and pain, I didn’t dra or rite in that pale green journal for a hile. I did, ho e er, spend a lot of time on m phone. Earl quarantine as a ash ith social media challenges as restless teens tried to find a s to fill their time.
One da hile clicking through a friend’s Instagram stor , I came across the “30 Da Song Challenge.” The challenge consisted of a series of prompts like “fa orite song ith a color in the title,” and the person ould pick a song that the liked based on that. I asn’t interested in participating in a social media challenge, but the prompts sparked something in me. I felt that old artistic itch return. I kne scrolling through a screen ouldn’t be enough to satiate it. I had to make something.
I don’t kno h that dri e to make something lead me to a pair of scissors to a ne spaper. I ne er reall enjo ed collage as a medium before that moment. The messiness had al a s turned me off. When I heard the ord “collage,” it conjured up memories of pungent craft glue, stick hands, and isual clutter ith no real intent or organization. It as tedious, too. Who had time to rifle through countless ne spapers and magazines in the hope of finding something interesting, much less something that matched the color palette or theme of the piece? Indeed, ho had the time. Who, suddenl , no had lots and lots of time…
Before I kne it, I as crafting dail collages to each of the prompts from the “30 Da Song Challenge.” These collages ere small, oftentimes ith onl one element e ca ated from the ne spaper per page. I hadn't been inspired to rite ne poems or stories since quarantine started, but I could rite a brief paragraph about each of the songs I mentioned, couldn’t I? The da s passed, and before I kne it, m once-stagnant journal had thirt ne pages filled.
The challenge e entuall ended, but m interest in collage did not. M old notebook habits had been strictl pencil-and-pen, doodles and scribbles ith the occasional larger sketch. No more. I started integrating more intricate collage spreads than the ones from the challenge had produced, e perimenting ith la ering different images and te tures of paper. I tore up more ne spapers, took a pair of scissors to m sister’s old Vogue September issues, ( ith permission, of course,) e perimented ith atercolor and marker, and collected stickers and tape from around m house. An e er-gro ing moat of materials surrounded m desk, a true nightmare for acuuming, but amazing for eas access to an thing I needed as soon as inspiration struck.
I finished m pale green notebook shortl after graduating high school ia Zoom call. The Summer began and I began a ne notebook along ith it, m plans for the future unfolding into nothing but uncertaint . There as little to look for ard to e cept the upcoming college semester, hich asn’t looking like it as going to pan out the a I had originall planned. So I started and finished the ne notebook in t o months. Time passed, situations progressed, and I decided to defer a ear from college, thro ing m future into e en more uncertaint than before. I started and finished another notebook, this time in one month. I could not stop collating.
I had mainl spent m high school ears focusing on m riting, but I had al a s lo ed isual art, mainl dra ing. Collaging pro ided the opportunit to e pand into a ne kind of isual medium that I had ne er e plored. M pre ious conceptions of collaging’s messiness and tediousness eren’t rong, (just take the spread of junk on m floor and orsening posture the hours I spent hunched at m desk,) but I as starting to find beaut in the qualities I had once scoffed at.
I gre to understand that collage has quite a bit of organization and intent in ol ed in it, and the tedium is more a meditation on ho different pieces interact ith one another. There’s a catharsis to just slapping paper on a page, but there’s an e en more potent one in meticulousl arranging e er selected piece based on their color, shape, and te ture, making sure that their placement creates isual harmon .
Ironicall , as m focus shifted a a from riting, the collages I made pro ided ne inspiration for it. Collaging left small spaces to fill ith stra lines, fictitious fragments, ideas and thoughts to compliment the aesthetic of the page. I pulled inspiration from other artists too, and not just the photographers and isual artists hose images I used. I copied do n song l rics and quotes and rote up mo ie lists. M isual art breathed ne life into m riting, and m riting became a part of m isual art, often pro iding a unique te ture to m pieces. It as an une pected s mbiosis that delighted me.
It’s tempting to take m sudden interest in this medium during quarantine and to inject it ith some zeitgeist- insight. As an art form, collaging as a a of taking disparate pieces of different sources, te tures, colors, and moods, and putting them together. It as a a of creating beaut and order in fragmentation through organization.
With this phase of m life no three ears in the rear ie , I see ho this sudden pi ot to ards collage has impacted m creati e output since. I’ e filled a good deal more notebooks ith cutout compositions, scattered scribbles, and slapdash doodles. I’ e gained e perience in digital art as ell as ph sical mediums like printmaking. I enjo integrating the te tures and aesthetic of collage into m graphic design ork, like cutout
Was this sudden shift in medium a representation of ho I’d taken m life being torn up and scattered and tried to make the best of it through organizing hat I could, scraps of paper on m desk? Ma be. Or ma be it as just a simple a to fill up the sudden influ of time on m hands. Regardless, I consider it a distinct chapter in the personal histor of m artistic output.
(Coincidentall , a lot of this ork in ol es zines about music. It reall does come full circle!) I e en enrolled in a collage class during the Fall 2023 semester. Back in 2020, I couldn’t sa that I kne the best a for e er one to cope ith the pain, isolation, and stress of the pandemic. But in 2023, I can gi e this recommendation in confidence: hen our plans start to scatter, tr collaging. It just might help pull it all back together.
Collage when traces of labor remain visible in art.
Feel free to cut these images out and use them in your own collages!
Page 1: Affirmations of leisure and love Alex Robinson, Union Square Park, Arnold, Cella Ellie Attisani
Page 2-4: Has my heart gone to sleep? Jacqueline Tsai
Page 5: Parting Words Jacqueline Tsai
Page 6: Portrait of Cassie Lena Farley
Page 7: waking up, drifting off Mikayla Stout
Page 8: Foliage Ellie Attisani
Page 9: In Honor of Kandinsky Lena Farley
Page 10: Sal Ellie Attisani
Page 11: Play! Janet Russin
Page 12: Collage on Change Cassidy Bensko
Page 13: self portrait for Harriet Jacobs Caelan Reeves
Page 14-15: Aspiration Migration Vexation AJ Jolish, Walking Cassidy Bensko
age 16: Celestial bodies, Untitled Alex Robinson
Page 17: Mountain, Dog, Lena, Cassidy Bensko
Page 18: We Who Break Curses Analia Eisen
Page 19: The one-electron universe Mike Buchman
Page 20-21: Leisure in Berlin Kaya Savelson
Page 22: The Trade Kristin Kerr, untitled Mikayla Stout
Page 23: untitled (squiggles), sitting down Mikayla Stout
Page 24-25: To Rosalind Franklin, with love Rose Sinkus, Home Lena Farley
Page 26: Cascade AJ Jolish
Page 27: Elegy to Poetry Derek Talbott
Page 28: cannon, knight Mikayla Stout
Page 29: For the Birds Theresa Provasnik
Page 30: Untitled Lena Farley
Page 31: Make this House (a Home) AJ Jolish
Page 32-33: Bittersweet Tierney O’Keefe, Photos Marvin Heilbronn
Page 34: blue girl Mikayla Stout
Page 35: aleph zahir Derek Talbott
Page 36: A Method of Loss Jacqueline Tsai
Page 37: All Hail the Queen Theresa Provasnik
Page 38-40-: Collage in Quarantine Golda Grais
Page 39: The Magic Treehouse Lena Farley
Page 40: Having Fun AJ Jolish
Dedication
This zine is inspired by and dedicated to the creators of OutSpoken magazine - a Queer student journal published from February 1998 to May 1999. You can visit the art, writing, and memory of these works in the Claremont Colleges Queer Resource Center archive - but we ask that you respect the privacy of those who chose to share themselves within the journal. Their tenacity, humor, messiness, and compassion laid the foundation for our sticky lives today.
We thank all the artists for trusting their work and play in our anarchical, amateur production process. We hope you’re proud of these pages.
About Potluck
Sometimes you try to make something cool and Queer and it gets caught in and obliterated by the rusted gears of institutional bureaucracy-and it kills a little bit of you-so you make something better with friends.
This is Potluck, a gathering of intimates, comrades, schoolmates, outlaws, chums, confidantes, and even a set or two of lovers. A disconcerting styrofoam plate of baked beans, ambrosia salad, and an Easy Bake Oven sheet cake from your neighbor across the hall. A stab at returning to The Closet and making a nest out of newspaper clippings on the floor.
Made by and for people who don't really know what they're doing but don't like what else is going on so they give it a shot anyways.
We thank you immensely for reading our second issue, created with love and hard work from students at the Claremont Colleges, and even real life adults at the school of life.
Sincerely, ye olde
Potluckians
