Created by Ana Lucia Seguin a big THANK YOU to Brynn Holland and Tori Wolffe for editing ! <3
In this PP you will find pieces by: Linda Chen Denise Thornberry Jodie Rachel Slater Lydo Elise Le Eliane Yeung Daniela Izaguirre Aurora Diaz Camila Rodrigo Rebecka Gross
To Be Different
YOU and ME cut. fold. read
we knew we belonged
and we didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t do anything about it
l o s t
six years went by
YOU without ME
13
14
until now, you came close by...
3
2
- - - ME Flip
but I know we will never be.
15
Follow the numeration starting with a peak fold between 1 and 2 and alternate between peak and valley folds
5
i was neat and skinny
Cut along the dotted lines Peak fold through the middle, text facing outwards, then across the color change
8
YOU - - -
dorky and
we met 2008
YOU. 4
hoping but
g r i m y
and searching f o r g o t t e n
It was the afternoon, I saw you f rom all across the room
YOU - - - - - - - - ME
7
y a o n u d w e r e
but rotten
6
t a l l
g o o f y
YOU . . . ME ?
9
d a m a g e d 10
11
.ME
12 1
denise thornberr y 2014
YOU
DESTINED TO NEVER BE
ME
I’ve just never been able to grasp the concept of a “loving relationship”. A relationship where the boy touches the girl and the girl enjoys it, doesn’t feel sick, doesn’t want to scrub away layers of her skin with bleach. I’ve tried it; I’ve spent many drunken nights pressed up against cold, dirty brick walls, or spread out on stalesmelling mattresses of student apartments. Heavy breathing, the overwhelming stench of cheap beer and cigarettes, stubble grating my chin. Big, tough guys with Cherry Red Dr Martens and anger issues. Nicotinestained, badly tattooed fingers grabbing and pinching and bruising every inch of my flesh. I’ve been there too many times, and it never felt right. I’d spend hours in the bathtub, burning away the stench and itch and grime with scalding water. I’m nothing but trashy and stretchmarked. Scars on thick thighs and arms, badly dyed hair, black eyes, lips plastered blood red. So maybe I just attract the wrong kind of men: the ones with a taste for self-destruction and class-A drug addiction. The ones that hunt for glamour in all that is bad and toxic in the world. This was never the sort of guy I spent my time lying around and dreaming about. But then again, I never did lie around dreaming about guys, full stop. I never drooled over shirtless images of toned football players in underwear commercials, never felt excited by the mention of my future husband or baby. The boys-will-beboys, how-to-keep-your-man-keen-and-happy-in-bed kind of heteronormative bullshit they print in magazines and ads and wrap around your throat and choke you with—that was never for me. Instead, I plastered my walls with images of female icons and spent my time dreaming about kissing sticky lip gloss-covered lips. Fantasizing on the rebel grrrls Kathleen Hanna screamed about in her songs, the girls that strike fear into the hearts of white, straight, middle-class men. The unashamed, outspoken feminists. The “hairy lesbians” they condemn for encouraging oppressed suburban housewives to drop their aprons and divorce their husbands. I remember the exact moment it all fell into place. It was in the girls’ bathroom of my college, surrounded by lavender walls and posters about emergency contraception and how to correctly insert a tampon. You were radiant and confident. Buzz cut, combat boots and studded chokers. Stern and sharp, with eyes like fire. A girl I’d spent the year crushing on from the other side of the classroom. Witty, alluring, you told me that I was beautiful and asked me, “Do you like girls?”—a question that sounded so strange spoken out loud—and before I could gather my thoughts, it happened. You placed the most delicate, velvety soft kiss upon my lips. A kiss that sent an electrical current through every inch of my body. A kiss I’d never had, never felt before. The kind they talk about in songs. And when I stared into the mirror through bright, wideopen eyes, I saw that my lips were no longer smeared blood red, but stained with the strawberry-scented, rosy pink of your lipstick. I won’t deny who I am. Not anymore.
I CAN’T BREATHE I am a BED person. I was born in a house with 5 rooms. My doctor only worked because he loved working. My nurse didn’t get financial aid in school. I help blind people cross the street. I read books about disasters. My high school friends were all similar to me (we only had 2 “exotic” friends in school). The butler did my laundry and groceries. Coca Cola was banned from my house. My teachers were paid a lot to care about me. I had time to play and explore. I have liberal opinions about society, but when it affects me, I close my eyes and pretend I am in bed. I am a bed person. I have a masters degree. I read a lot of books and blogs. My musical taste is rich and diverse. I inherited a lot of things from my ancestors. I am a bed person. I am privileged. I can read, write and analyze. I can manipulate things from my throne.
I can help people if I want to, and they think I am generous. Most of the time I close my eyes because I am a bed person. I am a bed person. I sleep in a queen bed. I understand about colors and design. I am never alone; I know where to get help. I have a beautiful voice. I have beautiful hands. I have opportunities and I know it. I am a bed person. I can explore other lives, sympathize, ignore, help and harm. I watch things happen from afar. I get close to them with my mind; they sometimes touch my heart. When I volunteer, my parents cry. I am a bed person. When I can’t breathe, everyone can see. When I can’t breathe, I know they will talk about it.
So I try to breathe a lot and talk about the others who can’t breathe, the suburbs of society. I am a bed person. I can’t be you or him, but I am in bed thinking about you both. I am a bed person, and I CAN’T BREATHE. I CAN’T BREATHE.
DANIELA IZAGUIRRE Fine artist www.danielaizaguirre.com info@danielaizaguirre.com Twitter: @Daniela_nomad Instagram: @danielaizaguirre_nomad
Stanza, Detour in Watercolor II Watercolor and graphite on Vellum 30”x 22” 2013 Stanza, Detour in Watercolor II belongs to Stanza; a body of work which explores vulnerability and connection in the feminine and masculine dynamic. By drawing compositional references from Chinese painting and Haiku philosophy and adapting them to the artist’ s personal mythology, Daniela Izaguirre studies the idea of complement forces found in creation: silence and sound, darkness and light, positve and negative, and their creative interaction. Daniela is currently pursuing an MFA degree at the New York Academy of Art where she is preparing her thesis body of work studying the anthropological roots of theater and poetry and their aesthetic and rhetoric capacities in contemporary society. “These ceramic compositions consist on broken pieces of wheel thrown plates, which I glue back together, and hang using threads and clothespins. They serve as characters in a play, they conflict with each other and they support each other. It is a game of self-sufficiency and interdependence. I want my paintings to have a quiet presence that will allow the viewer to dwell on the subtle changes and movements of the colors, shapes and transparencies. The shapes and patterns I am using are born from my response to my ceramic installation compositions (Stanzas), which I use as a personal metaphoric language to express the vulnerability of the human condition and human connections.”
Gina.
You could say I am a very....rambunctious girl. By the age of 17, I had lost my virginity, had been to lots of parties, stole many 40oz’s, and smoked a ton of pot. I had my 24 year old cousins ID, I was unstoppable. It was night in the devils playground, New York City. But this night wasn’t like all the other nights, this night was special. It was the night I kissed a girl for the first time. The crew and I were in a club on the Lower East Side. Gravy Train was playing. After a debaucherous and sweaty Gravy Train set we were invited back to Brooklyn to a house party by one of the kids we met at the show. We, of course, accepted the invite. This is where I met Gina. A freshman at Pratt originally from the mid-west, she looked like Chloé Sevigny in ‘Kids’. She had a tabby cat named Prancer and her dad was a Dentist. She was shy and every time I made her laugh she would blush and put her hand over her eyes. Usually you would find me at any party drinking or in the hot box room talking about politics, but not this night. I spent the entire night talking to Gina. I was attracted to her and it felt surreal, yet natural. I had never felt like this about anyone who didn’t have a penis between their legs. I liked it and I liked her. After hanging out for three hours and flirting, we started making out. It lasted for five minutes, but felt like a hundred. I don’t know how the hell it happened, but it did and I loved it and I couldn’t believe it. Have you ever had an epiphany? You know that feeling Carrie in ‘Carrie’ had when she’s hit with the bucket of pig blood. Well, that happened during our make out session. I froze and opened my eyes real wide. My brain went through a 80s montage, but without the corny music. At the end of the flashback montage my brain just clicked and then it hit me. I’m bi sexual. After our kiss, I pulled a dumb boy thing and left the party and Gina. I had just become one with my sexuality, what else was I supposed to do? I never saw Gina again but the fact that she made me realize something so important about myself makes her unforgettable. My sexuality is something I never speak about because it’s no one’s business. I am not ashamed of it and luckily enough I live in a time and area where I am accepted. It is something I am completely comfortable with, and something I will always be. Yet, it is something I keep private. But I will say it again. IM BI, IM BI, IM BI, Goodbye.
“Hay que tener en cuenta, que estamos en, un cuerpo humano. Que el cuerpo pesa y hasta a veces, Duele. Te hieres – te hieren Y te duele. Pero es lo peor cuando te duele el alma. El alma si que pesa. Habita entre tejidos, Invita a los sentidos. Y duele. Y cada suceso así se acumula en nuestro propio fondo Entre cada trozo de piel tensa. Y nuestra alma así se vuelve densa, Y nuestro cuerpo. Pesa. Se termina por quedar en la memoria aquello que quedó denso Aquello inmerso. Y el dolor cesa de doler. Pero duele el denso recuerdo.” Camila Rodrigo P.G.
DEFENSE Two months. Two years. Two Months before my official departure of LA, I enrolled in my first self-defense class. I signed up for Krav Maga on Olympic Boulevard. My father’s insistence on the matter was encouragement. For two years my go to self-defense was my determination to live unbothered by obstacles and stay focused. For almost two years of mastered LA with only my bus pass, my legs, and me. For almost two years I renewed my bus pass, allowed extra time for delays, and prayed for my roommate to schedule her grocery trips while I was available to tag along. City living is hard if you obsess over the ‘what if ’s’ or watch the news regularly. It is good to be aware, educated, and informed but it is how you let that information affect your actions that matters. Moving to LA was my choice. Choosing to live without a car was economical and I saw it as living simply. It’s easy if you dismiss the Craigslist stories and the whistles when your skirt inches up a bit. Three months. Two years. Three months prior to my one-way ticket to my beautiful home state of Washington I was heading home from work. I would always debate whether to ride the 16 bus down 3rd st or the 14 down Beverly. That night I chose the 16. I should have caught the 14.
Stepping off the bus the downhill stroll awaited me. I was eager for the comfort of my apartment. The streetlights guarding the adjacent high school guided me. My shoes echoed against the concrete, creating a steady rhythm. My beat stops. He is shorter; he had a friend with him, my attempted scream muffled. Why are the million thoughts in my heard not translating verbally, more importantly loudly? One hand over my mouth, another up my skirt. Why couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t I have worn pants? He was behind me, holding me tight, for what couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have been more than 45 seconds (but felt like an eternity); my self-defense mechanism now in the hands of him and his friend. After I was released, I turned to see him and his friend running, I swore I could hear a chuckle or two. I ran too I was only less than a block away from my apartment. Once home, I was relieved those 45 seconds had ended and spared me of any worse acts if time had proceeded and my co-actors had been more serious Present. NYC. I still remember how those 45 seconds felt. Sharing this story reminds me to continue living better.
LAS HORAS
WO-MAN
I am tired of being a woman from the rib of a man. God said, let there be skirts and stilettos; big boobs and bronzer; Anime porn and the Atkins Diet; clumped mascara at the ends of eyelids; cut, buffed and painted toenails. I am tired of being a woman for man, little and hopeful supportive and soft. Canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t I be a landscape for me, Where hair grows like weeds, seizing my body in wild finesse? New Testament Mark says divorced women canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t re-marry. Ephesians says, submit to your husband as you would to God I whisper something that nobody hears: I am not a woman from the rib of man, but a brand new species unearthed and discovered the sole decider of my own destiny.
*V- Cold Soup of the day, drip coffee, black. Siting in a coffee shop in midtown feeling bummed about life and probably trying too hard. Team player, honest, hard worker, writing down notes for a new job I soon hope to have. Escaping from my tight schedule, trying to leave the current hell I am in. My phone goes off, â&#x20AC;&#x153;You have a low level of dysplasiaâ&#x20AC;? Hell What does that even mean? I think fast, I look down. I look it up. Low level HPV - 80% of women have it at some point of their lives. 1 in 4 women currently have it in America. Is it just like regular HPV? I panic. My doctor tells me to not be alarmed. Is she fucking kidding? I sip on my coffee and a couple tears come down. I am trying to pull thoughts together, trying to come up with a plan. Time is up, gotta walk back to write copy for overpriced dinnerware.
In December- I had another Paps smear in Peru, results came back all clear. Was it just a "v cold", like some of my friends said? Were the results I got wrong? Was the doctor right to tell me not to be alarmed? I don't know.
Things that often keep me up at night 1. Looking for umbrellas that I know Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve bought three times in the last three months. 2. Eating. 3. (secretly) Listicals. 4. Good movies on HBO. 5. The final three episodes of Orange is the New Black. 6. Reflecting on why you havenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t sent me a drunk text. 7. Questioning my life goals. 8. Calculating how much (little) sleep I will get. 9. Facebook stalking former romances. 10. Facebook stalking your ex girlfriend. 11. Facebook stalking the famous girl I went to high school with. 12. Contemplating deleting my Facebook. 13. Figuring out how late my period actually is.