January 2012 by Quiescent Magazine

RM racing minds magazine

Vol. 2 | Issue 7 | JAN.2012

staff Editor-in-Chief Sarah Nieman

Layout Designer Sarah Nieman

Dear Readers,

In this issue I want to celebrate art. I have taken a few months off of creating this magazine so that when I brought it back, it would be fantastic. I have gathered some amazing artists and writers in the hope that everyone will be inspired. That everyone will look at their work in awe. That everyone will appreciate what unknown people have done. I created this magazine originate to celebrate art and artists. And I hope to bring that back a little more.

Sinerely, Sarah

Editors Caiti Borruso Maria Kaffa Louisiana Mei Gelpi Photographers Caiti Borruso Lauren R W Miriam Subbiah Louise Spence

issuu // issuu.com/racingminds magcloud // racingminds.magcloud.com tumblr // racingminds.tumblr.com facebook // facebook.com/racingminds flickr // flickr.com/groups/racingminds email // racingminds@yahoo.com

content Youth

Wonder

Sight

youth

rugged ROMANCE photography // baohien ngo model // lindsey lugrin make up // sara eudy wardrobe // jessica kay rowe & natasha wong

ERICA MENDOZA

Racing Minds: When did you get into creating art?

year of high school. I made hand-built ceramic fish, as well as fish out of polymer clay, crocheted yarn, and some mixed media. I entered a juried show for high Erica Mendoza: I’ve always wanted to create art. school students in my county (over 17 schools), and Since before I can remember/according to my mom, one of my fish won one of the Juror’s Choice. I was I’ve always been drawing with crayons on paper and with markers on the walls. To her, those drawings were proud, though unsure of my future. better than a two year old’s ought to be. My major was undeclared my entire freshman year of I took Advanced Placement 3D Studio, the equivalent college. After my first semester, my academic advisor suggested I take 3D design. I had already gotten credits of 3 Dimensional design at my university, my senior

from my high school portfolio, but I guess my advisor didn’t know that and I didn’t know she didn’t know that, so I took 3D Design the following Spring. For the first project in that class, I made the outline a 35mm camera out of rebar tie wire. I entered it into my school’s Juried Annual and I got accepted. I came to the opening reception of the show an hour late and by the time I got there, my piece was sold to one of the university’s photography professors. In that moment I knew I had to do this for the rest of my life.

RM: Where did your need to create come from? EM: I get it from my dad—this need to create with my

hands. We all have this sense of joy that comes with accomplishing goals, and I’m completely driven by it. When I’m done with a piece that I like, I sit and I stare at it. It just makes me happy to complete something that I like; naturally I want to be happy more and more, so I just want to create more and more.

RM: Describe a little of what you do. What are your

favorite materials to work with when sculpting? How much do you plan in advance?

EM: I’m only 19. I’m the youngest of less than 20

Sculpture majors at my university, so I’m still trying to learn everything I can, starting from scratch (apparently I’ve been swinging a hammer wrong until the beginning of this past Fall semester). So it’s a little easier to say what I don’t (like to) do. I didn’t like carving plaster, so I probably won’t like carving limestone or any rocks. I loved the process of casting iron, but hated the amount of factors (that are out of my control) that can potentially ruin a piece. The thing about sculpture is you can use anything as a medium. Anything. Paul Hazelton makes unusually beautiful sculptures out of dust. Dust. That crap in the back corner underneath your bathroom sink and between couch cushions. There’s a world of materials out there that I haven’t discovered yet, but I really like the physical and visual weight of metal contrasted with something soft like satin or lace. Measure twice, cut once. That’s what they teach us. I gather ideas. I draw sketches. I usually try to get feedback as to whether or not my ideas are feasible in the given time frame. Then I draw sketches with measurements/dimensions of all of the different sides. I make a maquette, usually out of poster board. If the piece works in poster board, it’ll work in cardboard. If it works in cardboard, it’ll probably work in metal. Art supplies get expensive; it’s not a secret. However sheets of metal costs usually a lot more than canvas or photo paper. We’re taught to plan everything A LOT. I can always go out and buy more poster board and masking tape or go dumpster diving for cardboard, but there’s not always a second chance with something like metal.

E m i ly McLeod 1 8

N e w

H a m p s h i r e

My soul mimics the translucent moon, your eyes are illuminated by the stars, I want to touch your hair, I want to whisper to you, but I know you won't remember in the morning. To know your voice, to know the outline of your lips, I strive to commit this to memory, your body is warm next to me, and everything here seems so surreal. Every night is full of dreams, where I'm holding you close, every morning is an awakening, I need to catch you, I need you to notice me.

C a n ’ t C r y i n g

Y o u H e a r M e I n Y o u r S l e e p ?

Today felt more like an end when it should have been the beginning, my lungs wouldn’t open up enough to let the fresh air in, so the oxygen felt stale. I was blessed with bad luck, and some things will never change. My mind is a dirty, molded place filled with empty file cabinets, there is no room for something new, sometimes I think this is a sign of an apocalypse. Will you open the door for me? My arms will surely turn into dust if I extend the joints, this is just a fear. I think my teeth might fall out, they feel loose, I’m scared to eat that apple you’re holding out to me. I’m scared of that bird on your shoulder, my eyes already feel like they might pop out, I hope it doesn’t come much closer because that bird seems hungry. After the world is in bed I wander the backroads to try to find the way out, but there never seems to be an end to where I’m going, and I always wind up turning back to where I came from. Violins are the soundtrack of this scene, it all plays out like a Wes Anderson movie, but I tend to run away from the script. I knew it was the end when you could barely hold the glance, I knew I should have kept still, I knew I should have held those branches in from spewing out of my mouth. You laughed at me, but I choked, and I couldn’t keep the tendrils from wrapping around you. I’ll cut them loose some day, then you can let me be, when I can get you out of my head. photograph // sarah nieman

I ’ v e T h i s

B e e n T h e

T r y i n T o S a y W h o l e T i m e

I had the idea that I could stretch my hallway to fit the sorrow. I would drag my fingertips along the sunshine walls and remember long summer days filled with smiles. How your laugh bounced off your television and your ceiling lights when I chased you around with my hands. How you liked it when I was simple, but I never was. What if we could admit it all and forget about the regrets? What if we just sat in a field with no trees for miles and just thought about how it could have been and how it isn’t? There is no escaping emotion. There is no escaping oblivion. I’m not imbedded but I am attatched. I’m lost in a parallel universe. We couldn’t make it right. We couldn’t give it a chance because it got lost too long ago. I wish I would have let it go. I wish a lot of things. Three cheers for predicting the future, but just ignoring it.

“You can pretty much handle anything,” she says with a grin taking a sip of her latte. The sun is shining in through the window framing her imperfections and making them seem perfect in the illumination. I don’t respond to her I just look around and marvel a moment that will pass as soon as I recognize it’s beauty and impact. “What’s wrong?” she asks. I shake my head, take a deep breath in, and sip my hot chai. I recollect my thoughts trying to tell myself that nothing in my life every stays this beautiful. This is just a simple snapshot that I’ll keep forever in a file in my memories tagged as “those days.” When this moment passes all my emotions flood back. I am always in survival mode, always on edge trying to keep my heart caged. There is a constant churning in my stomach and I can’t seem to get it to go away. While still staring into her eyes I say out loud, “I just need to feel important again.”

SAIL AWAY Photography // Eduardo Acierno Model // Jessica Blanco

K A TA I ROSE STIEN S TRA

get really worked up about stupid stuff like making Racing Minds: Tell us a little bit about yourself. Katai Rose Stienstra: I’m 23 and I live in Mon- phone calls to people I don’t know well, yet things that treal. I’m first generation Dutch, that means I have blonde hair and am very fond of pastries. I love the X-Files. I really love animals; my top form of expressing procrastination is pouring over animal adoption websites. I’m also possibly the biggest cat person you will ever meet. I have a little cat named Coco and an old man cat back home named Sparkey. My boyfriend and I take a special short cut to the market called “kitty cat alley” which got it’s namesake from the rarely disappointing cat content. Montreal is Disneyland for cat people, they’re everywhere. Every time I do an interview I end up talking about cats the entire time.

RM: How long have you been photographing? What in-

spired you to first pick up a camera? KRS: I have been taking pictures since I was really young, so I dont remember what inspired me to do it then (other than possibly needing to take pictures of every animal I ever crossed paths with). It got a lot more “serious” in high school. I was so lucky to attend a fine arts high school where I met the single most influential people of my life. Basically that situation pushed me to the realization that I always have been and always will be an artist of some kind, and that I needed to pursue that. At the time I was working a lot with various mediums (painting, drawing, photography, sculpture etc etc) but I found the most solace in photography. After high school, and a year of college I branched off into other potential career paths and became really distracted by other avenues. But it was evident pretty quickly that photography has always been a very intrinsic aspect on who I am. My abilities and conceptions line up the most successfully while photographing, and while I still practice various forms of other artistic expression, it is above all else my first love. I almost feel guilty that I get to do something so fantastic with my life.

people generally get anxious about like job interviews or speaking in public don’t bother me as much.

RM: Is there any kind of advice you would like to give

to fellow photographers? KRS: Be dynamic, take your craft seriously because a lot of people don’t, learn the history, experiment, don’t take short cuts-learn the process.

RM: What do you think is the most important quality

in an artist? KRS: Intense drive, determination, and discipline don’t be an artist if you’re lazy-I can be a bit lazy sometimes. Quotes are cheesy but there is one, “discipline is the refining fire by which talent becomes ability.” That is artist 101 if I ever heard it. Also, it seems like it would go without saying, but creativity. You have no idea how many critiques I’ve sat through at school where the artist has no direction or ideas surrounding their work whatsoever, they can’t answer questions or issues surrounding it and it just totally bewilders me. You shouldn’t be doing something if you don’t have the gas to fuel the passionthat goes for all things, not just being an artist. Also, you need to be able to take vast amounts of criticism, if you’re easily discouraged, or overly defensive-don’t be an artist.

RM: What is your favourite word? KRS: Incarnadine. I used to use that word a lot when I wrote that typical teen-angst poetry that we’ve all written at some point. It never really left me though. I appreciate it so much because the word itself is esthetically beautiful and euphonious, yet the definition is quite sinister. That parallel is really valuable to my life and my work. It could be the name of a princess or a vile of poison yet be equally appropriate. I love stuff like that because I’m a bit of a creep.

RM: What is something people are surprised to find RM: What defines “home” to you? out about you? KRS: Oh man. I grew up mostly in Alberta, but I live in KRS: That I’m shy, or maybe anxious is a better word. Montreal and this is something I considersider almost I’m pretty outspoken about things that are important to me, and people often tell me that I come across as pretty intimidating or “fiery.” I also think my cynicism and blatancy can easily be mistaken for bitchiness (although it basically is). But I’m actually super anxious about almost everything, and I care a lot about the people in my life and generally affecting people in negative ways. I also

daily. I’ve never felt more in line with a city living in Montreal, it impresses me every day. However, there is something about the land in Alberta that I will always associate with home. It has a warmth and godliness; as a photographer you have every type of landscape within an hour of each other, prairies, mountains, rolling hills,

forests, badlands. I’ve always drawn a lot from those surroundings and the inherent nostalgia and carnal roughness that it forces upon me, even when I’m hundreds of miles away. The natural world is fiercely important to me. If I could pick up Montreal and put it in Alberta, I would. More specifically though, if I have my boyfriend and a cat to cuddle with-I’m home, family is home.

barns in rural Alberta, the relationships I had as a teenager, and everything connected to my extended family who live in the city I was born-Saskatoon. Generally though just the fantasy that surrounds everything when you’re a child, I crave that so much now.

RM: Why do you create? KRS: People always say being a parent is the most im-

RM: Who is your greatest inspiration? portant thing you’ll ever do. For some reason creating KRS: Photographically, Diane Arbus, Chelsee Ivan, another person has that ultimate value for most people,

Claudine Doury, Mike Brody, Lina Scheynius, Jona- for me that creation just takes another form-obviously than Edwards, Nan Goldin... I could go on and on. as art. When one thinks about humankind, I think it’s Besides that, as cliche as fairly easy to see or focus on it is, my mom. Every dethe ways we just totally fail cision I make reflects her at existing harmoniously. in some way. I have some For me, art (in any form) truly amazing people in my saves us, it makes life worth life who help hold me to living. I guess in short, I a certain standard. As far create because it’s the single as my work goes though, most valuable thing a huit’smore of a question of man being can do. Geez what: dreams, animals, my that sounds dramatic! childhood, my body, my loves, vintage everything. RM: How would you deI also keep a massive lifine photography? brary of images, sketchKRS: This is a complicated books, and words that I question. Photography is an pick through on a daily baincredibly broad term and sis to keep my heart warm. consists of so many con-

RM: What would you be

I ALMOST FEEL GUILTY THAT I GET TO DO SOMETHING SO FANTASTIC WITH MY LIFE.

if you weren’t an artist? KRS: A lawyer. I love arguing, and I’m really good at it-almost to a fault. Recently I’ve been fascinated by situations in which governments or “law officials” have really failed the public and it’s inherent in my personality to want to do something about that. Truth and critical consideration are so important.

RM: What is your favorite memory? KRS: I’m a super nostalgic person. Half of my movie collection is stuff I watched as a kid and watching it now makes me feel weird. Among my favourite memories are camping and catching turtles in the Rocky Mountains, riding strangers horses while my dad painted

flicting things. In my opinion, photography is pretty ineffective as a definition for the various things that people at large have come to consider as photography. Most evidently, I think there is a huge difference between photography and digital imaging and I think a distinction should be made there. Not because I value any one more than the other, but because there are intense and inherent differences in the mechanics, cultural significance, process, audience, and creators. In the interest of not writing an essay: anyone can take a picture, but very few people personally affect me with their photographs or engage themselves in the process from start to finish in mechanical and emotional ways-which is what I personally define photography as.

w w w . y o u t u b e . c o m / u s e r / M r K e l l y t h e p i g

I pulled a thread on my sweater, I didn’t think it’d unravel You’d think I’d know by now that nothing stays the same The coffee in the pot has gone cold, dust’s falling and we’re getting old How do I still not know by now that nothing stays the same If I fly away, I won’t ask you catch me If I run one day, I won’t wait for you to call I’m so dizzy from wandering aimlessly I don’t like when change comes at all No I don’t like when change comes at all Flowers wilt and leaves will always fall, Your hair will gray and so will mine and on top of it all I’m still figuring out this world I’m in, but everything keeps changing The winter air seeps through my walls at night, And I am waiting patiently for things to feel right But it’s so difficult to settle down when everything keeps changing I’ve been having dreams a couple of nights or so where everything’s spinning and I’m standing still I’ve rummaged through my heart like it’s a story book, but I couldn’t tell you, no matter how many times I’ve read through, exactly what it wants to do I pulled a thread on my sweater, I didn’t think it’d unravel I wish it wasn’t so, but nothing stays the same.

Help me learn how to smile and learn how to laugh again Teach me dance, tell me how you play that happy song So I can sing along Put a flower in my hair, take me to the ocean shore My darling, you could make any girl's heart sing But I would know for sure You are the one for me When it comes wintertime we'll sing carols door to door Act like we're five, put scarves on men made of snow Though we're frozen head to toe Love me through the springtime And summer days, and cold autumn nights So everywhere I go, I'll know You are the one for me Oh, oh oh oh Let me know you'll never let me go Cuz oh, oh oh oh Well you know that if you go I'll never let it show That I have always known Always known You are the one for me Will you still hold my hand even when we're old and gray? Look back on all those years like it was yesterday? I want to hear you say: "You were always the one for me"

W I L L A E R T a

C r a s h

A n d

B u r n

It would be lovely if I could say life was perfect That I wake up each day with a smile on my face Well lots of days are gray, most things don’t go my way But I like to avoid the subject Run as fast as I can, still wind up in last place Under the pressure of it all, in dealing with my falls I’ve learned Some days there’s no fixing your gaps, you feel like you could crack So sometimes let yourself crash and burn So breathe in, Like your two feet are down, standing on solid ground, when you’re ten feet deep and Drowning Hopelessly lost in this town, they won’t find me around Oh I can’t save me, I am going down I wrote a novel filled with my mistake Add a page or few more each night ‘fore I rest for the next day Got a million things that I wish I could erase But when you write in pen, most things are never gonna change It’s not as easy as you’d think, looking for that one way out But it sure seems easy to sink when you’re trying not to drown Under the pressure of it all, in dealing with my falls

p .

I’ve learned Some days there’s no filling your gaps, you feel like you could crack So sometimes, let yourself crash and burn [Chorus] You’re writing that book with no story, singing that song with no name Watching you dig yourself deeper in an attempt to stay sane I see you think it’s shallow water, well there’s no harm done 'til you drown Gets harder to breathe when you're under and there's no where to go but down Go ahead, turn around Make a move cuz it's your turn But it's a one way street you're gonna crash and burn So breathe in, Like your two feet are down, standing on solid ground when you're ten feet deep and Drowning Hopelessly lost in this town, they won't find me around Oh I can't save me Breathe in I can't save me I can't save me, I can't save me, I can't save me I am going down It would be lovely if I could say life was perfect But you won't wake up each day with a smile on your face.

WILD and SWEET photography // alexis mire model // Laura Martin

chloe WOJEWODA 18

new

hampshire

cargocollective.com/chloewojewoda

to whom it may concern www.blurb.com/bookstore/detail/2599539

sweetness follows

wonder

loch ness photography // caiti borruso model // jess gambino

amanda brannin

17 | Texas | abranninartportfo

olio.blogspot.com/

ZOE ANNESLEY H A R R I S

17 | Bath, United Kingdom | www.flickr.com/42231202@N04

ALTHOUGH MY FIRST LOVE IS ART, I SORT OF FELL IN LOVE WITH PHOTOGRAPHY AND HOW YOU CAN, IN SECONDS, DOCUMENT A WHOLE MOMENT IN YOUR LIFE AND KEEP IT FOREVER.

Lindsay Caplan w w w . l i n d s ay c a p l a n . c o m /

Racing Minds: Tell us a little bit about yourself, like RM: What is something you find people are surprised your full name, age, location, and a few random facts. Lindsay Caplan: Lindsay Caplan, 18, various spots on the each coast. My dream car is a series iii 1975 land rover, I’m obsessed with puppies, I wish every day could be summer and I laugh at everything.

RM: How long have you been photographing? What

inspired you to first pick up a camera? LC: There wasn’t ever a specific time when I picked up a camera. I’ve always been involved in arts, and it was a gradual thing. My family loves photography and I grew up around cameras. But, to be more specific, I’ve been formally studying photography for almost 5 years now.

RM: What defines “home” to you? LC: Honestly? Football jerseys, good music in crappy local venues, bipolar weather patterns, awesome food, and family.

RM: What do you think is the

to find out about you? LC: I don’t really think there’s anything serious. Oh! People are always surprised that I don’t drink or do drugs or anything, I never have. I’m just not really into it, I don’t see the point. I guess that makes me the minority at art school.

RM: Who is your greatest inspiration? LC: The photographer, artist, and creative activist Dan

Eldon. His work changed my view on art tremendously. He took these incredibly moving photographs, both of his personal travels and of the time he spent documenting war in Somalia, and he made incredible journals that leave me speechless every time I come across them. He led an incredible life that was cut too short, too soon when he was stoned to death by a Somalian mob at the young age of 22. Words don’t do any of it justice, if you get a chance you should really check out his work.

I NEED TO CREATE AND I NEED TO MAKE ART. I DONT KNOW HOW TO EXPLAIN IT. I JUST HAVE TO.

most important quality in an artist? LC: I think it’s very easy to be an artist, you just have to be passionate. You have to possess the ability to become excited over little things. You have to keep your eyes open constantly, and be passionate and hopeful. You have to want to pursue the things you’re doing.

RM: What is your favorite

memory? LC: Can I answer this with a photograph? A lot of my work deals with memories so it seems fitting. There are a ton of memories that come to mind, but I think I’d have to say this one: www.lindsaycaplan. com/portfolio/35mm/1.jpg

RM: What is your favorite word? RM: How would you define photography? LC: Hahahaha probably ‘Yo”. I say that so many times a day, all my friends make fun of me for it. Kind of a silly LC: To me, photography is all about capturing mo-

ments and snapshots. It’s about the things you don’t want to forget, the things that you just can’t capture in a painting or drawing no matter how detailed they may RM: What would you be if you weren’t an artist? be. It’s this incredible art form that combines creativLC: I honestly have no idea what I want to do with my ity, science and ingenious ideas to form truly beautiful, life. If I could choose any career in the world and be moving works of art. successful at it (other than art), I’d probably just own a bakery and make cupcakes 24/7. RM: Why do you create? LC: I thought about this answer for a really long time, RM: Is there any kind of advice you would like to give but in the end it all came down to one thing; I have to. I to fellow photographers? need to create and I need to make art. I don’t know how LC: Take your camera with you, everywhere. else to explain it. I just have to. answer but I really can’t think of anything else!

sonja BARTLETT 17

California,

USA

www.flickr.com/38520430@N02

P e r y B u r g e 5 6 | O t t e r y S t . M a r y , D e v o n w w w . f l i c k r . c o m / 1 7 0 0 8 5 2 8 @ N 0 4 /

g e r g a n a K R A S T E V A 1

Gather the rosebuds while you may

Erotic commercialism

Staring in the sky Waiting for a falling star, Whispering a wish. The inspiration comes and goes But the pen is already broken. Words are running Raindrops are falling.

You know the overwhelming thirst for erotica is timeless. Because it is warm and it has words to spell. Because when you are entirely naked, your imagination is running wild and THE muse comes near you. That is why I write naked, completely naked. The soul.

Writing, breathing. Writing, breathing. Everything stops now. Utopia or heaven Who cares when the spirit is down? Red still means blood. The coffee is only black. The song is unfinished And eternity does not exist. Staring in the sky Waiting for a falling star Whispering a wish – “More time!” -G. Krasteva, 13th September 2010

But commercialism? Here comes the difference between you and the world. Between write and create. The society’s stroke is damn powerful. And you find another person to be. You became a member of the society! – screams the lady from the grocery store and your mother. And you hide. So convenient. And with time, you merge. And you lose yourself. And your nudity. And the erotica becomes rude and as you say – commercial. And you die, and art dies too. What it is left is the victim. But why? That is another topic.

Cold Smoke

It was dark, maybe 9 p.m. and the bench was colder than usual. My idea was not so good as I thought – random place in the park, occasional neighborhood. I could not feel my fingers and my body was like stone. I was alone – pathetic tramp who was trying to feel better from one butt of cigarette. I haven’t been eaten normal food for the last two weeks… The prison was looking so tempting right now. When I started thinking about it… yeah, there was decent food, warm bed and marijuana if you know the right people. When I was there for last I wanted so badly to be out in the open, to feel the freedom with every fiber of my body, to be my own captain, to march with the rhythm of my heart… that kind of crap. But now, when I was lying on the cold inhospitable bench, when I had everything I wanted to have I was not prepare for it. I needed to find a warm place when I can sleep and even eat something. A hotel or motel, but I would be made to pay… Ok then just restaurant or even snack bar… whatever – I didn’t have any money. Maybe I should rob some bank or even kill someone… oh no! I was getting crazy – that was too much, too sick! Well that was some possibility – a madhouse. I would watch television every day, eat more than a pretzel and sleep as some god. Oh, that was even better – a church. The priests are such a nice people and they won’t say “no” to such poor and lonely soul. But I can stay there and be a good person only for 24 hours or even less… so that variant is dropping out. So – prison or madhouse or even both. My head was going to explode. It was hard to decide which one is better. The prison was harder but the madhouse – well, let’s just say that I am not crazy enough and I am definitely not a good actor. May be the prison was better idea… old buddies, cute uniforms (I’ve always liked orange). But that means end of wandering and doing whatever I want whenever I want. Or I should stay here where I can think and live, to be myself. If my mother was here and if she knew what I am thinking she would have laugh at me. What a silly reaction… “Boy, where’s your goal?” she would have asked me with irritating Texas accent. Mum, my dreams died many moons ago. I can’t even remember what I wanted… but they were so shiny, so realistic that I was absolutely confident in them. But they died just like my spirit and soul… In the morning everything in the city was usual. Just another dead body was found in the park. The poor homeless man… What was his story? What were his dreams and why he had died alone in that dark park on that cold bench? The city did not notice. He was just another person who was not important for anyone – he had not family or friends, he was just another one.

Mary Gryshkanich 22

ukraine

(odessa)

www.flickr.com/51287235@N07

garnet photography // lauren bishop model // emily schmidt

sight

1 2 3

11 12

natalya LOBANOVA 19 | london/edinburgh | www.flickr.com/36633128@N06

claire MARLEY 1 6 | K a n s a s C i t y w w w. f l i c k r . c o m / 5 0 9 4 6 1 7 8 @ N 0 8 /

Anna Peters 20

Pacific

Northwest

topographe.tumblr.com

Blos som i n g P h o t o g r a p h y H a i r s t y l i s t Stylist

Kristin

M U A

/ /

J e s s i c a

/ /

Sherer

A m b e r

(for

C h a v e z

S h a m s h o i a n

Paramount

Vintage)

Model // Michelle Nicole Norris (Zuri Model and Talent)

R e b e c c a P a r k e r 1

A birthday present: it came in a sky-blue wire cage mummified in scarlet ribbon. I winched the cage to the ceiling and watched the bird walk up and down its perch. I had thought it would sing to me. Peering down its throat I probed, with one hand wrapped around its chest so that I felt the breaths come and go underneath my grip with the other in front of its face. Nothing seemed amiss down that tiny tunnel, but still the thing was limp and soundless. Back on its swing the beak opened and closed in silence, like daisy petals except the pink was on the inside, and I shouted at the bars until the bird rocked away from me and a gem of saliva froth landed, melted into downy breast feathers. Contrary, tragic titch. I wondered whether its songs were just inaudible to my ears. I used to tie a piece of string around its foot and fly it in the garden, though the thing would fly so fast that when the string ran out it was thrown back to the earth with a snap. One or two small feathers fell out each time and floated back down behind it. I kept them and lined them up along my windowsill where they lay and moved in the draft. They faded in the sunlight until they werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t green like nymph-infested waters but pale grey and coated in dust. Soon they withered into matted clumps of dirty brown and Mum made me throw them away. The bird was soon tired of losing its feathers and refused to fly. Its movements slowed, its trembles were fewer. It often would be still as old bone for hours and days, staring with half-closed eyes at the wall. It couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t face the window. One morning, I looked and saw it sleeping, and as I watched its wings began to creak and twitch. Then, quite surprisingly, they fell. And they lay bent upon the cage bottom while their owner dozed above.

photograph // Pearl Irene

I wore your favourite dress today; you remember which one, don’t you? Pink, light pink, white-pink, almost the shade of my skin. Strawberry meringue colour. You told me I had skin like strawberry meringue on the bus this morning: that’s always one of my favourites. It’s when you brush your finger along my arm and touch it to your tongue. “Tastes like it too,” you say. Yes, today I wore your favourite skin-pink dress with the pin-head clam pattern. Each tiny clam is open and has a wee white pearl inside, but you have to be close to see the pearls and at a glance they look like little red moths instead. Everything looks different at a glance. I wore your favourite dress today but I never saw you. I suppose you were at work and were just too busy to escape your desk, so I passed on the way home even though it’s the long way back and looked up at all the windows to see if I could spot you. I’ve never seen your office but I know that there’s a geranium plant in there because I saw you carry it in that day. I looked for a flake of red or a slice of green but I couldn’t find your window because I never can. I didn’t stay long because I had a bottle of milk in my bag and the plastic was cutting into my fingers. The days when I don’t see you are the longest; if you were to go away I might live to be two hundred. Medium white coffee, that’s your order. I could start to make it as you come through the door but then you’d leave more quickly so where would be the sense? Sometimes you take a slice of ginger cake, and you like the lemon drizzle too, and Viv says that your choice of cake says everything about you because they are boring cakes – but I know you’re not a boring cake. You said once that you don’t like chocolate because the brown makes you think it’ll taste like gravy, even though it doesn’t. You laughed when you told me that and there was a bit of red across your face and a bit of sweat above your lip. You were embarrassed but I was ecstatic. I watch you when you take your cup and put it on the table, rest the spoon on the saucer then hang your coat on the back of the chair. You always have a coat or a jacket – no! I’m wrong: there was one day when it was hot and you left it on the train and you were in a sad mood. There are not many men, I don’t think, who would be sad instead of angry to leave their jacket on the train. You drank your coffee looking like you’d lost a friend, as though it had been a cat lounging across the back of your chair instead of a navy blue jacket. Viv says she could never love a man who wears navy blue without shame, but I love you in navy blue because I love you. You always bring the sugar pourer over to the table and pour it in there, never the other way around, and there’s something dignified and sophisticated about it. Others run in and grab the cup and slosh coffee over their hands and throw in a glug of sugar while they stand, then they swallow huge mouthfuls so that I see their necks. Or else they dash out with a plastic lid over the cardboard cup. You never order coffee to take away. I like that. You always go slowly, carefully, even when you smile you do it gradually, as though you’re making sure every step of the way that you still want to do it. I like that. We were busy today and Viv was having a fit. You looked a bit scared of her red face and swearing so I decided to bring the coffee to you at the table. “I’ll bring it over to the table,” I said to you. You went and sat as usual and let your hands play an absent piano on the table top. I brought the cup over and saw that you had that smudge of ink on your nose. “You have a smudge on your nose,” I told you. You were so grateful. You gave me the greatest smile in the world. On the bus ride home we walked through the snow and it was the one where you almost fall but I hold your hand and stop you. The kiss is like an inside-out baked Alaska. You came in with your glasses misted over this morning and you cleared them with your fingers like windscreenwipers at the counter. I laughed and you said: “There you are.” I took your order and when I handed it over you told me I looked pretty. “I think that’s my favourite dress of yours,” you said. Then you went away. I was wearing the glass-green dress with the white collar today and not the clam-shell one. I wondered why I’d always thought it was your favourite.

childs play photography // miriam subbiah models // sophie bartels & melanie subbiah

BLACK & WHITE

From left to right//

Nicolette Clara Sarah Nieman Barney Frost Jana Stormanns Shannon Lowe Sophie Fontaine Shelby Tanner