Seiri by Seiri

Seiri

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The months of July and August bear no red-letter significance in life as there is only the continuous and stealth exchange of rain and heat (in Manila at least). But they still hold a definitive cozy vibe. There is no idea yet of a coming September, a ber month, for our focus slowly faces the yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s going. Not in the sense that it is about to end, but that time moves, and so do we. Pieces have been curated and prepared by Seiri to once again inspire the meeting of new things one may not have yet laid (be it intentional or not) his or her consciousness upon. Maybe, like the tag team of July-August, this issue may also embolden that snug, intimate feeling.

Ishka Mejia

contents JULY / AUGUST THE CORE

RECONSTRUCT

THE CUT IT COMES IN THREES ART Autochrome Clash Twine and Sunshine FILM The Bigger Picture in Fashion The Magnificent Ang Nawalang Kapatid Coffee and Histrionics LITERATURE Poetry Playlist { 2 } : My Body is a Cage The SEIRI Review The Immortality of the Favorite Book MUSIC Ultra Lana The Sound of Silence Mixtape 6: Demi

SIRUN

HER

CONFABULATION On the Madness and Charm of Crushes Middle Ground SPECIAL Angela Deane

the CORE Y O U R

O F F E R O R S O F A L T E R N A T I V E

C U L T U R E

Lian Dyogi features editor

Jonathan Baldoza editor-at-large

Christine Imperial literary editor

Julian Occe単a creative director

Nina Martinez art editor

Patricia Padilla managing editor

Jade Katherine Castro music editor

Ishka Mejia editor-in-chief

Erika Morales associate editor

Kirsten Raposas illustrator

the CUT W O R D S

O F

W I S D O M

l’infinie immensité des espaces que j’ignore et qui m’ignorent... [ the infinite immensity of spaces that I ignore and that ignores me... ] Pascal, Pensées

it comes in threes A R T

AUTOCHROME MUNICH, Germany – Amongst the Deustches Museum’s treasure trove of historical technological artifacts, these photographs that are products of a process that introduced color photography to the masses has elicited in human society the beginning of what Instagram has offered most of its users today; possibilities of a captured life with a seemingly different milieu, to be left as a standing proof of a vibrant life. Louis and Auguste Lumiere, more popularly known as the Lumiere brothers, developed a process that constituted the use of potato starch and other microscopic color variants (acting as filters) placed in a so-called mosaic screen plate. Called “Autochromes,” these potato-powered pictures on glass were the earliest natural-color photographs to achieve success in the marketplace. (The American Photography Museum) Retaining the black outline and background, the same effect was retained by Seiri as if one is transported to the museum exhibit itself, or even back in the early 1900s. The experience is remarked as if the images were painted on glass with the sun’s rays lovingly projected from behind, glowing and hypnotic.

Martha Blitz Portratmedaillon Im Park Das Ehepaar Autochrom // ca. 1908 // Stiftung Wolfgang Blitz ///

Schmetterlinge Autochrom // ca. 1910 // Stiftung Hermann Louis //

Stereoaufnahmen Frauen auf einer Terrasse (vergrössertes Halbild Blick über die Da..cher von Cronberg i. Taunus Autochrom // Julius Neubronner, Cronberg i. Taunus, ca. 1909 // Stiftung Dodo Schulz

Gesteinsdünnschliff Autochrom // ca. 1910 //

Vasen mit Blumenstra端ssen Autochrom // 1914 und Stiftung H. Salkowski

Frauenportr채ts ca. 1925 // Agfa Kornraster //

Aufnahmen von Gesteinsd端nnschliff Autochrom // ca. 1920 //

Schmetterlinge Autochrom // ca. 1910 // Stiftung Hermann Louis //

>>Fauts<< auf dem Marionettentheater Agfa Kornraster // ca. 1925 // Stiftung I.G. Farbenindiustrie AG //

Bach mit BaĂźmen Autochrom // A lumiĂ¨re et ses fils, Paris 1908/09 // Stiftung Lumiere //

REAP WHAT YOU SEW by Nina Martinez

There’s no better time than now to revisit vintage. Now that our generation views the world through smart phones and laptop screens, maybe it should give us a fresh perspective on the hobbies we thought were reserved for pastel-drenched grandparents in movies. So – whip out those crochet hooks. If you’re familiar with websites like Etsy, then this introduction to knitting and crochet shouldn’t be too frightening. Young people nowadays have learned the skills that had clothed them in warm, fuzzy Aunt’s love at Christmastime and turned it not just into a business, but an art. Scarves, hats, gloves, full-length costumes, and even plush toys adorn the front page of this artisan craft store. Before you scoff and turn your head back towards your electric fan, hear this out. Climate and location haven’t exactly deterred Filipinos from claiming this easy yet creative talent for their own purposes. Twine + Sunshine is the joint venture of two Pinoy arts and crafts lovers,

Celz Alejandro and Adi Aurellado, who will happily knit you up any accessory you have in mind. Their blog (twineandsunshine. wordpress.com) details their adventures in workshops, projects and food, a clever little way of kindling an interest in crocheting and knitting in the Internet-loving population of the Philippines. If there were some universal instructional pamphlet to knitting, you’ll never find a step telling you that you can only make sweaters and coasters. A project starts with a single knot, after all, and from there you are the architect. There’s nothing stopping you from crocheting a wizard hat (because, come on, you’ve always wanted one). This generation has been able to redefine what is cool and what is art. And hey, an iPhone 5 in a multi-colored crocheted case doesn’t sound too bad.

WEBSITE: twineandsunshine.wordpress.com FACEBOOK: facebook.com/Twine.Sunshine

The Twine + Sunshine LOGO

Seiri recently got in touch with half of the team, Celz Alejandro, to explore their world of creative yarnwork with a little more depth. C: Hi I’m Celz and I’m the “crocheter” of the duo. S: Your blog shows that you do plenty of other kinds of DIY art. What makes you keep returning to yarnwork? C: Only crochet/knitting gives me the versatility of creating different kinds of products with the same basic techniques and stitches, differing only in how I use them. S: How does your process go when you begin a new knitting/crocheting project? C: I draw my inspiration, and sometimes practice with some projects I see online. What I make is heavily influenced by my tastes, believing the philosophy of making things I myself would want to buy. This kind of thinking also helps during quality control because handmade does not have to mean low quality. S: How would you describe the beauty in knitting and crocheting to someone of the same age who’s never tried it before? C: For me, it’s being able to create something beautiful or useful from something seemingly so ordinary is what makes it magical. After hours and hours of work you put, stitch by stitch, the result is a masterpiece; like the way a painter makes each brushstroke count to create his obra maestro. It’s versatility offers limitless ideas and projects, from your grandmother’s prized doilies to making your own stuffed toys inspired by your favorite show, to something practical and useful in everyday life, like a market bag. It’s you, the creator, getting to decide the fate, the destiny of the fibers in your hands. Sometimes, the beauty is in the fibers themselves. The way you can tell how this yarn differs from the other just by the feel of it, or how by looking at it you know the perfect project to use a particular yarn for. S: You state on your blog that, in this age of technology, you want to find ways to keep the art of knitting/crocheting relevant. How do you think your work accomplishes that? C: I think the problem when crochet is mentioned, the first few things that may come into mind will probably include: that doily you had to my during home economics class in elementary that did not look so well, old cat ladies, and those bonnets in Baguio. This is a problem because there is a disconnect - they do not associate crochet with something that can be relevant in their lives. Our work showcases that crochet can be modern, cute, and fun! This is true for both our workshops and our products themselves, as we try to keep it relevant to the Filipino youth. S: Just for fun - what’s your favorite thing you’ve ever made yourself? C: I made a minion from Despicable Me!!

CLASH An experimental series celebrating the evolution of media and television, although very subtly.

it comes in threes F I L M

A Still: DAVID HEMMINGS, Blow Up (1966)

FASHION’S BIGGER PICTURE by Ishka Mejia

A 60s film way away from Hepburn's princess-like fashion, attitude and storyline, the fashion industry has never been more cynically portrayed, especially when murder is part of the concoction. Directed by Michelangelo Antonioni (his very first English-language movie), the film’s theme may rest on the idea that the fashion industry’s glorified array of fashion photographers have more to their character than the pictures they take. They must be decisive, stubborn, and absolutely visionary especially when hell breaks lose in one’s studio. The grave contrast of practicing photography half a century ago versus today’s will stun and intrigue, so too the sumptuous questions thought as the film rolls on. It may be the best fashion film from the 20th century, not mention its precious, precious line of publicity material.

F I L M

T H E A T R E

THE MAGNIFICENT ANG NAWALANG KAPATID

by Jonathan Baldoza

aspects discussed in a literary class that may not apply to a performance. But most importantly, however, I realized that, because of the tweaks and alterations involved, the two texts had become different Adapted for the stage by celebrated playwright from each other, despite the remainder of Floy Quintos, the play was based on the Indian its essentially Indian spirit. To me, one success of this adaptation epic, Mahabharata. According to Quintos, the was its honesty in dealing with the original adaptation was written for Ateneo Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Theater, and so he had to consolidate complexity and highly spiritual nature of Indian culture. The concepts were there, everything he had read into something spread in various details, in the songs, in very simple and easy for the youngsters to the dialogue, in the movements. However, understand. When the opportunity came, he presented a more complex version -- this time it still proved to be relevant to the Filipino audience because the dramatic elements for older audiences -- which then became that would seem minor to the Indians the backbone of the production. While it were highlighted, thus, giving the play an essentially remained Indian, one could sense attractive power to the Filipinos. a shade of â&#x20AC;&#x153;Filipinizatitonâ&#x20AC;? involved, in terms All these aside, the overall production of themes and character conflicts, aside from such noticeable features in dialogue, music and was just magnificent. The blending of the voices, combined with the sometimes choreography. upbeat music and the sounds of the I guess my familiarity with the text movements much deserved the applause it itself was the reason why I was somewhat received. The stage was also very beautiful overanalytic while watching the play. I knew despite its limited space. It showed a Karna and why he felt how he felt. I knew the richness in color and detail, transporting brothers Arjuna, Yudhistira and Bhima, theirs the viewer to an exquisite land with the help strengths, weaknesses, values and flaws. But, of the lighting. in the middle of it all, I reminded myself that It was beautifully Asian, showing the I had to let go of these for a while, and watch and enjoy the play as it was presented. After all, intersection and combinative qualities of Filipino and Indian cultures. Indeed, the playwright himself admitted that the date Dulaang UP has continued its reputation for was overwhelming and that he had to select those elements that he thought were apt to the high artistry and craft for it was a play that Filipino experience. Additionally, there may be splendidly displayed color, music, emotional depth and ingenuity.

F I L M

T H E A T R E

Beautiful calligraphy of a quote lifted from the play by The Write Typeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Cai Morente

COFFEE AND HISTRIONICS THIRD CUP CAFE, Katipunan â&#x20AC;&#x201C; There was no stage, there was no platform. There were only the usual circular wooden tables, and comfy cushions on the side. The smell of coffee brewing, the sound of the air conditioner whirring, and the din of a myriad of people coming together for coffee. There was no dimming of the lights, no sound effects save for a quaint guitar accompaniment. This was the manifestation of CHILL; as all coffee shops aim to perpetrate and perpetuate. And a staff member dressed casually presents the play. Lo and behold, Kapeng Barako Club: Samahan ng mga Bitter by playwright, Juan Ekis. Where was it to take place? One would worry a bit. There was no space at all for a play. Then, all too suddenly, the chill ambiance was replaced with tension. An audible bickering amongst the middle cushions ushers a drama the modern Filipino, familiar with coffee shop culture, would appreciate. This did not win a Palanca for nothing. Just as all the other customers at Central Perk (except for Gunther) would be oblivious to the momentous lives of Chandler, Joey, Rachel, Phoebe, Monica, and Ross, we examine a local alter ego to this group, a more finite kind. One then follows the story of a barkada who harbors this affinity with a place as this coffee shop you are sipping your very coffee in. Marlowe, Eric, Sunshine, Masi, Stef, Anna, and Joel.

The play more puts in realistic view the lives portrayed and their relationships express more than the coffee each of them take (black, black with vodka, an unfinished espresso, a frapuccino, instant coffee, and tea). The audience is provided a glimpse of what the playwright sees; one who gushes about his love for watching people in coffee shops, listening, paying attention to their conversations, their situations, whilst sipping coffee or reading a book. And this is the play exactly. As it is said and represented throughout this wee but earnest production, love is sweet, but also be bitter. This fresh contemporary play must not be unwatched. Although its next screening on the 6th of September is fully booked, watch out for updates. Watch out, it might be showing in a cafĂŠ near you.

Kapeng Barako Club: Samahan ng mga Bitter Facebook Page: facebook.com/samahanngmgabitter Twitter: @bittercorp

it comes in threes

L I T E R A T U R E

A camo green rug seemingly from afar, this piece from the Leopold Museum in Vienna, is a collection of a thousand toy soldiers in battle.

MY BODY IS A CAGE by Christine Imperial

Inspired by Arcade Fire’s song “My Body is a Cage” from their album Neon Bible. The song articulates how our physical bodies and mortality limit us from reaching our full potential by fully [eventually] succumbing to what we want. Butler’s wailing perfectly captures the anxiety felt by the human being. He sings as if reaching for something, as if singing grants transcendence. Certain poems featured tackle the smallness of the living human being, the despair that arises from the consciousness of our inabilities, while others tackle the significance of being alive, of the legends we leave behind.

L I T E R A T U R E MY BODY IS A CAGE

Vessel by Robert Pinsky What is this body as I fall asleep again? What I pretended it was when I was small—

A crowded vessel, a starship or submarine. Dark in its dark element, a breathing hull.

Arms at the flanks, the engine heart and brain Pulsing, feet pointed like a diver’s the whole

Resolutely driving through the oblivion Of night with living cargo. O carrier shell

That keeps your trusting passengers from All: Some twenty thousand times now you have gone

Out into blackness tireless as a seal, Blind always as a log, but plunging on

Across the reefs of coral that scrape the keel— O veteran immersed from toe to crown,

Buoy the population of the soul Toward their destination before they drown.

From Robert Pinsky’s poetry collection Jersey Rain

Flaws by Stephen Dunn I had been worrying once again about sad lives and almost perfect art, Van Gogh,

Kafka, so when the voice on the radio sang about drinking a toast to those who most survive

the lives theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve led, I drank that toast in the prayerless sanctum of my room, I said it

out loud in a hush. Then I thought of Dr. Williams who toward the end apologized

to his wife for doing everything he had loved to do. He was speaking of course to death,

not to her, though death instructed him how valuable she was. I thought of a lamp the neighborâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s child

had broken, then pieced back together with wires and glue. And my friend, the good husband,

kissing the scars his wife brought home after the mastectomy. I drank that toast again, though silently.

L I T E R A T U R E MY BODY IS A CAGE

The radio was playing something old and bad I thought was good.

Flaws. Suddenly the act of trying to say how it feels to live a life, to say it flawlessly.

seemed more immense than ever. Then I remembered those Persian rug makers built them in,

the flaws, because only Allah was perfect. What arrogance to think that otherwise they wouldn’t be there!

I allowed myself to wonder about the ethics of repair, but just for a while.

Sleep, too, was on my mind and I knew the difficulty that lay ahead:

how hard I’d try when I couldn’t how it would come if only I could find a way

to enter and drift without concern for what it is.

From Stephen Dunn’s poetry collection Between Angels

Kuntskammer by Jack Gilbert We are resident inside with the machinery. a glimmering spread throughout the apparatus. We exist with a wind whimpering inside and our moon flexing. Amid the ducts, inside the basilica of bones. The flesh is a neighborhood, but not the life. Our body is not good at memory, at keeping. It is the spirit that holds on to our treasure. The dusk in Italy when the ferry passed the Bellagio and turned across Lake Como in the hush to where we would land and start up the grassy mountain. The body keeps so little of the life after being with her eleven years, and the mouth not even that much. But the heart is different. It never forgets the pine trees with the moon rising behind them every night. Again and again we put our sweet ghosts on small paper boats and sailed them back into their death, each moving slowly into the dark, disappearing as our hearts visited and savoured, hurt and yearned.

From Jack Gilbertâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s poetry collection Refusing Heaven

L I T E R A T U R E MY BODY IS A CAGE

So That You Will Hear Me So that you will hear me

by Pablo Neruda

my words sometimes grow thin as the tracks of the gulls on the beaches.

Necklace, druken bell for your hands as smooth as grapes.

And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy.

It climbs the same way on damp walls. You are to blame for this cruel sport. They are fleeing from my dark lair. You fill everything, you fill everything.

Before you they peopled the solitude that you occupy, and they are more used to my sadness than you are.

Now I want them to say what I want to say to you to make you hear as I want you to hear me.

The wind of anguish still hauls on them as usual. Sometimes hurricanes of dreams still knock them over. You listen to other voices in my painful voice.

Lament of old mouths, blood of old supplications. Leave me, companion. Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t forsake me. Follow me. Follow me, companion, on this wave of anguish.

But my words become stained with your love. You occupy everything, you occupy everything.

I am making them into an endless necklace for your white hands, smooth as grapes.

From Pablo Nerudaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s collection Twenty Songs of Love and A Song of Despair

Another Theory About Dinosaurs by Lawrence Raab

Just because they’re dead doesn’t mean they were failures. The dinosaurs, after all, had their 120 million years. To end it, a giant meteor came along. Or else God decided he wanted to try something different for a while; smaller animals, more men and women.

It must have been good to have been an American and believed in the West. Endless space. The Open Road. You shot buffalo from the train just to watch them fall. You blasted away at the clouds of birds because the gun felt right against your shoulder.

Even better to have been certain God cared for you the way he didn’t care for others. So if someone poured molten lead down your throat, or set a pile of sticks beneath your feet on fire, you knew the future was on your side. Back then

only the poor cared about the poor and no one thought about the dinosaurs, how one day they’d be so famous vast rooms would be constructed to contain their bones and display cunning models rearing high above us— huge, fierce, doomed— more like gods then ancestors.

From Lawrence Raab’s collection The History of Forgetting

THE IMMORTALITY OF FAVORITE BOOKS by Ishka Mejia Found amongst dusty glass shelves clogged with books, alphabetized and categorized from Russian literature to bound essays in Marcosian politics, was my favorite book. Of course, I had no cognizance of this yet, and I just took the cyan enwrapped creature. Wiping the hardbound book and noticing its coffee-stained edges, wonder and curiosity were at their sharp ascent. Nonetheless, kismet had me leave it amongst a pile of pending books of 10, and after a few months found my way back to salvage it, and then unexpectedly ravage it from cover to cover in a matter of three days. Published in English in 1997, the book is called Amrita, written by Banana Yoshimoto and translated by Russel F. Wasden. The title is literally immortality in Sanskrit. Nabokov’s Lolita was the former love; and it still is lovely, yet the allure has gone from the richest writing style and tasteful verbosity to simple wording and an electrifying plot. Sakumi. A bar waitress. Carefree and fatally stoic. She was bestowed by fate a second self. Coped with fragmented memories. “Maybe it was okay that my memories were scattered. Perhaps the order of events in life wasn’t so important anymore...” She began feeling things once touched, family once known, friends once made, places once been, even feelings once harbored, as a new being. Felt the world was merely constituted of cycles with which all go through, where all try to get out of, but return to eventually. And she was brought back, to her former cycle of life almost cast to oblivion , to once again know her former self, all in the serendipitous culpability of reading again a novel she once read.

A book, moreover the favorite book, enlightens the soul like the stormy night sky cleared for stars, at the right moment of awakening as it is read. It more than delivers an impression on a first date or a sterling status formed from the pages of an autograph book page. It shall be part of the being as growth in life ensues. It is shown through how other humans are treated in this world. [Humanities is not named such for naught.] It may collect dust like the rest of the reader’s collection, yet only for a while once the aforementioned realizes it must be dusted. It could be read 5-10 times, or annually during Christmas. Or read once, and only once. But what really matters is that the words cave your mindless heart and your heartless soul. The paragraphs must envelope your brain in lovely obfuscation, then altogether refine it with perfect sense. [Regard the word ‘PERFECT’ and ‘SENSE’ separately, and then together.] The plot thickens with the gradual pace of a latching vine, growing from the soles to the shoulders. Warm, seductive, and suspenseful. The persona that is envied, defied, rooted for, loved so deeply, and the turning over and over of a concept now control your life. The favorite book, as Sakumi described a novel (in the novel), is alive. Just as some of those rashly photoshopped images with quotes personify: “There is nothing as loyal as a book.” , or “Seeing someone read a book you love is seeing a book recommend a person.” “Novels are alive. Books live on the other side of our lives, influencing us like good friends [really good friends]. I learned it from my own body.” (Yoshimoto, 1994) It touches and nourishes the whole self. It naturally demands action, even a passive one. Thus this novel breathes in me. I too, learned it from my own body. Amrita, true to its name, is now immortal within me.

AMRITA, which means ‘IMMORTALITY’ in Sanskrit.

REAP WHAT YOU SEW L I T E R A T U R E

by Christine Imperial

Junot Diaz collection of stories, aside from the story “Invierno”, focuses on its protagonist Yunior. On the surface, the stories are vignettes of Yunior’s experience with love. However, the stories are more than that, they are vignettes of Yunior’s life as an immigrant in the United States. They are not only stories about Yunior falling in and out of love with various women in his life, but rather are stories about his tumultuous relationship with the U.S.. While reading, I never got the sense that Yunior was Dominican for diversity’s sake. Diaz perfectly encapsulates how it feels to be the other in the place one must call home, how it feels to see one’s dreams disappear in a land that promises to provide them. Yunior is not always the most likeable character, but there are numerous instances where he is a relatable one. Diaz captures this reliability with the binary of Yunior’s forcefully detached tone and moments of weakness. Diaz is able to express the vulnerability that comes with being human as well as the desire to hide it.

How Music Works is not some esoteric guide on what it means to make music nor is it Byrne recounting his success. How Music Works is an enlightening read on why music is so powerful, how is continually evolves, and how it has lasted throughout the years. Byrne shows readers how easy it is for us to connect to music, while showing us how intricate the process of making music is. When presenting an argument, he looks at both sides of the spectrum (an example being the argument against the digitization of music) and learns from both of these sides. The book’s thickness may be a superficial hindrance, but Byrne’s writing style and the content of the book are absorbing. I read the book a t a relatively quick pace, irritated whenever I had to put it down. As stated earlier, Byrne not only uses his own experiences to show “how music works.” He has done extensive research on African music, music technology, classical music, music education, etc. to show how music, an essentially ephemeral piece of art, is a constant in human life.

In a world inundated with noise, we have come to both glorify and neglect silence. Prochnik’s book ventures into why silence has become such a luxury and why noise has become inescapable. Prochnk approaches his pursuit through theological, sociological, evolutionary, technological, and psychological approaches as a way of showing how silence benefits both man , nature, and society. At first, Prochnik seems to be a purist who finds all noise unnecessary; however, as the book unfolds the reader begins to understand why noise is so prevalent and why it may not be such a bad thing. Certain chapters drag on for too long, such as the one on the sound woofer enthusiasts, by continually rehashing their point. Prochnik’s writing style seems kind of dry at times. It may be my personal bias, but the chapters that focused on silence were more engaging. I found myself skimming through two chapters on noise (the noise chapter that was my favorite was the one on the noise of retail). Overall, this was an enjoyable book that made me realize how much sound plays a role in our lives. By the end of the book, readers will find themselves yearning for silence, while figuring out what types of noise I wanted to keep in my life.

it comes in threes M U S I C

ULTRA LANA by Neil Brillantes

It's Lana del Rey’s third outing and she decides to stick to her guns, delivering another album replete with sad Hollywood fantasies and rich loves, which isn’t unexpected given how well it worked for her the last time despite polarized opinions from both critics and the public alike. She continues to paint the same portrait she started on in Born to Die, only this time she does away with her more [usual] coquettish parts and drenches most of it with what’s left—specifically, her character’s trademark brand of desperation and sadness. It shows: Ultraviolence is pretty much content to march on rather slowly (nothing on this even remotely approaches the tempo of Off to the Races), and she swaps out her tendencies for grandiose orchestration and hip hop and instead goes for just the right amount of rock n’ roll. This is no doubt in part thanks to Dan Auerbach of The Black Keys, whose production helps bring out a subtler but no less atmospheric side to del Rey’s work. It’s most obvious in the album’s first half, which does its utter best to make a convincing case for you to buy the entire sad-girl-abused-by-cool-richboyfriend act all over again, and is filled with standout moments ballad after ballad. You have the rolling drums of Cruel World. You have echoes of Born to Die in Ultraviolence (“Loving you was never enough”). Shades of Cool features

soaring, hypnotic vocals, and you could almost see Brooklyn Baby persuasively smirking at hipsters. West Coast eases so well into its chorus. The record is still undoubtedly very Lana del Rey, and it’s more consistent in quality than its predecessor. It all culminates in Sad Girl, a slow burn of a track that so could have easily been the last track of this album. But it isn’t, and that’s where Ultraviolence begins to falter, both melodically and lyrically. The last five tracks offer content such as Fucked My Way Up to the Top’s “I’m a dragon/ you’re a whore/Don’t even know what you’re good for/Mimicking me is a fucking bore to me” and Money Power Glory’s several invocations of “hallelujah” (it wouldn’t be a Lana del Rey record without Christian shoutouts) and “dope and diamonds”. It is attention-catching, sure, but neither does it earn nor sustain it quite as well as the first half of this album does. The thing the second half of Ultraviolence manages to accomplish best is make you question how much Lana del Rey is enough Lana del Rey. At the end of the day, however, it’s hard to deny that Ultraviolence is a welcome step up from Born to Die, at least musically if not regarding the subject matter. It still isn’t everyone’s cup of tea—nor is it trying to be—but if you’re the type of person who can at the very least stomach the dark and sultry image Lana del Rey has created, it’s worth a shot.

M U S I C

THE SOUND OF SILENCE by Jade Katherine Castro

Hold me now, I’m scared— everyone sang along to the last line of their song And Then She Blooms. They’re quite well-known in the indie scene as masters of their unique genre. Playing in various shows; joined the mysterious line-up of the elusive SoFar Manila show. They then performed a Their set began at the stroke of hauntingly beautiful cover of Edith Piaf’s La Vie en rose, which you can midnight. I couldn’t have imagined a better way to transition into the next also listen to on their Soundcloud. The last song on their short day, what with the dim lights and setlist was Clear Waters. Local ambient music. It was all too tempting to fall asleep on the wooden tables of celebrity Anne Curtis has shown saGuijo—but then if I had, I would have her support for the indie duo on her missed out on discovering the sound twitter account, raving about the of silence through the music of Library song which has a line that goes “with your paw on my machine/take me Kids. Library Kids is quite the contrast back to the dream I was in.” Library Kids is going on hiatus to the loud rock sound often associated soon, but you can still listen to their with OPM (Original Pinoy Music). SelfEP entitled ‘Elysian’ on Spotify or buy defined as ambient folk, there aren’t a lot of local acts—or international, at it on iTunes and Bandcamp. that—which have the same sound as Fun fun. they do. While listening to the indie duo, I found myself slipping into a different world where all was calm and tranquil. I could imagine a stream with the clearest of waters, the sound of chirping birds flying high beneath a blue sky. I swear I could have felt soft grass beneath my feet and the freshest air in my lungs. Library Kids is that breath of fresh air in such a place as rock-and-rolling-ruggedly-wrought saGuijo.

M U S I C Culled Out

TOP 2014 ALBUMS, SO FAR See the entire list and WHY at our website.

MIXTAPE

Curated by Jade Katherine Castro

Accompanying the long list of top albums is our newly released mixtape entitled DEMI. An optimistic mix to solemnize the consciousness born of having made it through the first half and beginning the second.

ready to listen to at www.8tracks.com/seirimag/demi

RECONSTRUCT with Maria Patron

S I R U N with Nare Azaryan & Ani Tadevosyan

HER

with Raiza Osi

CONFABULATION

D I S C U S S I O N S X C O L U M N S

On the madness and charm of crushes One cannot help but share this wonderful essay lifted from The Philosopher’s Mail on the fascinating concept that triggers the palpitations, the gravitation, the temptations on the edge of this thing called LOVE

You are introduced to someone at a conference. They look nice and you have a brief chat about the theme of the keynote speaker. But already, partly because of the slope of their neck and a lilt in their accent, you have reached an overwhelming conclusion. Or, you sit down in the carriage – and there, diagonally opposite you – is someone you cannot stop looking at for the rest of a journey across miles of darkening countryside. You know nothing concrete about them. You are going only by what their appearance suggests. You note that they have slipped a finger into a book (The Food of the Middle East), that their nails are bitten raw, that they have a thin leather strap around their left wrist and that they are squinting a touch short-sightedly at the map above the door. And that is enough to convince you. Another day, coming out of the supermarket, amidst a throng of people, you catch sight of a face for no longer than eight seconds and yet here too, you feel the same overwhelming certainty – and, subsequently, a bittersweet sadness at their disappearance in the anonymous crowd. Crushes: they happen to some people often and to almost everyone sometimes. Airports, trains, streets, conferences – the dynamics of modern life are forever throwing us into fleeting contact with strangers, from amongst whom we pick out a few examples who seem to us not merely interesting, but more powerfully, the solution to our lives. This phenomenon – the crush – goes to the heart of the modern understanding of love. It could seem like a small incident, essentially comic and occasionally farcical. It may look like a minor planet in the constellation of love, but it is in fact the underlying secret central sun around which our notions of the romantic revolve.

A crush represents in pure and perfect form the dynamics of romantic philosophy: the explosive interaction of limited knowledge, outward obstacles to further discovery – and boundless hope. The crush reveals how willing we are to allow details to suggest a whole. We allow the arch of someone’s eyebrow to suggest a personality. We take the way a person puts more weight on their right leg as they stand listening to a colleague as an indication of a witty independence of mind. Or their way of lowering their head seems proof of a complex shyness and sensitivity. From a few cues only, you anticipate years of happiness, buoyed by profound mutual sympathy. They will fully grasp that you love your mother even though you don’t get on well with her; that you are hard-working, even though you appear to be distracted; that you are hurt rather than angry. The parts of your character that confuse and puzzle others will at last find a soothing, wise, complex soulmate. The answer to life In elaborating a whole personality from a few small – but hugely evocative – details, we are doing for the inner character of a person what our eyes naturally do with the sketch of a face.

The whole piece may be read at http://thephilosophersmail.com/relationships/ on-the-madness-and-charm-of-crushes/

Middle Ground The most odious place to be, when the day-to-day grind includes the forced personality of materialism that just sucks out much of ideal thinking

Why do I need so many things right now? My body summons to have its fill of materialism at this very moment. The craving is so vulgar and repetitive, it sickens me. After every purchase and claim of a single or more things that would supposedly aid me in this journey in the modern world of the internet, commercial beauty, excess pretentiousness, and banal individuality, I constantly have to think about how to keep up no matter the mutiny a part of my brain incites that I’ve had enough, I have enough, I do not need any more. But I do. I need more. I need more to get an edge from pretentious people who provide the most cavalier of photographs and statements and whatnot through this cloud called social media. Is that was is true? All everyone else can do is make fun of it, create a satire about it; how this culture soaked in creating, possibly, a superior alter ego in digital space is better than feeling well about oneself in real time, real space. Am I becoming what I detest by hankering so much for an expensive pimple cream to look good, new clothes to feel good… etc. Why do I have been in middle ground? Why cannot I be a genius as to forget about a pimple cream nor fashionable so I may focus on my ingenuity and bask in cursory glory? Why cannot I be a lost cause of a party girl part junkie, part alcoholic with no dignity, no care for what’s to come tomorrow? Or be born first-world rich, as to forget that poverty exists and that life is always going to be a breeze if I stay safe surrounded by daddy’s money? Why is the middle ground the most odious of places to be born in? It’s the platform where success, wealth, and education are all accessible without much hassle, that if one’s dream and drive is big enough, and holds the will to survive both the dust of critique and the doom of falling back looming, then possibly one may rule the world? Yet is that what we truly want, when the day-to-day grind includes the forced personality of materialism that just sucks out much ideal thinking?

GHOSTS OF WHAT WE ONCE WERE A N G E L A

D E A N E

Wave Pool 2014 Acrylic on found photograph

Angela Deane graduated from the University of Florida with a Bachelor in Fine Arts degree, majoring in Photography. Seiri holds the pleasure of having caught a slice of such a wonderful artistâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mind. The concept of Angela Deaneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s exhibition (begun in 2012) and continuing project Ghost Photographs is simple, to show that our captured memories may not only be our own, and may be shared with others. White acrylic paint on photographs are the meager materials, but what she produces evokes a more profoud understanding of what our past may mean to all of us, if it means anything at all.

Follow Angela Deane and explore her beautiful work http://ghostphotographs.tumblr.com/ http://angeladeane.com/section/333599_Ghost_Photographs.html

Q: What does it mean if you leave out some people or a single person unpainted in the finished photographs? A: Because the goal of this body of work is to strip down the specificity, or even, ownership of memory, I generally paint over all the people in the photograph. But here and there I have an urge to ground the memory with a face, keep a person revealed and see how it feels to have them there in this frozen still with the ghosts. There’s not much rhyme or reason to when I do this, rather a tug in the gut or even just curious whim. What do the ‘gems’ symbolize in some photographs?

What is your opinion on art photography’s role in a world currently fed with a gazillion of photographs in a single day? This is a great question. I think the gallery format is still so important. To go to quiet and clean space and take as long as you want staring at something is priceless. Zipping through them on your phone is also great but rarely do I spend very long looking at each image friends and colleagues share, though I remember many of them and what strike and truly cherish knowing what others eyes see. But you can’t blow them up and encounter them the way you can at a show.

Those are rather new additions and they’ve trickled in from some other of my paintings on canvas work, but I found when I painted them, especially in full neon and pastels, they set themselves apart so wildly and obviously from the print itself that the juxtaposition of something so obviously painted next to them more fluid ghosts was really exciting to look at. I think of the gems as precious cargo being carried, a little slice of something worldly. Offerings for the next stop.

I do however wonder if over time prices will go down in gallery settings.

The ghosts depicted in your photographs are like those in cartoons or casper-like… Why so? [Is it because they’re supposed to be innocent, or harmless? Or even hurtful (because they are ghosts/monsters after all) as most memories/pasts may be. Please correct me if I’m wrong.]

I suppose mixed media would be the right name, or maybe even repurposed photographs. But, even though I refer to the series as “Ghost Photographs” I myself relate to them as paintings and I like to present them that way. They are framed but not behind glass.

Yes, I like to paint them just like when people cut holes in sheets and wear them around on Halloween. I’ve always loved that look and each time it pops up in works of art of music videos I respond. Here in many of these photographs a lot of arms and legs are left exposed hinting at what’s underneath. It’s not a death of a person, rather a death or afterlife of a memory, so it seems fitting to have them looks clean and stoic, playful yet eerie rather than frightening. This past week I’ve done some that are pastels, some neon, one even with some hot pink lips - perhaps I’m moving into a really kitschy playful zone soon. We shall see! At the same time I’ve begun painting lots of black and whites rather than just all color and these inherently are more chilling agains the playfulness of the color shots. Also, as a photographer did/do you have any photographer you look(ed) up to? If yes, who would it be and why? Even though my canvas here is photographs and actually my degree is in photography, I consider myself more of a painter, but yes certainly, there are many photographers that I have looked up to and consistently am moved by, even looking at the same photo over and over for years. I love Uta Barth for having works that feel much like a breath or a sigh than a 2-D work to admire.

Maybe not a bad thing? For the sake of the world’s constant need to have name for every little thing, what kind of art would you consider your photographs since it’s more of a mesh of a painting and photography?

Since your concept is about how we are haunted by our past and memories everyday, in a world moving faster than ever, have you ever considered trying this method of art on a new ilk of photographs, selfies even? My family keeps asking me to “ghost” ourselves. I haven’t yet! I have never done one of myself. I think that might terrify me and make me think of my own mortality more than I’d like to. If I strip myself of my own specificity it becomes more sinister versus the excitement of jumping in or sharing with a stranger’s. How do you choose the photographs you paint on, and are they your own (for your original exhibition at least)? They are all sourced via thrift stores, estate sales and ebay. How much white acrylic paint do you have? SO MUCH How long, on average, do you work on one standard photograph? Most never go over ten minutes unless they’re group shots; parades and such. What drives most of your clients/customers to purchase your photographs, if there are any who divulge the intention?

Pipilotti Rist through her photos, videos and music makes my heart burst with color, chaos and charm. And People write me and say they find them both poignant and I always get excited when I get to see any Rineke Dijkstra playful; that they find that the move them and make them portraits. smile at the same time. A fun way of being unsettling is great I guess!

Beauty Queens atop the Empire State 2013 Acrylic on found photograph

In these photographs, I cover the people with paint, subtracting the specific identity of each person and transforming them into anonymous ghosts for the viewer to project upon. In this way, a private and specific experience becomes an open and shared one through the material addition of paint on photograph. Through this haunting of the material, the ghosts become us and we become the ghosts. We become the ghosts of our everyday. (Angela Deane, 2012)

Seiri

July/August 2014