iggy
pp
skull ring
WWW.IGGYPOP.COM WWW.VIRGINRECORDS.COM
u DS AMERICA, INC.
SUM 41 APPEARS COURTESY OF ISLAND RECORDS GREEN DAY APPEARS COURTESY OF WARNER BROS. RECORDS PEACHES APPEARS COURTESY OF KITTY-YO / XL RECORDS TAYLOR SAVVY AND GONZALES APPEAR COURTESY OF KITTY-YO
STAFF. Editor: Todd C. Roberts Editor: Jahmin Assa Art Director: Thomas Mastorakos Promotion Director: Erik Ian Schaetzke Contributors: Carlos Arias, Carol Assa, Billy Corgan, Marcel Dzama, Richard Etson, Tim Evans, Farber, Nick Fa’rrell, Jamil GS, Ebon Heath, Mel Kadel, Kevin Kerslake, Kofie One, Donny Molls, Normal Natural, Adam Sidell, Robert Sobul, Ro Starr, Alex Schaefer, Erik Ian Schaetzke, Anton Spiegel, SSUR, Sage Vaughn, Darren Waterston, Luke Wilhite, Yelena Yemchuk, Jeremy Yoder, Yuske Thanks and love to: Melissa and Dexter, Michelle, Paul McMenamin, Mercedes Tondre, Elizabeth and Hudson.
ISSUE #2, FALL/WINTER SOUL
Cover: Darren Waterston
Contact us: 8033 Sunset Blvd., Suite 251, Los Angeles, CA 90046 info@putamag.com, 323.664.4690 Advertising: advertising@putamag.com Website: www.putamag.com
PUTA is published four times a year for $27US by Truant Media. We welcome submissions but cannot be held responsible for unsolicited material. All writing, photography and artwork within these pages are copyright and property of the writers, photographers and artists that created them. They are printed here with permission from the artists and/or their agents, and may be only reprinted with permission in writing beforehand. All rights reserved.
VOLUME 1, NO. 2 TRUANT MEDIA, LLC PRINTED IN CANADA
Sol, n 1.the principle of life, feeling, thought, and action in humans, regarded as a distinct entity separate from the body, and commonly held to be separable in existence from the body; the spiritual part of humans as distinct from the physical part. 2. the spiritual part of human regarded in its moral aspect, or as believed to survive death abd be subject to happiness or misery in a life to come: arguing the immortality of the soul. 3.the disembodied spirit of a deceased person. 4. the emotional part of human nature; the seat of the feelings or sentiments 5. a human being; person. 6. high-mindedness; noble warmth of feeling, spirit or courage, etc. 7. the animating principle; the essential element or part of something. 8. the inspirer or moving spirit of some action, movement, etc. 9. the embodiment of some quality: He was the very soul of tact. 10.(cap.) Christian Science. God; the divine source of all identity and individuality. 11. shared ethnic awareness and pride among black people,esp. black Americans. 12. deeply felt emotion , as conveyed or expressed by a performer or artist.
SOUL. Looking for it. Losing it. Finding it. Believing In it. Being true to it. Seeing it. Seeing it in someone else. Hearing it. Breathing it. Living it. It is. Soul is one of those words –like love, or god - that while encompassing our entirety give us a stomachache to talk (or hear) about. The seriousness, truth, and belief – or lack of belief–make it entirely too vulnerable a subject. Comics, sarcastics, and skeptics all avoid it entirely. One seems cheesy or new age when bringing up the subject unless talking about someone who is undoubtedly cool and real. Musicians such as James Brown, Janis Joplin, or John Coltrane all had soul. Soul is unique. Soul is uncompromising honesty. Soul is vulnerability. Soul is timeless. Soul is also something that is true from the inside out – something that is more feeling than idea – soul is rhythm – Soul is: essence, truth, vulnerability, feeling, heart, impulse, love, expression, children, art, spirit. Soul is life. Soul is not ideas – Soul is not mass marketing – Soul is not demographics. Soul is not science. Soul is not conspiracies. Soul is not: business, television, commercials, race, prison, drugs, economy, status, or possessions. Soul is not lies. The idea behind PUTA, is to come up with an art publication, that’s only criteria is truth. A theme is given, and then the artist is basically free to explore their allotted space. It’s main objective is to be a platform that reflects the artist live and uncensored. This issue has a mad plethora of styles, cats, and ways. We are constantly searching for ourselves, our truth, our souls. Many of us get lost along the way. We pick ourselves up, and begin again falling or flying into our space. Sometimes we repeat the same experiment over and over again failing miserably. Sometimes we succeed and flourish, or find new obstacles that trip us up. Inevitably it is a search, not for happiness, but for honesty. Soul is also love, and true love is honest. We choose our cast we love. We look for work, or a career that we can love. But it is a constant battle. With so many conflicting ideas and images thrown at us on a daily basis, we are put in the place of an editor, cutting and pasting the “good” pieces together, and scrapping the rest. Soul Searchers is a great album. We wish you all luck in your search. Fitzgerald wrote in the great Gatsby, “when the soul is sick, it’s always two in the morning.” Get a good night sleep. Get your soul good. We hope you find what you are looking for. Happy holidays! It is true, Soul is issue number two. Look out your door, we’ll keep knockin’ in two thousand four.
Contents. Issue 2. Soul. 1. Tim Evans. 2. Mel Kadel. 3. Luke Wilhite. 4. Jermey Yoder. 5. Ebon. 6. Ssur 7. Kofie One. 8. Adam Sidell. 9. Sage. 10. Katsuo design. 11. Neil Farber. 12. Marcel Dzama. 13. Rostarr. 14. Anton Spiegel. 15. Alex Schaeffer. 16. Donnie Molls. 17. Richard Edson. 18. Carlos Arias. 19. Nick Fa’rrell. 20. Kevin Kerslake. 21. Jamil G.S. 22. Yelena Yemchuk. 23. Billy Corgan. 24. Lance Sells. 25. Darren Waterston. (Cover artist) 26. Robert Sobul. 27. Los Ninos de Puta 28. Carol Assa. 29. Erik Ian Schaetzke.
1.
PAINTINGS/DRAWINGS BY TIM EVANS. tim22@mindspring.com
2.
MY BISCUIT STORY BY MEL KADEL. From Top Left: 1.) Athena from December Starz. 2.) Briam from Martin Pine. 3.) Don from The Germs. 4.) Tim from The Movies. 5.) The Fritz from the Germans. 6.) Brian from Silversun Pickups. 7.) Dave from Kaito. 8.) Charlie from Rex Aquarium. 9.) Kennedy from Kennedy. 10.) Jessica from The Movies. 11.) Tony Alva. 12.)Nikki from Silversun Pickups 13.) Yves from Kennedy. 14.) Calixto, Owner of Juvee Skateshop. 15.) Steve from Irving 16.) Todd, owner of Sealevel Record Store.
3.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY LUKE WILHITE
Luke Wi l h ite is an artist/pri nter based in Echo Park. He works with many bands and local artists in the Los Angeles Area. The fol lowing are some of the flyers he’s worked on recently. Opposite Page: GUNS.
Above: Crazy. Right: Water. Opposite Page: Fell.
4.
Jeremy Yoder is from Hicksville Ohio, but is currently residing in New York. You may contact him at: newyouth1@netzero.net
5.
BIG BANG BY EBON.
7.
RICHARD PRYOR AND ALICE COLTRANE BY KOFIE ONE.
8.
PAINTINGS AND STORY BY ADAM SIDELL. Mr. Skiffles was feeling very uncomfortable and sad on account of constant harassment from the green duck. Being a sensitive skunk, it doesn’t take much to have your feelings hurt. Wanting reflief from the unrelenting torrent of toying and teasing from the green duck, Mr. Skiffles fled into the darkness. Mr. Skiffles was safe from the abusive green duck in the calm and silence of the darkness. Without the constant badgering of the green duck, Mr. Skiffles only heard the thoughts coming from his own mind. Hearing the echo of the green duck’s continual taunting ringing in his little skunk ears, Mr. Skiffles began to question himself wondering if all the horrible things the green duck said were true. “Am I smelly and stinky” he thought to himself over and over again, until he fell into a deep deep sleep. Mr. Skiffles dreamt of lollipops and fairies. He dreamt of living in a nicer place. A place wher there was no green duck to poke poke fun at him all day long. He dreamt of parakeets and hippos, and a porcupine wearing a fancy ball gown. A man with a beard approached Mr. Skiffles in the dream. The man was tall and had black licorice coming out of his ears and nose. The man asked Mr. Skiffles if he would like to live in this paradise, the paradise of his dreams. Without hesitation, Mr. Skiffles agreed to live in this wonderful place of lollipops and fairies, and asked the man how he could make this happen. The man told Mr. Skiffles that the only requirement to live in the dream paradise was for Mr. Skiffles to pledge allegiance for all eternity to him... The bearded tall man with black licorice coming out of his ears and nose. Mr. Skiffles did not hesitate, he immediately agreed. Upon pledging his allegiance to the bearded man he awoke in a new world. It was very bright. It was very white, and Mr. Skiffles still smelled very bad.
9.
PAINTINGS BY SAGE Opposite Page: Song Bird (1.) This Page: Song Bird (2).
Above . > > le ft : S on g B i r d ( 3 ) . R i ght : S on g B i r d ( 4 ) . Op po s ite . > > Top : A l l D ay I Dr e a m . . . Bo t tom : Pony Up .
10.
PAINTINGS BY KATSUO DESIGN. You can see more work at katsuo design.com.
11.
PAINTINGS BY NEIL FARBER. Neil Farber’s robot alter ego Pop po inhabits a w o rld pop u l ated with bears, lions, alligators, boy sold iers and alien tenta cled octopi. In Fa rber’s Universe, Babar meets science fiction B-movie.
12.
DRAWINGS BY MARCEL DZAMA. “Like Samuel Beckett’s tra gicom ic dramas, wh ich are at once hilarious and dreadful, Dzama’s one-act images simulta n eou s ly haunt and entertain. Their care fu l ly rendered figures who often seem lost on otherwise blank pages, embody a sweetly demented sensibility that is both charming and dark.” - Taken from a Los Angeles Times review by David Pagel.
13.
PAINTINGS BY ROSTARR.
Pa i nter and Grap h ic Ambassador, re s ides in Brooklyn New York, Native since 1989.
Rostarr meets SheOne in Bern, Switzerland ‘Urban Skills’ 2003
14.
PAINTINGS BY ANTON. Anton Richard was born in Newfoundland, Canada in 1973. His latestseries of paintings, recently collected at the Lather Gallery under the title The Upsetter, d raws heav i ly from roots and skinheadcultures, which were influential to the artist as a youth. He can becontacted by email at twon2000@yahoo.com.
15.
PAINTINGS BY ALEX SCHAEFER. “Alex Schaefer was born in Los Angeles in 1969. He had no inclination to make art until he was 21, but since then he’s never stopped. He studies the Old Masters, he’s devoted to realism, and he’s not an impressionist.” Above: Paris House. “Aha on her Knees.” Opposite: “Therapy Room.”
This PageClockwise: Olive Manor Motel. 2001, 22x30. The Paris House ( Cassandra Standing) . 2000, 22x24. The Paris House (Gracie). 2001,30x36. Mustang Motel. 2003, 36x48. The Paris House (Nude). 2000, 20x22.
16.
TONY GONZALES BY DONNIE MOLLS. “ My name is Tony Gonnzales born 1913. April 6 1913 In Chihuahua, Mexico. I am the son of Senobio and Juanita Gonzales. I’ve come across the border from Chihuahua Mexico. Through El Paso Texas in the year 1914 with my brother Ray, my father and mother on a burro. Iwas one year old and my brother Ray who was two years old. It took us a month of walking in the hot sun. We moved from El Paso Texas to Los Angeles, the year 1914. I grew up and went to school in Montebello California. I went to school till I was 15 years old. They called us the Mexican greases. I worked my first job with the Japanese. Then I got a job in construction when I was 15 doing cement work.”
Tony Gonzalez moved to East Los Angeles after emigrating from Mexico. He attended Whittier High School until he was 15…he always said he was “smarter than those other gringos”. He then took a construction job pouring concrete…mostly streets and sidewalks around East L.A. During the depression he worked the cotton fields in Tulare Valley for $.10 a day. War time brought him to the Bay Area where he worked the shipyards. It was in Hayward, CA where he met and married Ophelia Diaz. He was 30, she was 15. When Tony would pick Ophelia up from school her friends would say, “Ophelia, your Dad is here”. Not long after the war began, Tony was ordered by the government to either join the war efforts or work the farms in Walnut Creek. He opted to stay and not leave his new wife. After the war he worked construction again until a fall off a two story building hurt his back and put him on permanent disability. This left Tony to pursue his passion collecting junk…mostly old bicycles and hubcaps. He often fixed up the old bicycles and gave them to the less fortunate children at church. I’ve documented my Grandfather for the past 10 years through photographs, moving pictures, and recordings. His story humbles me. He is greatly missed, but his spirit continues to inspire me.
17.
MEMMORY SERVES. BY RICHARD ETSON.
Everything is fluid. Everything has a beginning, a middle and an end. And then it begins again (and again and again). You never step into the same river twice. T he sky is always changing. But we remember things. Our mind, in it’s way, freezes the world so we can hold onto it. Is that not the impulse behind painting and drawing and photography? But then what is it that we are actually seeing? According to relativity and electron microscopes, even that which appears to be the most solid is always changing, shifting, and re-arranging, even this desk, this chair, and the stereo which is playing music. And the music? The song ends, a new one starts. But doesn’t a photograph appear to have at least the trace of a stillness, an echo of the song that is always ending? Isn’t that what makes it so touching? And that echo, that trace, that timeless thing, what do we call that? Well, maybe, one could say, that is the soul. Richard Edson is a photographer, musician, actor and writer. He is currently playing with Top Kat, Mr. Razz, and E. He can’t decide what is his main instrument. He can’t decide what is his main avenue of expression. He can’t decide a lot of things. This is both a strength and a weakness. Maybe it’s not important. Maybe the only thing that is important is to keep on keeping on.
IN THEATRES SEPTEMBER 26 IN NY AND LA OCTOBER 17 IN SELECT CITIES
18. BY CARLOS ARIAS.
19.
NORTH SHORE SOUL
BY NICK FA’RRELL.
20.
FUCKER BY KEVIN KERSLAKE.
21.
SOUL BY JAMIL G.S.
22 .
SOUL
BY YELENA YEMCHUK.
23.
THE TIN LOUDSPEAKER CART. BY BILLY CORGAN. of course it was a hot day as he pushed the peeling paint type cart with shaky wheels past more and more uncaring, unimpressed bystanders, headed nowhere for nothing. the tin horn crudely attached to the top of the cart blasted its distinct brassy blast, repeating its message every 3 min and 22 sec. the actual message itself lasting 3 min and 17 seconds, followed by 5 seconds of hissy silence before it started all over again. the message was an odd mix of patriotic sounding music that transformed itself into a heavenly choir as it neared completion. overdubbed on top of that was a strong sounding man speaking dispassionately about something or other, but it didn’t matter anyway as he had locked the loop out of his mind long ago. he had stopped wondering if anyone was listening, or cared, or could even understand the language that was being spoken over the now very wobbly track. he sure didn’t. his job was to push, and push he did. he pushed the cart to anywhere he hadn’t been, and when he’d covered every possible foot of paved roads, he began again. the sound of the message all rattled into his bones, and there was no way to stop that. but he had been stuffing his ears with each days newspapers to try to stop the ringing that he only heard when he turned off the light, crossed himself quickly, and tried to sleep. the 3 min and 17 sec of it blurred then into one clashing set of wave after another, amounting to different bits running into other bits, a sort of mental remix. above that rang the constant bell tone, which in reality was a true b flat. sometimes he wondered if there were others like him, but he didn’t really think so, given to the random nature of his days journeys, and the fact that in all the time he had had this particular job, plus the time before that, he had never seen anyone pushing a tin horn cart. he’d gotten the job when he saw an ad in the help wanted section of the paper, underlined “strong, willful male needed for outside job. must be able to work 7 days a week. good pay.” he had called the number, and had gone to be interviewed in a drab gray building on the other side of town. he wasn’t asked any questions by the man interviewing except his name and social security number. he had just assumed he was his boss because he never saw another soul around the place. there wasn’t really an interview, more the man telling him what was expected of him to keep his job, that he would occasionally be monitored from afar, and where he could pick up his checks. so everyday after that day he had worked, picking up his cart at 7 am and returning it at 6:30 pm. he had never heard the cart turned off, so to speak, because when he picked it up it was already blaring, so for all he knew it never got turned off. so now let’s focus on one particular day, because this is the day that all the forces surrounding the wobbly cart and the man pushing it all came to meet at the same crossroads of circumstance and fate. it was on this particular day that the man was doing his normal pushing, not faster, and not slower, that he accidentally made a wrong turn. what he had done unknown to him is taken a wrong turn down a street he had never been down, but mistakenly thought that he had. this was odd, because it was the only street that he’d never walked down with his cart. the fact that it looked so familiar probably had a lot to do with why he had never been down it, passing it many times in assumed familiarity. but go down it he did, and in the haze of a hot summer heat, he wasn’t really focused on where he was going, because he was daydreaming, which was totally acceptable given the job at hand. what he was daydreaming about was his woman, and all the promises that they had made to each other for the future. she was away in her home country, so dream of her is all he could do. he savored every conversation about where they would live, and what kind of children they would have, stopping short of naming them for fear of superstition and God taking these babies away from them. soon she would return, and he would have saved up enough money so that he could quit pushing the cart and they could go to live in the country. after a long period of daydreaming and pushing, something caught his eye just then. it was a big buzzard circling high in the empty sky. he watched it closely, as if it was trying to tell him something, because his mother had always told him to listen and watch for the signs of nature, especially the birds. the only message he got from this bird was loneliness, and he didn’t like it. the cart buzzed incessantly in the distance of his dream, but it wasn’t that which
finally caught his attention, it was trouble with one of the wheels locking up. he stopped pushing for a moment, fearing that he would have to take this cart back to the shop and trade in for the replacement cart. this had only happened once, and he dreaded it ever happening again because the replacement cart that he had been given was a little bit heavier and it had strained his back. so used to the weight was he of his cart that his body had molded to it. and although the loop of the message was the same on the spare cart, it played just a tad bit slower, actually clocking in at 3 min and 25 seconds. this small variation seemed to affect his walking rhythm, his routes, and quite possibly his heartbeat. it drove him insane, so used to the timing of the message emanating from his cart. he kicked the wheel in frustration, and this snapped him out of his slow walking drowse long enough to realize that he had walked himself to the middle of the desert. which desert? he wasn’t even sure because he didn’t even know how he’d gotten there. all that was before him and behind were two lanes of black top road, one endless vista of nothing, and a buzzard growing ever faint as it flew farther and farther into the empty sky. he stopped, really irritated at himself now. what if his boss saw was looking for him and couldn’t find him? his boss would figure he was inside by the air conditioner, listening to a baseball game whilst the cart was safely tucked away, quiet like, in a back garage. actually no, instead, here he stood, lost, mute, and unable to turn off the tin horn cart and its tin horn message. he sat down on the pavement for a moment. if only he could hear himself think, he thought angrily. it occurred to him that if he put enough walking distance between him and the cart, that he might be able to gather his senses around him enough to figure out how to get back home. the simple answer seemed to point to going back in the direction he was walking from, but for all he knew he had looped around and now was headed away from the city. so with that logic in mind, he left the cart where it stood and walked in the direction he had been heading, figuring that most likely he would go back the direction he had come from and he wouldn’t want to retrace the steps he was taking now but rather just retrace the steps he had taken to get him to where the cart now stood. so he walked on slowly, the sound of the cart getting less loud and more trebly with each step. the distance made the sound more abrasive, and he wondered openly how anyone even tolerated him passing thru their neighborhood. maybe they had shut off the message of the cart long ago, just like he had. just when he had gotten far enough down the road that the cart was no longer a factor in his thinking, he spotted a man coming towards him. he crossed himself instinctively, wondering if he was dead, because the man approaching him was pushing a cart with a tin horn, and looked startlingly like the vision he had of himself. the message playing was the same, the cart the same pale green paint, the horn the same pounded dirty bronze, but yet the man was not him. he was glad to be alive. but then the thought crept in that maybe this man was the devil, finally come to claim his soul. the man approaching didn’t seem to be at all fazed by his dumbstruck co-worker, and probably would have passed him right by so lost was he in his own malaise and daydreams. but as he approached, the man with the cart with the busted wheel raised his finger as if to ask a question, and the man approaching slowed his push to a slow stop to see what the man wanted. He cleared his throat, said “good day” as cheerfully as he could muster, and not really knowing what to say, asked the man politely if he wouldn’t mind helping him with his troublesome wheel. the man nodded his agreement, and began to push his cart in the direction of the cart with the troublesome wheel. the man who was lost had so many questions for this other man that he couldn’t think of what to ask him first, so they walked together in silence, save for the fact that as they approached the broken cart, the 2 messages from the 2 different tin horns started amplifying each others messages and music into a phasing, psychedelic, swirling mess. the absurdity of the moment, the incredible volume, the relentless heat now built the vast empty space into a very real and present pressure. the frustration of pushing his cart for so long, and so faithfully him, and he realized that he didn’t care if the wheel would be fixed, or if his boss would be upset that he had been lost, or that his wheel needed repairs. he saw himself in the other man as if looking into a mirror, his posture stooped from so much pushing, his skin bronzed from the toil of the sun, his feet shuffling to the rhythm of the music’s nationalistic march. they arrived, 2 men, 2 carts, and it it became too much to bear, and the man with the broken wheel, in that instant, lost it under that same toiling sun. he shoved his cart over, and the tin horn rang its bell into the dust. the message started to slow down and speed up, fueling his anger. he kicked with all his might into the wood of the cart, and ripped desperately at the tin horn with his hands, but it wouldn’t come off. he wanted it to stop, and he wanted it to stop now. he jumped on top of the toppled cart, and managed to put the full force of his weight thru its side until the wood cleaved, leaving an open wound of wires and spinning tape. he clawed at this wound until his message finally stopped dead. now the other man, who had watched this whole scene without much emotion at all, stood very still, taking in all that he had just seen before him. he rocked his cap back on his head, and let out a slow, soundless whistle. just then, his message stopped, and his tape, which was a little slower, ran thru its 6 seconds of hiss. in this six seconds the two men, strangers only moments ago, eyed each other cautiously. the man with the good cart turned his around and started to walk away from the other man and his silenced, broken cart. he strolled maybe ten paces or so, stopped, and looked back over his shoulder at what was left of the man, the cart, and the beautiful vista behind him. the man sat on the ground with his head hung down very low. smiling, he gave his cart a good strong push, and listened carefully one last time as the message slid away from him into the desert.
24.
NORMAL NATURAL BY LANCE SELLS. This Page: Title : The Playing of Musical Beds (Troll I) Date : August 2003 Medium : Pen and Ink, Paint Pen Next page: Title : Woman Unknowingly Brings the Bubonic Plague (Troll I) Date : August 2003 Medium : Pen and Ink, Adobe Photoshop
This Page: Title : Son of a Gay Bar (Troll I) Date : August 2003 Medium : Pen and Ink, Adobe Photoshop Next Page: Title : Female Hatching Dual Schemes (Troll II) Date : June 2003 Medium : Pen and Ink, Adobe Photoshop
The inspiration for much of Darren Waterston’s work comes from the artist’s interest and knowledge of arcane sciences, widely varied r eligious and philosophical beliefs (both Eastern and Western), and a romantic feel for the history of painting. It is this romantic side of the artist that provides the stimulus for his work and lifestyle. Often painting out of doors near his secluded cabin in British Columbia, Waterston creates work, which reveals a keen observance of nature coupled with a fascination for academic knowledge of natural science. Whether painting a swarm of moths, hummingbirds in flight, decaying floral vegetation, silhouettes of treetops against a moody sky, a dandelion gone to seed, or a mist veiled landscape from another time, Waterston makes use of his painterly virtuosity as well as his ability to combine a rich array of images and phenomena.
26.
28.
SOUL BY CAROL ASSA.
“Man is a Soul and he has a body.” -Paramhansaji Yogananda
Countless words have been written throughout history defining and explaining the “the nature of the soul,” but there has been very little agreement between the different religions and philosophies as to the true meaning. Webster’s dictionary alone has thirteen different definitions for the concept. When, however, we look at the ancient esoteric definition of the soul throughout the world, underlying the layers of dogma, we see there exists a universal body of wisdom that could be called “the science of the soul.” This wisdom states that there is one soul that manifests in a multitude of forms for the purpose of evolution and expression. Every form within every kingdom in nature (mineral, vegetable, animal, human and spiritual) is a soul that has a body. Another term commonly used for soul today is consciousness. All creation manifests as a trinity of spirit, soul and body. The soul (son) is created by the union of the father aspect (spirit) and the mother aspect (matter). Pythagoras saw that the joining together of these two extremes through a middle point (the soul) created harmony. In scientific terms, we can look at the qualities of a bar magnet. The interplay of the positive pole (father-yang-causative) and the negative pole (mother-yinreceptive) creates the magnetic field of conscious awareness or soul between them. We can look at spirit and matter as being composed of the same substance—spirit being matter vibrating at its highest frequency and matter being spirit vibrating at its lowest frequency. Together they create the magnetic radiation of consciousness, harmony or the soul. Every created form (both organic and inorganic) from an atom to man to the galaxy is composed of this dynamic triplicity. Pythagoras, the famous teacher, philosopher and mystic developed the Pythagorean theorem (also called the 47th Problem of Euclid). It asserts that for a right triangle the square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides – or “a squared + b squared = c squared.” The theorem exhibits a hidden fundamental truth about the creative process of the world and shows the proper relationship of proportional images to numbers. Spirit (the magic square of three) into matter (the magic square of four) creates the Soul (the magic square of five).
Carol Assa is a teacher of “The Nature of the Soul.”
She can be reached at fohat33@earthlink.net
29. Erik Ian Schaetzke
One year subscription (6 issues) – 27.00$ send check or money order to: PUTA MAGAZINE 8033 Sunset Blvd., Ste. 251 Los Angeles,CA90046 323-664-4690 info@putamag.com Check www.putamag.com for updates, t-shirts, pins, stickers, and much more!
FALL/ WINTER 2003-04 SEPTEMBER: MICHELLE GRABNER / CARLA AROCHA OCTOBER: VICTORIA REYNOLDS NOVEMBER / DECEMBER: DANE PICARD JANUARY: RANDALL SE LLE RS FEBRUARY: NE IL FARBER MARCH / APRIL: LAMAR PETERSON
RICHARD HELLER GALLERY 2525 MICHIGAN AVENU E B-5 A SANTA MONICA CA 904 04 3 10 453 91 91 FAX 310 453 2791