INK
MAGAZINE
JUNE 2019
COLOPHON
The 2019 INK Magazine was created by Diane Sandoval-Flores, Laisha Archila-Lopez, Yvette Mendez, Sonia Boeger and Jasmin Ramos. The cover photo, of Addi Campbell, was taken by Brynn Dempster.
CONTENTS ART ink/pencil
6
paint
8
digital 10
PHOTO nature
12
portraits 14
WRITING poems
5, 13, 18
A R T
art by Eddie Gonzalez
Catch!
first, try love. if that doesn’t work (then nothing will) then try hate, and try falling out. it bodies your bones. it takes years to pull it all out. first thing you tried was love, now, hack down the walls that hurt your heart. try love, then try nothing. if silence is the absence of sound (which is isn’t) then “content” is the absence of time (which it isn’t). silence is sound colliding with itself to cancel out and content is a great love and a great sadness being in tune for a moment. the first thing i tried was love, and i buried it in a traffic island. in a sidewalk downtown, in the silly putty stuck in his hair. (in an abyss of overpoweringly soft smells they put their hands over my eyes,) look, love, look, how much thought i give to you. there is nothing here that keeps my weightless. i don’t know why i write but i have to try something next.
poem by Hallah Herb
art by Tristan Kruger
art by Eddie Gonzalez
page 6
art by Micah Dillard
ink/pencil
art by Emi Ricci
art by Eli Aslum
art by Hannah Brown
page 7
art by Allison Hmura
page 8
art by Joleigh Miller
art by Lusik Simon
paint
art by Rose Martin art by Paul Mejia
art by Iris Martin
art by Mia Villanueva
page 9
art by Maxine Mejia
art by Mackenzie Rolf
page 10
ink/pencil
art by Ethan Nguyen art by Angelique Prater
art by Rosemary Lake
art by Bella Molyneux
art by Rosemary Lake
art by Josh Morris
page 11
P H O T O
photo by Melania Umulap
halcyon
in my today i took the train, there are people on the train, and they don't know me, today, when i woke i was home, i think. this city is strange, i don't think it loves me. today i took the train and someone: he lifted his fist and met that balding man’s jaw, i saw, he was on the ground hey hey HEY, he stormed past me, get me the hell out of here. balding man's face is full of blood, you unwind your scarf and hand it to him, he holds it to his face, his blood is on the floor, the train will be delayed for a moment. the people on the train don't know me. this city is strange, i don't think it loves me. keep your voices quiet and your moments loud, this is the coast that is cold and it bites, i am not known, here. she. her. watch the sounds go by, when i... when i heard this song last i was so so in love. it is sad for me to watch your house be dissected and reassembled but at least that means i can't lay on your bedroom floor and not be in love with her. cuz your carpet smells like neon pink and violet. smells like steampunk goggles. when i woke up here it was cold. when i got off the train in the suburb where i used to live i looked up that street. i used to live on a hill i nodded and it didn't nod back but to be fair, it's asphalt. it hurts, it hurts, it hurts to hurt here, it hurts to hurt her, here, we all get together and we mourn our childhoods like real party people. get me the hell outta here. i used to live on a hill, here, it was right here. this is city is strange i don't think it loves me.
poem by Hallah Herb
photos by Yahzid Castaneda model: Diana Castaneda
photos by Melania Umulap model: Pamela Alvarez
page 14
photo
photo by Brynn Dempster photos by Brynn Dempster
photos by Melania Umulap model: Hailey Lewetag
page 15
W R I T I N G art by Diana Castenada
My thoughts pulling together worlds the wrong way, my hair tangled, so I brush with strokes in sets of eight like “soothe, soothe, soothe” be smooth and simple and pretty soothe, soothe, soothe, you are not hungry you need nothing more than your forehead against this table cold hot heavy and the aftertaste of hot chocolate you shouldn’t have made cold hot heavy = you, your thighs on the chair that pull in your stomach is not want, no; you do not want, no; you. do. not. want.
poem by Brinsley Hammond
I am red But this doesn’t put me above anyone else Color is a horizontal spectrum Even though rainbows are stacked I guess we’re all standing sideways on this earth anyway so A rainbow probably is horizontal and That sounded more poetic in my head but The people on this list think it sounded poetic anyway Orange wants to go to the moon No Orange wants to become the moon So she can shine on anyone who can’t sleep And make them feel happier Orange wears the skirt she stole from a costume rack And holds hairpins in her mouth like cigarettes She teaches me how to thread a needle She smiles more than she thinks she does
beyond burger
its cold in here. when i write i give a voice to the me that i usually try to quiet down. (i have nightmares about the end of this, where are we again) i know that this place is a prison, and that these people aren’t my friends. i suck up what’s left of love at the bottom of the cup and then i throw it away. its didactic it throws itself into me. i think poetry is the opposite of meditation but they both help me sleep. i think i’m spilling over a bit, she’s stuck in my teeth. i’ll cut to the chase. i remember a gas station on the way home but i cant remember why i remember it. when i write its because i don’t wanna read anymore words that are in the right order, when i say my muscles are frozen acid i mean don’t touch me. i mean im this close to nothin’ this close to breaking teeth and it doesn’t mean anything.
poem by Hallah Herb
Yellow can pour her soul into an inkwell without spilling a drop She knows more than anyone that act And act Are two different things She knows how every word sounds How to use them How to speak so people will listen We build pretentiousness together And teach each other not to care Who cares Green talks too loud and knows it She is never sick, never sick, Never sick of me She’s got feet that glow And hair that’s sometimes blue And a shirt full of safety pins Once we threw ourselves Ten feet in the air And we didn’t even remember to be scared Blue makes sure the pictures in my head Don’t just stay in my head They’re a comma So a bit of an enabler of my Run-on sentence addiction Which can get out of hand sometimes When I talk about the things I love So they’re a comma Which is also a much needed Breath mark In the middle of a line They wear many hats, even if it seems like they only own two Purple doesn’t know what they are yet Other than a mix of Red and Blue and Everything that has Happened to them But purple still smiles and means it Still sends me pictures of pirates at One in the morning Purple’s still the color of royalty I have not seen many sunrises in my life But, I’ve watched it set from a green-painted sidewalk I’ve seen orange teach yellow what uncertainty is And three in the morning is a blue-hued phone screen And I’ve grown up so fast that I can only Measure it by comparing my height to purple So I can say Standing here That I’d bleed red if the right person asked me to And I know the definition to Quite a few words And one of them is happy. poem by Jack Loney
page 18
poetry
neutron stars I see you walking across the courtyard sometimes, with that bag over your shoulder, and that haircut. A few days a week I look up and out the window just when you slam the door open. Just when your uniform shoes move from tile to sidewalk. You’re at that window, the one in the library with the sheer curtains hanging like twice-dead ghosts. Every day I walk through the courtyard. Usually, since I know you’re looking at me, I keep my look on an oak tree and let the corners of my eyes strain towards you. I wish I could look close enough to see what your hair looks like. You’ve always got that blue pair of headphones in. I can tell because I try not to look up, I need to focus on my work, but they’re neon so they’re brighter than my physics textbook’s text and as soon as you walk out the courtyard door I can see them. I don’t know anything about physics, and I don’t think I’m ever going tzo. But it’s cool to know that you do. That someone knows something about everything. You know what a proton is, and I know that I wish you saw me. My headphones are the brightest blue there is and even though I can’t look at you all the way I wish I could know your textbook wasn’t being read. One day it was yesterday and my hand lifted off the bright-brown table and stuck to the window. I guess she can move by herself now, without any help from my neurons. Today she doesn’t do it by herself, though; she does it with my help. Splayed out against the glass, the inside of my fingers must look like a road map. My neurons are fired. One day your hand is on the library window, the latest ghost in the place. I hear the thud of her hitting the glass from the other side of the courtyard.
And the next day I hear it, too. After that the corners of my eyes are suddenly black holes- my eyelashes have collapsed in on each other, it was inevitableand I can’t help but completely look at you. Your hair falls just past your chin and it’s curly. Your hand is full of dark-brown lines, like the road maps people who navigated using the stars used to use. After you followed the map that I left you, your eyes don’t try and strain away anymore. On the days I look up- more often, now- you are always looking back at me, our eyes almost meeting. In fifth grade my teacher told me that if you look between someone’s eyebrows they’ll think that you’re looking in their eyes. I don’t know if that works but I’ve been doing it at job interviews and you’ve grown your hair out a little. The feeling of my shoes hitting the courtyard pavement is the best part of my day, now. I don’t risk looking through the library window anymore; I don’t think looking is a risk. Our eyes meet almost every day. Some days you look at the space between my eyebrows. When I was little and also yesterday the people in my math class told me there was too much hair there. It’s okay. You’ve cut your hair shorter in the weeks we’ve been looking at each other. Today I spend the whole day listening to the band your yesterday shirt was advertising. I think I like it more than anything else I’ve listened to. I made a playlist of songs where the beginning thirty seconds remind me of you, and I press play as soon as I walk out the cold doors. When I was younger I thought I’d meet someone in a more Real-life situation. When I was a freshman I dated a girl who told me I’d never get anyone better than her. I was wrong She was wrong Because today I looked up and you Today my shoes moved left and left until I were knocking on the library window. “Hi” “Hello”
was
poem by Jack Loney
page 19
photo by Yahzid Castenada
photo by Yahzid Castenada
photo by Trinity Kress
photo by Trinity Kress
photo by Jasmine Chitwood
photo by Yahzid Castenada
photo by Joleigh Miller photo by Jasmine Chitwood
photo by Yahzid Castenada