Volume 1 Issue 4: Dictionary Of Colors

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Volume 1 Issue 4 Curated, edited, and published by The Aerogramme Center for Arts and Culture Copyright © 2021 The Aerogramme Center Reproduction in whole or part is prohibited, except by permission of the publisher. ISSN 2767-9691 (print) ISSN 2767-9683 (online) Designed by The Aerogramme Center for Arts and Culutre Edited by Zoë Elena Moldenhauer Proof-reading by Isabel Pardo

@aerogrammearts www.aerogramme.org

OUR MIS S ION The Mobile Library provides a multi-digital exhibiting experience for artists and writers to showcase their work during the pandemic closures. Each publication is unique, pairing 6 artists and 6 writers together at different stages in their career to build a collaborative experience. This issue, artists and writers responded to the theme of a coloring book. This coloring book will be available for download to anyone from anywhere to participate in The Mobile Library. We hope this collaborative experience will provide a much needed distraction during the pandemic closures.

Cover image: My Linh Mac, Irrigrations 18, 2020. Torched acrylic painting on canvas. 3in x 2in

Evening in Paris, p


Elizabeth Bruce

Ira Joel Haber

r o b r e v e R 2 1 . p , h t a m r e t f A y a w o l l o H y Lil My Linh Mac

The Exo rcism of Sally , p. 21 Chris Kok Mary Mazziotti

9 2 . p , m e i u Req uca h c a M n í r r a Verónica J Maurice Mo


Spatial Concepts, p. 38 Gabriel Soto

Beyond Borders, p. 48

u W n a u s H Yu Jeffrey Q. Guanlao

, e s u o H r e TShe Oth cotia Gil roy 0 6 . p im K u y l o e h C

Evening in Paris Stories by Elizabeth Bruce Artwork by Ira Joel Haber

One dollar in her pocket, Willa Rae looked all about. She’d never been inside the store before. Had never dared breach the jingling glass door her ma had told her not to enter. “Our kind ain’t welcome there, baby. Best leave it alone and move on by,” she’d told Willa Rae when they first got to these parts for the picking season. “Don’t need no trouble now, you hear, Willa Rae? We got trouble enough for the whole wide world and all the worlds beyond.” Willa Rae had promised, she’d sworn to her mama that she’d be a good girl like she asked but then she’d found the dollar, old and tattered and fluttering along the side of the road like a magic butterfly, and Willa Rae’d made up her mind to see the store for herself. A wonderland it was too. Spools of red and purple ribbon, buckets of bright blue plastic petunias. Rows of rick rack, racks of spice. Buttons and bouillon and socks. Willa Rae’s head spun and she grabbed ahold of the glass counter to steady herself. She closed her eyes and breathed through her mouth the way she did at the camp latrine. She tilted her head back and opened her eyes and there, up near the ceiling on the tip top shelf, she saw it, that deep blue bottle with 4

fancy writing. She’d seen it before, in catalogues in outhouses, on signs in shop windows, and once, in the panhandle of Texas, she’d peered into a window with lacey white curtains beside the road and there it had been again, this blue, blue bottle with a shiny silver top like a bullet sitting on a dresser top doily. And now here it was again, the very same. From out of nowhere, a dime store lady with a powdery pink face and blue hair appeared and started wiping the countertops though they were already shiny clean. She looked at Willa Rae with a hungry meanness that made Willa Rae think of the old woman trying to eat the gingerbread man in the story her mama used to tell them, but Willa Rae didn’t care. She kept her eyes on the blue, blue bottle up high on the shelf. “Please, ma’am, “she asked. “How much is that one there?” and she stretched her freckled, sunburnt hand up toward the big blue bottle. The lady looked where Willa Rae was pointing and clucked a deep, gurgly lady cluck and turned back to Willa Rae. “Oh honey, that one there’s a whole $2.00. You got that kinda money, child?” the lady asked, her baby blue eyelids blinking as she

glanced at Willa Rae’s frayed gingham dress stretched tight across her tiny budding breasts. “Oh, yes ma’am,” Willa Rae said. The dime store lady coughed a phlegmy cough, but Willa Rae didn’t pay it any mind. “You sure about that, girlie? It’s a might hard trial to get it down and a body’s got to be careful these days, what with all the riff raff coming through,” the lady said and smiled stiffly. The powder cracked at the corners of her mouth. “Yes ma’am, I surely do,” said Willa Rae and clutching the dollar bill behind her she doubled it over and flashed it before the lady quickity quick. The lady grunted and bent down behind the counter and grabbed a metal claw device sitting beside a rusty fan. She held it in both her hands, and stretched her soft, round lady arms up and up and grabbed the blue, blue bottle of Evening in Paris cologne and eased it off the shelf and set it down before the girl. Willa Rae opened it and sniffed. It smelled like sweet, sweet womanhood, sweeter than sweet, and Willa Rae closed her eyes and thought of her ma and her hard, red hands smelling of Pine Sol and smoke and lard. She thought of lace curtains and doilies and

pink and blue posies blooming in ladies’ gardens in the villages they’d passed through these past five years going field to field of oranges and carrots and cotton. She thought of all the doilies on all the dressers in all the ladies’ happy houses across the land, and then she thought of her ma bent over a creek bed scrubbing dirt from dungarees. “Smells nice, don’t it, girlie?” said the lady, smiling a closed lip, prissy kind of smile that made the rosy circles on her checks dimple. “Oh yes, yes, ma’am. It surely, surely does.” Willa Rae said, smiling back, and as the lady leaned to set the claw down, Willa Rae, her hands trembling, her scraped knees bent and ready, slapped her dollar bill down on the counter, grabbed the blue, blue bottle, swung open the jiggling door, and ran and ran and ran as fast as the Gingerbread Man.


Universally Adored Dedicated to J.S.G. Boggs and Hans-Jürgen Kuhl (among other “counterfeiters”)

One dollar. American. Fran stared at the Christmas card from Janine that had come that morning. Santa’s sled arched over the Las Vegas strip, money floating down like snowflakes, one huge dollar bill in the foreground. Swimming in the green stuff, Janine had written on the inside, and in parentheses she’d added: (prettiest color I ever saw!) with a silly happy face after it. Fran ran her thumb over the card’s velum paper. Velvety, she thought. Soft. Soft like Janine. She looked at the faint grey lines that rippled across the red, white, and blue of the Forever Flag stamp. Las Vegas, Nevada, said the postmark. Las Vegas. Sin City. Janine’s sister lived there. The day Janine walked out, her sister had driven down from Vegas and loaded up her station wagon with the detritus of Janine’s two years with Fran. “Screw it,” Janine had said that day, with a violence that had shaken Fran out of the closet art studio where she hovered most days, made her drop the palomino-colored oil pastel secretly named Janine to the 8th power and run trembling to where Janine stood in the living room, next to the picture that Fran had first 6

given her. “Screw you and your goddamn art. I am done here,” Janine had shouted as she filled the boxes with her wander yearnings from their years together, the phrase books and guides to countries they’d never managed to visit after all. Never could afford. Janine had knocked the abstract blue painting she’d once adored off the wall, the glass in its frame shattering and scattering slivers of translucence across the wooden floor. Fran had gasped and knelt to rescue it. It had brought them together, this painting, with its cascade of shades, and now it was on the floor. What had she done so wrong? “Keep it,” Janine had shouted. “Keep your goddamned blue swirly whirls and all the rest of this crap,” she’d yelled, sweeping her arm over the shelf of mementos Fran had bought for them at garage sales and flea markets, each with its own astonishing color field and texture. The oxidized copper ladle, the cocktail tray filled with butterfly wings, the intricately woven Peruvian belt, the turquoise porcelain sake cup. Visual treasures, Fran had called them, and she’d thought they were Janine’s treasures too, things they could enjoy together. “Keep all of your goddamned colors,”

Janine had shouted. And with that she’d kicked the first box out of the apartment and slammed the old door, flecks of avocado paint flying off like bits of dusty cactus. One by one Janine had dragged the cardboard boxes, their sides buckling, down the four flights of stairs into the station wagon below. Fran had listened to the thump, step, thump, step, thump, step, of Janine wrestling the boxes, and thought of the clunk, clunk, clunk of red clay hitting a casket below. She really should have helped Janine, Fran thought again, helped her lug those soft brown boxes down the steps, but Janine had been so angry, so very angry, that Fran had been afraid to even try. Her beautiful Janine had turned on her, and Fran had struggled to understand why. Janine was months gone now, all her things thumped, thumped to the street and off to her sister’s house in Vegas. Her sister had gotten her a job as a blackjack dealer, last Fran had heard, and she was finally making good money. Not like Fran, limping along on her meager sidewalk art sales and money from her mom to keep the landlord at bay. Fran closed her eyes and thought of her

ex. Her beautiful Janine. She of the impossible colors, hues and shades of lovely Fran never thought she would get to have in her life. Not she, the gawky artist Francis whom nobody, not even her mom or brother and most certainly not her dad, may he rest in peace, thought made any sense at all. How had she won Janine, Fran never knew, with only her enigmatic oil pastels and watercolors to speak for her, lined up on the sidewalk in front of the park, beckoning passersby to adore them as she adored them. Somehow Janine had done that—adored one of Fran’s bluest blues, a fluid abstract of azure and aqua--one autumn day as the sun mellowed and Fran, warmed by its shadows, had smiled at the smiling Janine. She’d offered up this blaze of blue to Janine for just a coffee and a chat. And Janine, leaning over her cup of joe, had cradled the artwork in her arms, and asked Fran about its colors. Instantly, Fran had loved her for that; she loved her still. Loved her and all the perfect colors she and Janine had seen together, hundreds of colors stretching over two years, each one more spectacular than the one before. Colors that flickered in Janine’s brown eyes—she named


those Janine to 1st power----colors that warmed every dip and curve of Janine’s body— Janine to the 3rd, the 5th, the 10h power—the color that fluttered through Janine’s flaxen hair—Palomino--Janine to the 8th power. Palomino. God what a beautiful color, Fran thought. A perfect color like that that perfect day they’d had together when Janine had thrown up her hands and demanded that they go somewhere. And they had. Fran had shut her box of colors and left her closet studio and they had gone to the lake and ridden palomino horses at sunset. Cantered along the shore, the foam of gently crashing waves mirroring the horses’ sweat. Her and Janine’s breath rocking back and forth, back and forth like whitecaps. A perfect day. Sky the color of bluebonnets, water the color of copper. And the palominos, their caramel sinews and flaxen manes bouncing and flying like Janine’s own golden hair, whipping through the air like brushstrokes of shadow and light. Shadow and light. Shadow and light. Fran had had to capture that when they came home. The shadow and light of Janine, and she’d shut herself up in her studio again, 8

and tried to recreate the exquisite perfection of that last great day together as Janine clattered dishes in the sink. But when Fran had emerged with the perfect colors of that perfect day, Janine had not understood. “It’s beautiful, Fran,” Janine had said, her lips pressed into a thin pink line. “Everything you create is beautiful, of course, but not everyone lives for colors the way you do, sweetie. Some of us live for people. You know, company. Companionship. Conversation. “And security, babe. Some of us love keeping the lights on, the rent paid, food in our bellies day after day, Fran. Some of us get tired of paying all the bills all the time while somebody works on their art. Color is sweet, honey. It’s the moment. It’s NOW, like you, but some of us also love tomorrow as much as today.” Fran picked up the card from Janine again, the dollar bill in the foreground beseeching her. “Some of us also love tomorrow as much as today,” Janine had said that day, and for the umpteenth time she’d begged Fran to take the insurance job Fran’s brother had offered,

promising that she could work from home, anything to bring home dollars like Janine did day after day from the café, the coins from her tips clanking into the Mason jar they used to collect spare change. “Do it for me, please,” Janine had implored, and she‘d wedged her last dollar bill into the jar. A peace offering, a taunt, a dare? One last chance to make it right? And still Fran hadn’t grasped what Janine was feeling. “The beloved fears and hates the lover,” Fran had read once in a book, a little thin book about a tall, cross-eyed woman in love with a hunchback. “For the lover is forever trying to strip bare his beloved,” she remembered the book saying. “For the lover is forever trying to strip bare his beloved,” Fran repeated out loud. And suddenly, she understood why Janine had sent the holiday card, its dollar bill fluttering seductively on the cover. Suddenly Fran understood why Janine has sent the holiday card. Fran had one last chance to make it right. She reached for the Mason jar and pulled out the lone dollar bill Janine had left inside. Fran closed her eyes and pressed the dollar between her palms. An American dollar. A masterpiece, she thought, universally adored.

“Janine adores you,” Fran whispered. “My perfect Janine adores this perfect masterpiece.” And she rushed again to her art table in the closet. Fran pinned the dollar to the acid-free paper on her table and peered at the dollar’s design. Next to her lay her art case, a large three-tiered wooden box lavishly carved—sea serpents, mermaids, and Neptune there looking as if he were alive. Fran stroked the box, tracing the rise and fall of the figures the way she did when colors came to her and she had to catch them, right then, lest they float away and be gone, beyond her grasp the way Janine had gone. Beyond her grasp. Fran opened the box. She lowered her magnifying glass and clicked on her drafting light. Its warmth washed over her rows and rows of pens and pastels and watercolors all shapes and sizes, wide-swathed, hair-thin, blunt-tipped. Ash grey. Pine green. Sage. She breathed in. Burnt Sienna. Bamboo. Cacao. Raw Pumpkin. She stroked the colors. Green Apple. Burlap. Labrador Black, Toffee, Teal, Clamshell, and her beloved Palomino. Oh, those are some sweet, sweet colors. 9

Going, going, gone, she thought. Goodbye, sweet colors. Time for the grey-flannelled suit. The work-a-day-world she had so long avoided. The colorless world Fran’s brother still promised. “Just give it a chance, sis. People need insurance as much as art,” he’d said, and Janine, listening, had put her hands together and pleaded with her to take it. Oh Janine, Fran thought and all the small blue veins in her body ached. She looked down at the humble dollar bill pinned to her draft board. “Everybody loves you, my friend,” she said, running her fingers over it again. “You are universally adored.” And with that she angled the light closer and studied the dollar’s gradations of shading. “Yankee greenback,” she said, “you’ve got some sweet colors too.” And she set to work, sketching out the contours of the bill, penciling in the circles and rectangles and arcs before drawing George Washington himself. Slowly, Fran recreated the tiny gray-green cross hatches beneath Washington’s chin, and there again on the side of his face, in the ruffle of his shirt, the fold of his collar. Now that’s gravitas, she thought. George was nobody’s fool, Fran said to herself as she 10

drew, replicating the arch of his eyebrow, the dimple in his chin, the purse of his lips. “Oh George,” she sighed. “Bring her back to me.” For hours she worked, feathering the leaves in each corner, the number “one” encased in a swirling oval, another in an oblong shield, two more in near circles below across a field of pale gray green paper faded, faded to what? What shade is that, Fran thought, this albino split pea green? The lush colors in her art box called to her but she soldiered on. “THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA” she drew in delicate black ink, floating, it seemed, over its shadow. “FEDERAL RESERVE NOTE” etched out from a thick line of blackness; “ONE DOLLAR” hovered, formidable, below George. “This note is legal tender,” Fran tapered each letter, “for debts, public and private.” “Damn straight,” she whispered as the dawn glimmered outside and her masterpiece shone. Then, where the Secretary of the Treasury’s signature should be, Fran, still hardening her heart against the other colors, signed her own name in black ink with a flourishing hand. While the ink dried and the sun rose, she reached under her drafting table for a padded

envelope thick and soft enough to protect this finest of peace offerings yet. “To Janine,” Fran wrote on the envelope’s back in somber black. She stopped. The intensity of the night’s work came back to her, her arms suddenly heavy, her fingers stiff as she closed her box of colors. Fran held her dollar in front of her, caressing the velvety sheen of its paper. She slid the dollar into an acetate sleeve and tucked it between two cardboard panels. Gently, she taped the panels together. “One perfect dollar,” she wrote on the top. “A masterpiece, universally adored (like you, my love).” Merry Christmas, she wrote.

Love, Frances. PS: I’m taking the job.

Images 1-5: Landscape, 1973 Black paint on paper. 12in x 14in 11

Reverb or Aftermath Poems by Lily Holloway Artwork by My Linh Mac

Irrigations 4, 2020 Torched acyrlic painting on canvas. 3in x 2in


It happens as a guest latent or underlying like a needle to the soft part of your foot. It happens always in hallways my body a monument to never forgetting. It happens all worlds now indented even the divots of my spine. It happens and a child runs backwards rewinding into my chest.

The flower arrangement movement

The flower arrangement movement is now firmly national its roots run through topographical veins He tells me he prefers my hair in a ponytail and arranges me like children I add to the humidity of the room when I am placed in a bowl of grey, wooly foliage Basically, plant material can be divided into three types: He tells me my design is not in harmony and in shame I shed yellowed leaves on the carpet A hint of another colour may be found in the throat of a flower Emphasis and repetition with each reincarnation Aiming for unity, posing like herons


Irrigations 7, 2020 Torched acyrlic painting on canvas 3in x 2in 14

Irrigations 18, 2020 Torched acyrlic painting on canvas 3in x 2in 15

my mother’s fruits there is a divine curvature the migration of ground birds a slipping of the in-between and i crush mum’s favourite crown lynn jug in the space behind the kitchen drawer hear it collapse in upon itself i sanitise the supermarket fruit with bleach and water position them to dry wherever there is space foreheads, the ceiling fan perched on top of breadmakers along the bench like soldiers they multiply i am walking myself and it’s that time of night when the bush roaches dash across pavement seeking the other damp green i think i see a worm shining under the streetlamp but it is just the hook off a clothes hanger these moments invoke a crisp dislocation like looking through a cardboard tube to an empty lacquered pill-box balanced on a thin slice of citrus a crescent moon and a post-it note my mother’s fruits are label makers and you can only see the jug fragments when you look from this angle 16

a lulling/it’s stratified, you know

bring me those lacy bed jackets of 60s housewives the ones with the ribbons unravelling so the threads lie between heavy divisions of territory it crawls out of my mouth like something that’s settled like you could imagine swinging an axe into her trunk like you could get lost in a copse of her body tripping over yourself lift up a log and out comes scurrying the thickness a blanket of black legs amplifying canopy

layers excavated of kererū, tree-rat cicada shell and lichen meanwhile the bruise under my eyebrow has ripened vessels unable to hold the harvest which is ample juices breaking membranes dripping from pinpricks with stick


bees fall slowly drunk on just sip



Irrigations 24, 2020 Torched acyrlic painting on canvas 3in x 2in 18

the field

i am lying on a field in the freshly minted spring sun across the way there are tennis players like ants on a wall a body puts a rugby ball down runs ten widths i am in the part of the field where the dew is now evaporated i in: out: in in lacuna where

practice my cardigan the field out the out all

changing fibres space of

and blades all

the focus

of my eye

between the webs periphery touch

in the


the daisy the leaf the hummas pot all players

Next Page: Irrigations 27, 2020. Torched acyrlic painting on canvas. 3in x 2in


The Exorcism of Sally Stein by Father Donald Blatty and Bob, Who’s Also There Stories by Chris Kok Artwork by Mary Mazziotti

It’s as if the weather knows of the horror happening in the house. Lightning strikes the air above it; thunder shakes its foundations. A howling wind makes the bay windows rattle in their frames. Rain lashes the shingles, seemingly trying to wash them away and drown every cursed creature below. Despite a roaring fire in the hearth and candles on every surface, the bedroom is freezing cold. On the bed, wrists and ankles shackled to the posts, lies Sally. She writhes, releasing a constant stream of expletives and vomit. Inside her is a demon, fighting to keep its hold. Father Blatty, an aging priest, sprinkles holy water and recites a constant stream of Latin, fighting to coax the demon out. Sitting in a corner, checking his work phone for messages, is Sally’s husband Bob. “You’re doing great, hon’, just keep

breathing, okay?” he says. The whole thing reminds him of the Lamaze class Sally dragged him to, the last time she had something living inside her. “Shut up, you motherless whore!” the demon replies. Or Sally does. It’s not always clear, these days. “Father,” says Bob, flicking a chunky blob of bile off his cardigan, “how much longer is this going to take?” “We may be here a while, Bob,” says Father Blatty, wearily. He makes the sign of the cross, more in Bob’s direction than Sally’s, then moves to the side table to leaf through a large ancient-looking tome. The book appears to be bound in someone’s face. “It’s just that I have a meeting at seven, so I could really use a good night’s sleep.” “Bob,” says Sally, turning her head a dis 21

turbing amount of degrees to face him, “can we please focus on me for once? I’m the one possessed by a demon, here.” “Well, obviously this is harder on you than it is on me, but that doesn’t mean my feelings are entirely irrelevant.” “Right now they kind of are, Bob!” “Fine. Okay,” says Bob, holding up his hands in surrender. “No need to bite my head off.” “Alright, I’m ready,” says Father Blatty. He pulls a massive silver crucifix from a cloth bag and offers it to Bob. “Hold this,” he says. “You know I’m Jewish?” “Just hold it, Bob.” Bob takes the cross. “Jesus Christ, this thing’s heavy.” Father Blatty sighs, then takes his position at Sally’s side. “Come forth, demon, and be cast out,” he 22

says. As he speaks, the lights grow dim. An unearthly wail emanates from Sally’s throat. “Come forth, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Release this woman.” Sally’s thrashing grows more violent as her wail reaches ear-splitting levels. Blatty meets its intensity. “I command you! In the name of God Almighty! Return to the darkness from whence you came! Begone, demon! Begone Satan! Begone!” The wail climaxes, then cuts out. Sally stops thrashing. The demon speaks through her. “I’m not going.” “Be—!” “No. Look... Please?” The lights grow brighter, and the weather appears to be clearing up. Blatty, holy water at the ready, pauses. “What?”

“I’m saying please. Okay? It’s just that I really like this woman.” “She does not belong to you, demon. In the name—” “I know, I know, all I’m saying is, I’ve had such a good time inside her. Sally is really cool. She’s funny and smart, and she’s got me into kale in a huge way. Also, I love going to work with her. Acting is such a fascinating job! Her friends are super supportive. And to be perfectly honest, it’s really nice to have a good figure for once. As someone who eats a lot of souls and hates going to the gym with a passion, let me tell you, it—” “She’s not yours, demon,” says Bob, getting up from his chair, his attention finally caught. “She’s mine!” “She’s not either of ours, Bob, she’s her own person. As such, she can make up her own mind about who she lets inside of her. Her

body, her choice.” “Thanks, Oxaquitotl,” Sally’s voice says, “That is all so nice to hear.” “You’re welcome.” Blatty puts down the holy water, grabs a cigarette, and lights up. Bob’s arms start to shake from the weight of the cross. “But to be perfectly honest,” Sally continues, “I can’t deal with all this vomiting and cursing. I mean, quite so much of it. It makes for very awkward dinner parties.” “I can stop all that. For you, I’ll be good.” Despite the late hour, sunshine streams through the windows, bathing them all in a warm light. Birdsong fills the quiet, and the smell of bile is replaced by that of freshly baked sourdough. “Well...” “Honey, are you insane? You can’t honestly be considering letting this monster live 23

inside of you?” “It’s not a monster, Bob, it’s a demon. And it seems like a nice dude.” Bob lowers the crucifix. “Well, I won’t have it,” he says, panting from the strain. “You hear me? I forbid it.” The lights dim once more, and the temperature drops dramatically. The birds appear to hold their breath as the rancid smell returns. “You what?” says Sally. “Typical Bob,” says the demon. “Honey, I love you, but you don’t forbid me shit.” “Excuse me, folks?” says Father Blatty. Sally and Bob look over at him. “What do you want to do here? In or out? I’m fine either way, but if we’re done, I’d like to get home.” Bob ignores the priest. He lets the crucifix fall and approaches the bed. “Sally. Honey. Come on. Don’t you think 24

you’re being just a tad unreasonable?” Sally’s eyes narrow to slits. “Fuck you, Bob. I’m keeping him. Father, you can untie me now.” Father Blatty extinguishes his cigarette in the bowl of holy water and unties Sally’s restraints. While Sally stretches and wipes vomit off her chin, Blatty collects his things. “Alright, well, let me know if you change your mind. I’ll send you my bill. I will have to charge you again if I come back, of course.” “Thank you, Father,” says Sally, in a mixture of her own voice and that of the demon. Father Blatty leaves, muttering and shaking his head. “Well,” says Bob, “I’m going to bed. You can clean up this mess yourself. “Bob, wait.” He halts, turns back to his wife, her arms open. He sighs. They’ve been married for over a

decade. Don’t sweat the small stuff, right? Besides, maybe welcoming a third entity into their relationship wouldn’t be the worst thing. If Oxa-whatever gets a job, Bob could spend some more time on the golf course. He smiles and walks over to hug his wife and her demon. When he does, she unhinges her jaw, shoves his entire head in her mouth, and bites it off. 1. A Day in the Life of Death 2. Death Wakes Up and Takes a Shower 3. Death Feeds His Cat 4. Death Waits for the Bus and Kills Someone 5. Death Tells a Joke at Work 6. Death Goes to the Dentist 7. Death Kills His Cabdriver 8. Death Tries to Get a Date from the series A Day in the Life of Death, 2015 Hand embroidery on textile 13in x 16in x .5in (continues next page) 25

The King’s Band

The queen loved music, so the king started a band. The group, given the somewhat unwieldy name King Dennis & The Throne Room Three, was to be the best in the kingdom. By royal decree. To ensure that no gathered band of bards ever outshone the royal rockers, an enforcement committee was formed and supplied with a key to the well-stocked armory. As a result, the group instantly became the only band in the land. Many of the musicians who’d lost their jobs (but were graciously allowed to keep their heads) found temporary refuge in the king’s group. However, a subclause of the decree stated that no member’s prowess could eclipse that of their frontman. King Dennis being entirely bereft of musical talent, each of the Throne Room Three was repeatedly replaced (after being repeatedly stabbed). It made learning the material quite difficult. As did the complete lack of sense that any of the king’s compositions made. They were never in any particular key or meter, or identifiable form. Meandering and atonal (not to mention long, so, so long), the pieces formed wet noodle-like foundations for the king’s lyrics. These were even worse than the music. In some parts, so simplistic and cliched they could have been written by a twelve-year-old, in others, they were the kind of rambling, pretentious, incomprehensible dribble that could 26

have been written by a seventeen-year-old. Each night, the queen inquired after the band’s progress. Each night, the king would reply that rehearsals were going swimmingly. Then he’d spend an hour or two convincing himself that this was true, before drifting off into a troubled sleep. On the day of the band’s debut, the entire kingdom filled the palace courtyard and surrounding fields, cheering, waving, throwing underwear onto the stage, and flying banners with sexually suggestive slogans. Their presence as well as their enthusiasm were, of course, on palace orders. The queen sat in a front-row seat, flanked by guards and ladies in waiting. She was nervous, but also excited. What with all the beheadings, it had been a while since she’d attended a concert. She hoped with all her heart that her king’s band would be good. She wasn’t sure what she’d do if it wasn’t. To thunderous mandatory applause, The Throne Room Three took to the stage. The bass player whispered vague instructions to their new drummer; the previous one had been strangled, drawn, quartered, set on fire, and replaced only minutes earlier when his warmup exercises proved a bit too impressive for the king’s taste. The concert began. Playing the finest instruments in the kingdom, built by the most talented craftsmen, the band got a sort of

groove going. Or at least, they all started playing something. Roughly at the same moment. In each other’s vicinity. After thirty agonizing seconds of this, King Dennis emerged from the wings, wearing only a pair of black leather thongs, and his crown. Fireworks exploded in the night sky. The crowd went involuntarily wild. Dennis stalked across the stage, basking in the obligatory admiration with the kind of misplaced confidence only royalty can manage. Sufficiently riled up, he suddenly pounced on the microphone like a panther in heat. The band stumbled into mostly silence, to allow the king’s opening growl all the space he had contractually demanded. The crowd fell quiet, suddenly curious. Maybe the guy could actually sing? The king breathed in, found his queen in the audience, and... Nothing. As Dennis watched hope battle fear in

the queen’s eyes, he found himself unable to produce a single sound. Disappointing her suddenly seemed not only possible but inevitable, as a lifetime’s worth of suppressed self-doubt, insecurity, and fear washed over him, crushing his windpipe and smothering his voice. A tense silence lay on the courtyard, as an entire kingdom held its breath. The band members panicked. How could they play worse than not at all? This was a disaster. The king was going to go mental. It was surely the end of all music in the kingdom, not to mention the end of them having their heads anywhere near their bodies. Then, in a flash of inspiration, the guitarist slipped off his instrument and, with a giant swing, smashed it to pieces. A giant crash erupted from the speakers, followed by feedback and noise. The king whipped around to look at him. The surprise on his face quickly 27

turned into a grateful smile. He looked at the bass player, who got the hint and smashed his own guitar into his amplifier, creating another cacophonic blast. Finally, the drummer kicked over his kit and proceeded to shove his cymbals into his drums. The king followed suit. He picked up his microphone stand and beat it against the stage floor until it bent beyond recognition. When the destruction was complete, the band stood, panting and sweating in the static and squeals of the dying equipment. A roar of applause erupted from the crowd. Even Dennis could hear this was no forced enthusiasm. Considering the options, this had truly been the best outcome for everyone involved. The king looked at his queen, who was on her feet, a wide smile on her face, clapping along with everyone else. The king gathered his bandmates together. Arms around each other, they took a bow. 28

The next day, King Dennis broke up the band and tore up his decree. Slowly, music returned to the realm. A little while later, the king, having recently noticed the queen’s appreciation of a particular painting, called for an easel, some paints, and a list of artists who could stand to be taken down a peg.

9. Death Gets Take Out and Kills Some People 10. Death Does His Taxes 11. Death Has a Smoke and Massacres Thousands 12. Death Sleeps from the series A Day in the Life of Death, 2015 Hand embroidery on textile 13in x 16in x .5in

Requiem Poems by Verónica Jarrín Machuca Artwork by Maurice Moore



En la angustia del sueño llegó el caballo de sombra, altivo y lejano fantasma del tiempo que fue. Oscuro y fiel animal, crines salvajes que vuelan, canciones de amor que resuenan en el repique de sus cascos. Galope de música, corcel misterioso de ritmo y silencio, concierto y canción. Desaparece, muere, renace ya descansa en la orilla del Ganges, ya bebe de su fuente sagrada la música más antigua. Y solo las manos del viento acarician las huérfanas cuerdas de la guitarra.

In the anguish of dream comes the horse of shadow, a high and far-off fantasm of times that were. Dark and proud animal, wild flying mane, songs of love that resonate in his ringing brain. Gallop of music, mysterious steed of rhythm and silence, concert and song Disappears, dies, is reborn now exhausted in the mouth of the Ganges now reborn in its sacred font the most ancient music. And only the hands of the wind caress the orphan chords of the guitar.


Swag Surfin’, 2021. Ink on paper. 17in x 24in




Montaña gótica de agujas grises sobre la loma cubierta de bruma, abres la boca y dejas que entren los fieles tristes. Fuera, en la tarde espesa y oscura pasan las niñas, haces de luna. Risas y salmos ellas susurran, dejan atrás el aula muda. A la iglesia entran, cálido abrigo, templo y montaña, piedra y olvido.

Gothic mountain of grey needles above the hill covered with fog, you open your mouth and let the sad faithful ones enter. Outside, in the evening dense and dark the girls go by you play the moon. They whisper, laughs and psalms leave behind the mute classroom. They enter the church, warm coat, temple and mountain, stone and forgetting.

Next Page: Black American Sign Language (Remix feat. Swag Surfin’, ), 2021 Ink on paper. 19in x 24in


La Pedrera The Quarry



Rojo tórax, bóveda de costillas, acantilado tallado por las olas, cubierto con juguetones trocitos de nácar o escamas de peces de colores. Ventana escondida o burbuja de luz que preña la cueva. Guerreros de ajedrez coronan el techo de La Pedrera.

Red thorax, vault of ribs Steep cliff carved by the waves playful bits covered in nacre or scales of colored fish Hidden window or a bubble of light that impregnates the cave Chess warriors crown The roof of The Quarry.


Pam Grier, 2020 Ink on paper. 9in x 12in 34




Mi casa en el bosque, tan montaña, tan azul.

My house in the woods, so mountainous, so blue.

Quisiera poder recorrer calles iluminadas, llenas de ruido,

I wish I could run through bright, loud streets,

dar traspiés de madrugada, de un bar a otro, sin peligros.

stumble at dawn from one bar to another, without danger.

Conocer los colores ocultos de la noche,

Learn the hidden colors of the night from,

de las manos de dioses híbridos y enajenados,

from the hands of mad, hybrid gods,

entre estallidos de risas del mal.

between explosions of evil laughter.

Morder el viento y tener por almohada

Bite the wind and take for a pillow

mis brazos sudados, húmedos, cansados de ciudad.

my sweaty, damp arms, tired of the city.


La Sagrada Familia The Sacred Family




Colgando de la tierra hacia el turquesa del cielo, bosteza y llora la santa caverna.

Hooking the earth toward the turquoise sky, the holy cavern yawns and cries.

Máximo templo que lento mastica la historia sagrada.

Great temple slowly gnawing away at the sacred story

Troncos, raíces, manos y huesos preservan la fe en lo raramente bello.

Trunks, roots, hands and bones preserving the faith in rare beauty.

Toro Bravo (feat. Stop Animal Cruelty, Bull, Bovem), 2021 Ink on paper. 19in x 24in

Left: Toro Bravo (feat. Stop Animal Cruelty, Bull, Bovem), 2021 Ink on paper. 19in x 24in Wagwan, 2021 Ink on paper. 17in x 24in


Gabriel Soto Podcast Transcript Transcribed by Zoë Elena Moldenhauer

This podcast - A Guide to Art, Activism, & Culture - is brought to you by The Aerogramme Center for Arts and Culture. I am your host, Zoë Elena Moldenhauer. Today, I am sitting down with Chicago based artist, Gabriel Soto. Soto is a painter with an interest in psychedelic imagery, history, and esoteric spiritual practices. He graduated from The Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts with a BFA in 2017. Primarily focused on oil painting, Soto currently resides in Chicago, IL.

Note: The following transcript is an excerpt. To listen to the full episode visit, www.aerogramme.org/podcast. 38

Ep 4: Spatial Concepts


Gabriel! Thank you for joining me on our fourth episode of the podcast.



We had you on our Behind the Studios event which was more of an informal artist talk with our new Programs Coordinator, Isabel. Can you introduce yourself!


My name is Gabriel Soto. I am a painter, currently stationed in the Chicago suburbs. Currently in the process of moving to Maryland. I deal with vintage imagery, political propaganda, graphic design, and general ideas of abstract art and figurative art coming together in the painting.


And your exhibit at The Aerogramme Center is [was] on view until April 9, 2021. We’re excited for that as well that we get to have you twice to show you off. There was a lot of good questions that were raised during your artist talk with Isabel and I would like to continue those questions. A lot of people were interested about the decisions you make when working large scale. You said so yourself, in the artist talk, that it makes you feel bravado. That you get to put forth a lot of expression and how paintings have the ability to draw in space but also what does it do to the other paint

Pleasure to be here!

ings that are also on view. Can you share more of your thoughts? GS

Yeah, I mentioned the way a painting “sucks in” the space. And its something that I learned to think about as I trained in PAFA. They had us copy paintings that were set already in a gallery and it’s a way of thinking about a painting not just as an object but as the focal point of your attention when you’re in the gallery. A painting as a 2D image on the wall, unlike a sculpture or installation, the painter has to consider how that 2D image will command a space once it is on view. You have to ask, “From how far away will it grab your attention?” or “How intense will that attention be?” The painter has to consider those things and how the color, scale, or the general graphic contrast of the painting whether it be a classical painting or modernist painting. How it [the painting] will affect the room it is in. I actually talk about an example, Robert Ryman, who did mainly white on white paintings. When you put them on a white wall, they meld with the room they’re in. They become affected in a way that when you walk in and you’re seeing these paintings that don’t suck in the attention you have in the room, but rather, melt into your attention of the entire space. Your supposed to sit with


them and stay with them for a while before the reward of the paintings kicks in. As a contrast you have Mark Rothko whose paintings are more like black holes in the room. They don’t meld into it [the room] they create their own space that you can walk into. So as you stand in front of it [a Rothko], your attention goes to it as if your going into the corZM ner of another room, but it’s just a 2D surface. So that’s what I mean – ZM

Right –


Manipulating the space. That you’re working with a 2D form of art and you somehow have to make the 3D space around it be affected by it. And that’s a difficult thing to do.


What’s interesting is that so many of us, as artists, are working in our homes now because we can’t afford studio spaces. Part of your process is thinking about how the paintings are informed by the space, and the space informed by the painting. What are some of the expectations, if the end objective is to end up on a white wall? What happens if you realize, “Oh, this is really different” or “This isn’t what I had in mind.”


It is a disadvantage. I haven’t seen my paintings from far away, ever.


Right! -


I haven’t seen my paintings from more than five feet away! That really puts me



at a disadvantage because I don’t really know what my work is doing in the space. I really don’t. I know how they look like in a virtual space thanks to Aerogramme and thanks to having it on a screen, but how the actual object in the space behaves…I have no idea. I’m working blind. And you’re standing so close to it [the paintings] already because of how large you are working. A lot of people asked [from Behind the Studio event] about what informed size. After listening to you explain your influences, will you make the leap to murals? What’s stopping you from taking up the entirety of a wall? I have considered making murals before. I watched a documentary on Banksy when I was in Montgomery College eight years ago, and I always got interested in what those people used to paper, and wheat paste to post drawings on walls. And certainly, when I was living in Philadelphia, I would past by some streets and some walls would really be tempting. I could really see an image happening there, but the application process to do murals have always been a really Byzantine process to me. Even here in the neighborhood of Oak Park, there’s a whole process and competition to enter to make a mural. I always felt like that’s so much time and energy for something that I don’t even know is going to get accepted. So, I’ve always been kinda intimidated, but I would like to start applying.

Fallen into Kenoma, 2020 Oil on canvas. 60in x 48in 41


But also, just going ahead and putting something on. Don’t ask permission, just go, and put a wheat paste drawing up there! But, yeah…I’m a DACA recipient so if I get caught there goes my entire residency here. I would like to both complete a full-scale mural and certainty painting in its beginning was a mural practice from cave paintings to frescos. It has started as a mural painting practice, but I don’t know what’s in the future for me when it comes to public art. Mainly I do like the idea of large ZM object. Like a canvas or a panel. That’s

why I’ve been attracted to more unconventional materials like plywood or stuff like that for my future work. There’s something about the large object-ness of it that gives me an adrenaline rush. This feeling that I’m making something more monumental than just a normal painting. Again, that stands at odds with my studio practice where I have a small dinning room to paint in. I don’t know how I’m gonna work it, but I’ll figure something out. In seeing your presentation and hearing you talk, the discovery of putting an im-

age together by flipping it upside down, working on top, wiping away, and then going back and adding on top. Murals, because they have such a permanency to them, oil paintings have a different mindset and approach to them – GS

That’s not to say that a mural doesn’t have that quality. There’s an amazing painter that came to PAFA to do a lecture, she was an MFA graduate, and does frescoes with plaster on walls. She does a lot of mural installations, and I’m really regretting that I am forgetting her name right now, but she had this amazing classical-Italian technique of setting up the plaster on the wall and painting as much as she could in one day. Obviously, you can only work on it [plaster] when its wet. And at the end of the day, destroying what she didn’t like or destroying what she was not able to finish. She ended up creating this collage or jigsaw puzzle of abstract images that would be on a fresco wall. I thought she was absolutely genius.


You are trying to develop an artistic practice that’s both classical, but not classical. Modern, but also industrial creating this melding pot of these different time periods. Can you talk about what an artistic practice means to you? Especially with Instagram which is a way for artists to market and brand themselves, there is now this intense pressure to develop a specific style, or aesthetic.


Yeah, I’ve seen that trend. At PAFA there was this style of painting called

perceptual painting which is an American observational style of painting. It was lowkey pushed onto us…but I am glad that I didn’t keep that after graduating. It was kinda like a painful separation because when you have cognitive dissidence when you’re breaking with your training. I found Neo Raugh and other artists like him, purely by accident on a textbook that was given to me to pass around in a theory class that I was taking. I knew I wanted to gravitate towards that observational style. When I graduated, I still had this classical-American observational painting tradition that was very ingrained in my mind for a long time. I was trying to draw classically, but also include figures that would look like photos from a vintage collection or something like that. Kinda like going into the drawings I made, prior to the paintings I showed at Aerogramme…and there is definitely pressure on students to paint a certain way. Its both messed up, but its also an occupational hazard that comes with the territory of learning from another artist. The student somehow needs to reinforce the belief that they are an individual and not their teacher’s prodigy. That being said, there’s nothing wrong with allowing yourself to be derivative for a while. I consider the work I made for Aerogramme to be derivative from Neo Rauch and other painters from the Leipzig School. I specifically started this series to see what I could learn from Neo Rauch’s earlier works and I feel like by copying


some of his strategies, I learned about my own personal style which is still developing. Ultimately, my style is going to change and that’s a good thing. You want it to change. We shouldn’t want to bog ourselves down with a specific style or strategy or visual concept when we’re really young. Like in your thirties or forties even. I still consider myself a long way from making the work I feel is truly originally mine. I see it as a long and winding path that I’m just starting to walk. ZM

Traditionally, artists are taught to copy other artists works and there’s this call back to academia by incorporating parts of that into your study.



I went an arts high school, and my teacher was a portrait and observational painter. Every student in my class aimed to be someone who could paint realistically. Now I don’t do that work, but it’s really hard to figure out what abstraction means to someone who spent four plus years trying to make it [portrait/ figurative painting] interesting. I realized I didn’t have the ability to story tell in that way.


And that’s actually something similar to my conflicts with the classical training I had. I would be doing these figures and some kind of narrative always cropped up and I always wanted my work to be empty of narrative. I wanted it to be more of a diagrammatic repre-


sentation of an idea, rather than a story. I always go so frustrated because I would look at my paintings and some form of narrative would always form. It’s like you’re killing cockroaches, it always comes back! For me, I wanted to stay as far away from narrative as possible and that’s one of the main reasons why I try to step back from classicism. It was designed to create stories.

Every artist is copied.

Image 1: NAJ WALTEN, 2021 Oil and Glue on Canvas. 49” x 49” Image 3: DAFOND, 2020 Oil on Canvas. 48” x 60”

Working Line, 2020 Oil on canvas. 60in x 48in 45

Scuba Squad and The Fermion Boy, 2020 Oil on canvas. 60in x 48in

Beyond Borders Poems by Yu-Hsuan Wu Artwork by Jeffrey Q. Guanlao

No one single road imagines an end faraway as if one end can never perceive any road leading to the civilized inland, or a cemetery Every present moment dwells in the present moment not to realize that oneself has become a road an end, or a place faraway which is far more difficult to name Expel imaginations let them go even farther each turn can oversee beyond borders At a place like that leaves will not feel chilly while falling down the ground drenches and dries crevice is replete with time, and its corpses all lives turn quietly around taking every loss as if day and night come across 48

Aloneness and Sadness, 2021 Black-work and line artwork. 9in x 12in



Doorway Into Dark Visions, 2021 Black-work and line artwork. 9in x 12in

Stare at

The street still ignores every dawn no one goes ahead to stop their own growth It is weary of crying still bringing people back to dawn continuing to grow from the previous day Crying serves merely as a useless weapon It is weary of people repeatedly manipulating those useless weapons shooting toward the sky It considers, if it is impossible to shoot across dawn then growth will continue to move toward the useless Only by standing against the light bursting into the polar night can people recover the meaning of crying


The Deer In the Road

All dead. Whose call did they hastily heed? forgetting a flat road is worse than a shotgun no one up there thinks about massacre Whose call do innocent amblers hear like a bullet fired top speed the road ricochets A deer falls without a sound a deer evaporates in a heartbeat


Even the Wise and Good Are Crying, 2021 Black-work and line artwork. 9in x 12in



Awakening Suddenly It cannot tell whether the power of leaping comes from struggle or defense? When its claws protrude into the earth covered by fallen dust It suddenly feels like crying wondering how thick the dust is wondering whether or not it has fathomed the ages of being besieged that make it learn to defend the chain held by its master



Hearing from a Distant Loved One, 2021 Black-work and line artwork. 9in x 12in

Playtime Before Hardships, 2021 Black-work and line artwork. 9in x 12in



Plot quickly passes through the birth canal without making any noise revealing pains Those who call me sibling are sincerer than me with no more hesitation they become what they are now When we stand side by side squeeze one another we mutely cheer the younger brother has stretched the older sister the older brother is no more extraordinary than the younger sister it makes no difference whether we become even more diligent, or even more sluggish we still prop the earth up together and never see the sun and sky anymore No one loves to see us diverging from the eternal revealing a thread of sincerity we just pass down the pointless plot from generation to generation this world is too deaf to hear our pains and cheers 58


The Other House Written by Scotia Gilroy Artwork by Cheolyu Kim

Katya’s father came home from work at six o’clock every evening. First his silver Mercedes would appear in the deep green gloom of the driveway, then a trouser leg would flash from the driver’s side, then there he was – tall, gaunt and funereal in his immaculate suit, leather briefcase in one hand, emerging into the vast hallway of the family home. Sometimes I caught a glimpse of him from the window of Katya’s second-floor bedroom. Katya never bothered going down to greet him, since nobody could speak to him for an hour or two after he came home from work: he was in a business trance. Katya told me his mind was probably dulled from the routine in his office, numbed by meetings and repetitive conversations. If she, her siblings or their mother spoke to him after he arrived home, he would give them a glassy stare. One day, I was at Katya’s house after school. As usual, we were upstairs in her bedroom, cracking jokes and laughing like banshees. She was showing me photos of all her classmates in last year’s yearbook and making sarcastic remarks about each of them. Then she looked at the clock: six-thirty. My dad’s late getting home from work, she said. 60

Is there a reason to worry about that? I asked. Yes. Come on. We have to go get him. I didn’t know what she meant by go get him, but Katya began to explain while we jammed our feet into our shoes in the hallway and headed out the door. Her brother and sister already had their shoes on and were a few steps ahead of us, rushing down the driveway. It turned out that once in a while, when Katya’s dad came home from work, he would go to the wrong house – the one next door. That house had been abandoned for several decades. Its front door was falling off its hinges, the floor was rotting through, the rooms were full of dust and cobwebs. Nonetheless, Katya’s dad would enter just as confidently as if he were walking into his own house and wouldn’t notice any difference as he settled in for the evening. We have to get him before he’s too settled in, said Katya, because he’ll get covered in filth. We don’t like it when he tracks spiderwebs into our house. The house next door smelled foul. We made our way past rotten planks and scraps of mouldy wallpaper lying curled up on the floor. We found him in the living room, sitting in a tattered armchair. His shoes were off and he

Odyssey, Midsummer Day’s Dream 2, 2020. Pen on birch wood panel. 15in x 15in x 4

was leaning back as comfortably as if he were in his own home, in his own armchair. Oh, hello, he said, as we all walked in. Nice to see you. Then he said, pointing to a huge dead rat lying on the windowsill, Thanks for ironing my suit. I’ll wear it to work tomorrow. I glanced at Katya, but she didn’t seem at all upset by the situation. She was staring at her dad with a marble-firm expression of determination on her face. Come on, Dad, Katya said. Let’s go. With well-rehearsed movements, Katya

and her siblings hoisted their father up and half-carried, half-prodded him towards the decaying doorway. As we trudged together back to their house, Katya’s father glanced back towards the abandoned house with what seemed, to me, like a fleeting expression of longing and regret.


The Train Taking Me Away From You

The morse code of strangers’ glances, rumblings in the depths, the touch of glass and steel. Hearts wrapped in plastic and resting somewhere far from here, a shredding of memories with every passing moment. No more illusions of grandeur for my aching heart. A sideways smile seen by no one. Someone’s lost words are found by the wayside: I struggle to carve my name on some of them as they flash by.

Midnight in Lafayette St., 2020. Pen on birch wood panel. 47.6in x 23.6in 62

The Empty House

The nausea of butterflies is intense today the hours explode like bombs the hours slide away like water across a sheet of glass this empty house swallows us and spits us out in a single spasm it swallows us and promises the realization of our dreams it spits us out and proclaims the demolition of our dreams the hours bury me softly I can already see the once-sharp images begin to dissipate the nausea of butterflies is intense in the darkness of afternoon and in this empty house we try to ensnare that painfully beautiful moment between the appearance and disappearance of everything 63


sometimes they just stare at her blankly as if pointed in her direction only because they have to be, because that’s what people do, they look at someone when they’re spoken to these eyes that used to spill over with love for her they shone out to her in her darkest hours like a lighthouse beacon slicing through the night sometimes she hates him for muffling those eyes for building this strange wall that hides the light which she’s sure is still there, somewhere, shining just for her


Message from Nowhere 3, 2020. Pen on paper. 8.2in x 15.7in

Message From Nowhere 2, We Are All Connected, 2020. Pen on birch wood panel. 48in x 21.6in


Midnight in Down Town, Journey to Nowhere #72, 2020. Pen on paper. 51.5in x 24in



Volume 1 Issue 4 Curated, edited, and published by The Aerogramme Center for Arts and Culture Copyright © 2021 The Aerogramme Center Reproduction in whole or part is prohibited, except by permission of the publisher. ISSN 2767-9691 (print) ISSN 2767-9683 (online) Designed by The Aerogramme Center for Arts and Culutre Edited by Zoë Elena Moldenhauer Proof-reading by Isabel Pardo

@aerogrammearts www.aerogramme.org

Back image: My Linh Mac, Irrigrations 18, 2020. Torched acrylic painting on canvas. 3in x 2in

Elizabeth Bruce

Chris Kok

Ira Joel Haber

Mary Mazziotti

Lily Holloway

Verónica Jarrín Machuca

My Linh Mac

Maurice Moore


Gabriel Soto Yu-Hsuan Wu Jeffrey Q. Guanlao Scotia Gilroy Cheolyu Kim