aavent ventzine zine ISSUE TWO AUTUMN 2017
A POETIC AND VISUAL EXPLORATION
contributors Aaron Ross Alexis Campbell-Bannerman Annie Forrester Benjamin Burns Cara Kursh Charlotte Howson Chris Somers Ciarรกn MacArtain Dervla Baker Doytcheva Helio Leon Jessie Hopkins Joris Tissot Lara Curran Mary Wetland Matthew Moynihan Miranda Stern Morgane Malapert Steven Bachmayer
Jonathan Crean Oriane Duboz
welcome Dear Reader, You have in front of you the second edition of A VENT ZINE, and this issue is all about Fever. Fever can take on many forms, and that’s why it’s such a fascinating topic. Though protean in its meaning, it’s certain that we have all experienced some shade of fever at some point in our lives. We would like to take this opportunity to thank all of the artists who have contributed to this issue. We are extremely grateful that you shared your Fever with us. And as always, thank you readers, we sincerely hope you find something in here that speaks to you. Let’s turn up the heat. Stay safe out there, Jonathan & Oriane AVZ
To submit your work email aventzine@gmail.com above Illustration "Saturday Night Fever" by Morgane Malapert (facebook.com/crocmo22)
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top “Wildfire”, Oregon Sept. 2017 // 35mm film & above "Pussy, A Gay Bar in Zona Rosa" Mexico City, April 2012 // 35mm film by Miranda Stern marshlandsandoysters.tumblr.com
left Inks and encaustic paint “Easy Does It” by Chris Somers facebook.com/afriction/
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Bowie, David Bowie By Alexis A.C. Bannerman I’ve plenty of time for this post-war baby boy or girl it's all a maybe. Sort of melancholic his colour was bucolic wobbly voice wasn’t his choice. It was kind of a fluke the thin white Duke peppers and cocaine my fevered Brain it’s all the same, and what really sets the others free is his androgyny no muscles on his chest made him the best. Glitter Bitter Zig Zag Stardust. Not boring, never whoring His Art. ...
facebook.com/AlexisACBArt/
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Spread by Annie Forrester (@an_na_mar) this page “ Fever” Illustration & Image overleaf “Caravan” Image Edit
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Image “120mm” by Oriane Duboz
Fever Benjamin Burns When my head is on fire I cry for help: ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ The effort presses my brain against the inside of my skull. Flames lick at my scalp. The wait is agony. She arrives with a teaspoon of calpol and a cold flannel. Another dose of Love administered. ...
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Guilt Lara Curran My teeth come hurtling through the sky towards me. Molars ready to molest my skull into tiny pieces. Incisors intent on my demise. Gathering speed, I watch in horror as flecks of spit fly from smooth enamel, Taking out birds who pass through the slipstream. My feet are held in place, as though waiting for the alginate to set. I anticipate the crushing sound of impact, The rumble of their fast approach is in my ears, And then, to my delight and horror, My teeth only shatter themselves - they are rotten, so they crumble. ...
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Image “Legs” by Aaron Ross
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Sisyphus Push Mary Wetland Powdered delights crest on glass neatly ordered. Controlled. Brilliant. HsgrhnSSSSnnnnhrgh Left. - I. Me. Haven’t I told you about Me? Do you ever think about the futility of it all but then it recedes so who cares? Tight, swiss rolled notes. Numb. Dab. Blood. Gums. Eyes widen. Prosper. Sniff sniff. - Nippy out ...
Image “Cabra Daze” by Jonathan
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FESTIVAL FEVER Words and Images by Dervla Baker
Scenes from Electric Picnic 2017. The waste in its full extent is rarely seen by people who are not involved in the production of these festivals, and some are under the illusion that there are procedures put in place to sort through this mess. This is not the case. We all need to take responsibility. ...
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MARCH 2017 Matthew Moynihan
In memory of the Tuam Babies
What need we, now come to sense, But stumble through the murky fill, And add the blindness to the faith And prayer to shivering prayer, until We’ve drawn the marrow from the bone For baby’s names, we pray with faith: Catholic Ireland’s dead and gone, It’s with those babies in the grave.
Yet they were of a different kind, The Saints that stilled your sinful play, They’ve swept around your bed like wind, But little life have they but faith For you the hangman’s rope was spun, And what, God help you, could they save? Catholic Ireland’s dead and gone, It’s with those babies in the grave.
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Was it for this those women kneeled Shame staining as they cried: For this that all that blood was shed, For this Savita died? Case X - Case YAll that the fever of the brave? Catholic Ireland’s dead and gone, It’s with those babies in the grave. Yet we can’t raise those dead again, And call those exiles as they were, In all their loneliness and pain, They cried for their Mother’s fading grasp As maddened collars choir a-gaze: Catholic Ireland’s dead and gone, It’s with those babies in the grave. ...
Image “35mm” by Oriane Duboz 18
Charlotte Howson England
Charlotte’s work focuses on the balancing of colours, pattern and material to imitate that of the natural world around us; often sourcing sustainable and natural alternatives to create her growing body of work. She enjoys sharing her creative endeavours through art workshops and often collaborates with galleries to bring about free marbling sessions whilst at university, spreading creative FEVER to those who wouldn’t usually participate in art.
“These pieces are made by floating a mixture of oil paints and white spirit on the surface of water, formally known as marbling. It is a therapeutic and experimental art form which creates abstract results, often reflecting your current mood in a mixture of pattern and colour.”
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Illustration “Dolphin Brains” by Steve Bachmayer instagram.com/steve_bachmayer/
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A Kindling Cara Kursh I spit fire from the pyres of alters I'm unaware of. in my belly flames grow and bloat they spit up to the top and cling to my throat. As I gulp them up, I let them bowl over me, like waves before they break, left fuming and swelling. I'm unfurling up into some sort of a gathering, As a blind lightning strike has struck the core of me While time spirals, i grow in spirals Gathering them like moss as I roll over myself figuring which bit sticks and which I can imprint and paint the earth from this intricate template. I'm still unaware of the fabric that embalms me i weave my beliefs into soft silk that is always ripping and now I sit outside the cloth I once relied on looking at it as if on a fence below it, sitting in a wistful bliss. Whatever this shape has created in me, I will cradle it with the love of a mother. For I am all I can be as I believe in the soft swaying of the currents meander. ...
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Image “Untitled” by Annie Forrester (@an_na_mar)
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Joris Tissot France instagram.com/joristissot/
A tribute or jealousy of his peers, Joris Tissot combines the sacredness of the Renaissance, the aesthetics of 19th-century academism, the surrealist staging of the XXth century, and the subjects and customs of contemporary culture.
“rorschach” - ink, molotov and acrylic on paper, 1.2 x 2.3m
“Dante and Virgile” or “come on get down with the sickness” - bic pencil, ink on paper, 24 x 32 cm
"Men without her" - Bic pencil, ink and molotov on paper - 45 x 60 cm
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Inks and encaustic paint “The Mothers Ruin” by Chris Somers facebook.com/afriction/
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Image series 1 & 2 by Doytcheva All pictures taken in Chamonix, French Alps instagram.com/doytcheva doytcheva@mail.ru
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Jessie Hopkins Ireland @jhopkinsprints
The study of oneself is at the heart of this photographic mini series by Jessie Hopkins. These images are part of an ongoing series by the Dublin based visual artist entitled Girl Body.
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I made these works performatively, exploring the truth of just being in this body, with ideas of feminine identity and the subversion of the self and the gaze in mind. "Fever" is a fire in oneself, getting lost in the process of art making and unleashing the monster within that we try so hard to contain, taking back the ideals of feminine beauty and replacing them with a madness found through getting lost.�
this page top to bottom girl body #1, #2, #3 overleaf Untitled 2017
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Tools of Retraction CiarĂĄn MacArtain
I have left parts of myself All over this town And I’m not sure the sweat that I spent In cleaning them up Was worth the energy it took To generate the sweat. I think next time I will leave them there Untidy and unfinished But alive. And part ways with bit part definitions of selfhood In the context of a moment. And release my ego From the stronghold of impression. Comfort my fevered mind without confession. You are not perpetually on view. The eyes you feel Are the eyes you use. Gently draw the curtains To the inside margins of the window; The pane the gazes penetrate.
To intensify the quality of light Pouring through and In action, dissipate. You are not perpetually on view Those eyes you feel Are the eyes you use. To create an audience in your head And with the instincts of performance Keep them well fed On insecurity’s fevered breath. Pouring under pressure Raining on a moment To relieve a weight That you convinced yourself was there. Exercise to endure Filling a sacred space with noise Pouring pretence on the pure I’m sorry I clouded those clear moments of yours. Though it knows us not And exists without us, You had input,
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I had input But my input it won’t do So I’ll work with my tools To mould satisfaction From an aftermath of discontent. Tools of expression That give hours of labour To tools of retraction. Earfuls of words Voiced in a tremble Cigarette butts and empty glasses Shoe prints on the carpet Fingerprints on a swinging door Caesars thumb on a light switch. Somewhere between exposed palm And clenched fist I stumble.
I have said nothing And I am sorry. I apologise And I have said nothing.
Breath-hold Breakpoint Miranda Stern The soft murky opaque water under foot I fill my lungs slowly in preparation for a descent and I swim with my eyes closed toward the unknown depth till my ears begin to feel pressure and ache A moment suspended complete submersion/immersion in liquid silence and stillness an awareness of presence feeling and thought a sensory depravation (nobreath/nosight/nosound) and finally an ascension toward the surface I open my eyes to gauge the distance for a moment the urge to breathe hurts at the breath-hold breakpoint I panic When I think of losing myself in you. ...
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Image series “Marilyn and the Kraken” by Helio Leon
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