HIPNIK
J A N U A R Y ‘ 2 5
HIPNIK
WELCOME TO ISSUE ONE.. TO KRISSY THANKS FOR EVERYTHING YOU ALWAYS KEPT ME CREATING TO EVERYONE ELSE THANKS FOR BEING HERE. I LOVE YOU ALL.
-DAVID
HIPNIK
HIPPIE BEATNIK HIPNIK
PLAYING IT COOL BEING COOL CREATING COOL
THANKS FOR NOTHING, NANCY REAGAN
AARON LEIDECKER
TOO FLY/CALL ON ME
IAN BLACK
SNIFF
JAY BURNS
GOLDFINCH
DAVID THOMAS JR.
FEATURED ARTIST
SARA BRESLIN
IF THESE HANDS COULD TALK
LISAMARIE
SAVIOR
ANDERSYN COSTA
ARTIST BIOS
MEET THE CONTRIBUTERS
SPECIAL THANKS
APPRECIATE YOU
NEXT MONTHS THEME
HOW TO SUBMIT
“PHOTO
AARON LEIDECKER
THANKS FOR NOTHING, NANCY REAGAN
THANKS FOR NOTHING, NANCY REAGAN
On the morning of the 1989 Annual May breakfast, at William H. Dunphy Elementary School, Gaylord McNab was whacked, with great force, in the face with a cafeteria tray. This wasn’t the first altercation between him and Amanda Klebler, but it was certainly the most aggressive.
McNab sat there on the floor as blood ran down onto his Garfield shirt that stated, “I Hate Mondays.” One would argue that even Garfield didn’t hate Mondays as much as Gaylord did this particular Monday. McNab already had it rough considering his first name was Gaylord. It doesn’t matter how progressive my fifth-grade class would grow up to be, in the late 80’s this was not the name one wanted to have. It was already a pejorative term used to insult someone. In this era, calling someone a “gaylord” and wishing ill will or sexual interaction with someone’s mother were the top ways to get under someone’s skin. McNab had it rough, and I felt bad for him. Amanda came back the next morning, free from any kind of discipline aside from staying after school to bang erasers, an archaic punishment from when chalkboards decorated the classrooms, that was often designated to those who were a constant disruption in class.
That same morning, Gaylord McNab got caught with a joint he’d pilfered from his dad’s dresser drawer. He was immediately expelled. My fifth-grade year took place during the height of the “war on drugs” campaign led by Nancy Reagan that aimed to discourage children from engaging in illegal recreational drug use by offering the three words that served as the title to the campaign: “Just Say No.” You would be better off getting caught with a machete in your backpack than you would a narcotic. There was nothing worse than the act of doing a drug, or so they made it seem.
“There was nothing worse than the act of doing a drug, or so they made it seem.”
The week after McNab took a tray to the face, a top-heavy police officer burst into the classroom, interrupting cursive practice, with a briefcase and a shopping bag. He placed the briefcase on the desk and threw the plastic bag on the floor.
“Ms. Emmit, my name is Officer Anthony DeLorenzo. I’m going to need to take over your class. I have something important to discuss with your students.”
Our teacher, Ms. Emmit, looked like Demi Moore and had a tranquility about her. Then, I thought she was a mean old witch. I never noticed that she must have been only in her early 20’s. She stood up and gave the officer a knowing wink. This was obviously not some surprise classroom hijack; this was planned. Maybe the sense of urgency was meant to create a sense of drama, making us give Officer DeLorenzo our undivided attention? Who knows? Who cares? It worked. Classmates stared at one another wondering what this giant of a man wanted with us.
Officer DeLorenzo had an accent that some could identify as New Jersey working class. It was especially non-rhotic even for New England. Some thought it sounded tough, while people like me couldn’t focus on anything but, what looked like, pieces of popcorn kernels that kept escaping from his mouth onto the desk as he began his spiel.
“Boys and girls, I am Officer DeLorenzo,” he said with his hands positioned like he was holding a watermelon.
“I am a member of a team of officers who are part of the D.A.R.E. Program. D.A.R.E. stands for Drug Abuse Resistance Education. Each highly trained officer will be going to different schools to speak to students, much like yourselves, about the dangers of drug use. Now…has anyone here ever done drugs or watched someone do drugs?” the officer asked.
We were all at the age where we had all seen enough “very special” episodes of television sitcoms to know that anyone who did drugs was bad and would, obviously, need to go to jail.
Even if we had banged lines at recess or watched our parents parade around the house in a zombie-like state high on xylazine, we weren’t going to fess up to a cop. We sat there quietly pretending we never heard of these “drugs” the officer spoke of.
“You,” he said pointing at me. “What would you do if someone came up to you on the playground and offered you cocaine?”
“I would say no, I never touch the stuff,” I answered back knowing I had the right answer.
“And then?” he asked.
“Um….I’d say no again?” I felt this was a ruse and he was trying to trick me into admitting something.
“You RUN,” he said slamming his fist on the desk. “You scream NO, and you run to get an adult.”
Looking back now, two thoughts come to mind. The first is scoring cocaine is never going to be this easy. One usually has to know someone who knows a guy who has a roommate who has a sister that dates a guy who knows someone who sells and is not an undercover cop. It’s a process. There’s no one going around selling cocaine to strangers, let alone children, like they are some sort of ice cream pusher man. Second, most adults would have told me to take them to this drug dealer. Not to turn them in, but to buy an eight ball. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a small packet of white powder.
“THIS is cocaine,” he said with his neck trying to protrude away from his shoulders. It can kill you in less than five seconds.
Holding the bag of nose candy in the air, he stared at us with a look that said we knew what he was talking about, and we did. By that time, we had all heard about Len Bias, a 1986 second overall NBA draft pick who, two days after being picked by the Boston Celtics, died from doing cocaine for the first time. With my luck, that would have been me. Dead on the first sniff.
“You’re walking in the playground. You see two punks smoking but it doesn’t smell like your grandma’s house,” he said quickly. “This smoke smells different. It might smell something like this,” he said as he put the cocaine back and took a little green nugget from the briefcase and began to burn it. What is this goddamn guy even doing?
“Smell that?” asked Officer DeLorenzo. “That’s marijuana. On the streets it’s called pot. You smell that, you run and tell an adult who will call us, and we will put them in jail.”
He sounded like he really wanted to be a nononsense sergeant. All I could do was compare him to McGruff, the crime dog. The way he only spoke in words like “punks” and “the streets.” was beyond parody. It smelled a little but certainly not what I would later find out pot smelled like, years later, while attending a John Mellencamp concert. We sat silent. I wondered where he got all that yayo.
After he had showed us cocaine, pot, little stamps of LSD, and described all the effects which, to a young kid whose only adventure in life so far was pretending to be a Goonie searching for treasure where I know there isn’t any, he asked for any questions. Amanda raised her hand.
You never brought up cigarettes or beer, are those ok?” she asked as everyone’s hands went over their mouths to hide the laughter.
“You know what, miss?” asked Officer DeLorenzo with annoyance. “Nobody likes a smartass.”
I did like a smartass.
I always thought it be better to be a smartass then it was to be a dumbass which this guy certainly was. During his spiel, he actually had brought up both cigarettes and beer but glossed over them quickly. It was probably because he consumed both in the cruiser before coming to our class.
He reached down and opened the mysterious plastic bag that sat on the floor the entire time we looked at eight balls of cocaine and got headaches from whatever he was burning.
“We have shirts for you all,” Officer DeLorenzo said as he held up a black shirt that, in red letters, said “D.A.R.E.” Just underneath it, were the words “To Keep Kids Off Drugs.” This was the best part of the afternoon. To this day I love free merch.
That night I took a black sharpie to my shirt and, the next morning, proudly walked into class with my new shirt that read “D.A.R.E. To Keep Kids Off rugs.”
“You’re so much of a Joker, you should have been in Batman,” Ms. Emmit said before sending me down to the principal.
“Just Say No” may have sounded simple, but life’s challenges are anything but.
Less than two decades later, four of my fellow students from that class were dead from substance abuse. Molly overdosed on cocaine in her high school bathroom during her homecoming dance. Mike was found by his dad in his childhood bedroom with a needle in his arm. This is almost the same way Rich was found only it was by his wife in their den. Fred was found in the back seat of his car with nips of Jack Daniels having choked on his own vomit much like his hero, original AC/DC singer, Bon Scott. I don’t remember them telling us too much about alcohol except not to drink while driving. That’s kind of crazy because that would be the only substance we could get easily even before the legal age.
Good thing we wo got high. Jesus Chris best way to get kids should avoid it?
The problem with empowering kids wi on fear mongering a addictive prevention recovering addicts ra who, even at that yo defying, the program about the dangers o root of the problem which help in develo was a nice guy, but e bullshit. He was just more confused than certainly, in some re
It was years later d bag of white powder
“This stuff writes itself.”
IAN BLACK
TOO FLY
O F L Y
C A L L O N M E
JAY BURNS
SNIFF
SNIFF
Whenever I’m coming down, it’s the buzzing of those cheap fluorescent bulbs that drive me nuts. I can deal with the sweat and the cravings, but those stupid lights perpetually droning on is enough to make even the human handlers go mad.
It’s bad enough this podunk airport thinks it’s important enough to even need a dog to sniff out their drugs. But Chowder told me yesterday they’re bringing in some new “Boy Scout” to help out.
This airport has been the only reason people even drive through the little Florida town of Calmwater Beach. There’s nothing here. A Walmart. A few evangelical churches that almost no one goes to. And CBD, that’s the code the humans use for Calmwater Beach Airport when they’re using their boxes to talk to each other. If there was anything remotely interesting here, I would be out of a job. LAX, JFK, LHR – those are the places where they bring in the Boy Scouts. The fresh-from-dog-training-academy graduates who sniff so much ass, their whole snout is brown. I hate Boy Scouts. Boy Scouts with handlers who want to bust every single kid with a tiny bag of grass are idiots. Sure, you got your gorgeous blonde, retriever locks and your tasty liver treats, but have you ever had a sniff of pure Mexican cartel baggage? It's the only way I can feel alive anymore. My blood won’t even sludge through the veins in my ears if I don’t have a bump.
The first time happened by accident. Some dumb college kid coming in from Spring Break forgot he had an open baggie in his Samsonite. Just a tiny glow in a ripped up eight ball, and I was hooked. My heart pounded, and I didn’t even know I had a heart. My eyes saw light like never before. It was bright, but not like when a flash goes off and blinds you.
It was like every color was more real.
Chowder didn’t even know I’d gotten my beak wet that day a few years ago. Chowder is my handler. He’s a skinny, gawking kid more concerned with cooking than stopping drugs from being illegally smuggled into his country. But the kid always treated me good, heavy with the treats and light on the kisses. The way I like it.
A few years ago Chowder would never have guessed I'd go bad boy. But Javi did. He was in line six passengers down from the college kid that fateful day. Javi got it. He knew the blow snagged me.
I’d see him from time to time flying in with some contraband jerky, mountain elk or some crap. It was never worth getting my tail in a wag over because who cares about jerky. Some stuck up Boy Scout with a god complex and a stick up their ass, that’s who. The way I see it, the war on drugs is just a game of fetch. The only winners are the ones holding the stick.
The buzzing of those fluorescent bulbs was especially cruel today, a ceaseless drone gnawing at the base of my skull like a parasitic worm. I stared at the scuffed linoleum floor of the Calmwater Beach Airport, trying to focus on the scent of something anything that would take the edge off. Chowder was yammering about some new marinade he was working on for Thanksgiving.
Something with bourbon. I didn’t care. My nostrils flared involuntarily as I scanned the stream of travelers trudging past, their collective musk a tapestry of cheap cologne, desperation, and fastfood regret. Then I caught it. A whiff of something faint but electric. It sliced through my brain like a credit card through fresh coke. It wasn’t the good stuff, no, but it was something.
My tail twitched, my ears pricked up. Chowder noticed.
SNIFF
“You got something, buddy?” he asked, his voice all eager and hopeful, like I might actually be doing my job today. I barked once. Not a full-throated warning, just enough to get him moving.
We tracked it to a young spring breaker in flipflops and a neon tank top, his sunburned shoulders peeling like the wallpaper of a cheap motel. He reeked of cocoa butter and the faintest hint of a stale party. As we approached, he froze, his face cycling through guilt, fear, and finally resignation. He didn’t try to run. He didn’t scream or shout. There was no fight, no excitement. It was like this kid knew I needed to get my heart pumping, and he refused. He didn’t have much—just a crumpled little baggie of grass buried in his duffel.
“Good boy, Butter!” Chowder exclaimed. What a stupid name for the guy who’s keeping your country crime free. Well sorta. Chowder, in his infinite stupidity, had to give me a food name so when I was just a green pup he called me Peanut Butter. The TSA wouldn’t allow a two word name so he shortened it to just Butter. What a dumb name, Peanut Butter. His favorite snack. I named him Chowder, the grossest food I could think of.
“Good boy, Butter!”
Chowder, tossed me a liver treat. I caught it midair but barely tasted it. I’d been chasing ghosts all morning, and this? This was a goddamn insult. I growled low in my throat as Chowder led the kid away to the TSA office. The poor schmuck wouldn’t even get fined; they’d just confiscate his stash and send him on his way. That’s when I saw him. Javi.
He was in line at the ticket counter, chatting up some woman in a too-tight sundress. He wasn’t a big guy lean, wiry, like a rat that had learned how to dress itself but he carried himself well. Like he owned the place. He must’ve spotted me at the same moment, because he smirked and gave me a little wink.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered under my breath. He was holding. I knew it. My nose twitched, catching the faintest trace of it— something potent, something powerful, something pure. He wasn’t running his usual jerky scam today. This was real electricity.
“Chowder,” I barked, but the idiot was still telling Flip-Flop Boy about a German potato salad he once had in Costa Rica. I was on my own. I trotted casually toward Javi, weaving through the crowd like I was just another mutt on the job. He didn’t move. He wanted me to come to him.
“Peanut Butter” he said with a condescending tone as I got close. “Who’s a good boy?”
I snarled slightly. Stared him down. His grin widened. “A little something special. You interested?”
My pulse quickened. God help me, I was. But what was the catch?
“Just one last ride.” As if he could read my mind. He pulled a small corner of a baggie from his pocket. “You and me, buddy. What do you say?”
The fluorescent lights buzzed louder, drilling into my brain.
This was my chance to feel alive again, to escape the grind of Calmwater Beach and its Boy Scout bullshit. I hesitated, my paws tensed as they clacked on the linoleum. Javi’s smirk hung in the air like a dare, his fingers curling just enough to tuck the baggie out of sight again. The electric hum of the airport seemed to intensify, as if the entire airport; passengers, janitors, even the machines, were all holding their breath to see what I’d do.
“Walk away” my instincts screamed. Hell, bark, make a scene to drag Chowder over by his cheap polyester tie and let him handle it. But my instincts had stopped running this show a long time ago. Javi crouched down, his knees popping audibly. He was close now, his scent overwhelming everything else the salt-and-copper tang of adrenaline, the faint whisper of sandalwood cologne, and underneath it all, that rich, unmistakable sharpness. Blow.
Not the stepped-on garbage that kids bring back from Cancun, but the good stuff. The real stuff. He was holding enough to electrify me for days, maybe weeks. My tail betrayed me, wagging once in a nervous tick before I clamped it still.
C’mon, Butter,” Javi murmured, his voice smooth, coaxing. “You and I both know you’re wasted in this dump. All those Boy Scouts, all those boring busts, just so Chowder can get another pat on the back? That’s not living. You deserve better.”
I growled low, torn between the primal pull of the powder and the tiny, flickering shred of loyalty I still felt toward Chowder. Sure, he was a clueless idiot, but he was a good boy. He didn’t deserve to come back from one of his kitchen ramblings to find me gone. But what had loyalty ever gotten me? It hadn’t stopped the endless buzzing of the fluorescents. It hadn’t kept the boredom from seeping into my bones like swamp water. It hadn’t stopped me from wanting to bury my snout in that baggie and never come up for air.
I glanced over my shoulder. Chowder was still busy with Flip-Flop Boy, now gesturing wildly as he described the “perfect sear” on a pork chop. He hadn’t even noticed I was gone. Typical. Javi slipped the baggie into his jacket pocket, casual as anything. He knew he had me.
“Here’s the deal,” he said, his voice low enough that only I could hear. “You follow me out, we’re on the next plane to freedom. No more Boy Scouts. No more bullshit. Just the open road and all the good stuff you can handle.”
Freedom.
The word hit me harder than I expected. I thought about the years of mindless sniffing, of half-hearted liver treats and fluorescent lights that never turned off. I thought about Chowder, about the look he’d get when he realized I was gone confusion, then hurt, then probably hunger. He’d move on. He’d get another dog. Maybe one of those golden retriever Boy Scouts they said were coming in any way. He’d be fine.
But would I?
Javi turned toward the exit; causal, deliberate, measured. Like Orpheus, he knew not to look back. He didn’t need to. I knew it was now or never. My legs moved before I could stop them, my paws clicking softly against the floor as I followed him into the crowd. Into the crowd, and out of the life.
The air outside hit me like a punch humid and thick, laced with jet fuel and the faint smell of rain. Javi tossed a look over his shoulder, his evil grin widening when he saw me. And I noticed for the first time in a long time, it was quiet. There was no din of dumb humans talking about their failed vacations. There were no loudspeaker announcements looking for lost children. No fluorescent lights humming. None of it.
“That’s my boy,” he said, and I hated how good it felt to hear it. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. The endless monotony of Calmwater Beach Airport dissolved behind me as Javi led the way into the parking lot.
A sleek black car softly idled near the curb, its tinted windows hiding whatever came next. He opened the passenger door, gesturing for me to hop in.
I paused, my claws scraping the asphalt. This was it. The point of no return. My tail twitched. My nose flared....I jumped into the car.
As the door slammed shut behind me, I felt the first real spark of excitement I’d felt in years. Whatever came next freedom, chaos, destruction
I was ready for it.
DAVID THOMAS JR.
GOLDFINCH
GOLDFINCH
I have forgotten most of the best things in my life.
Details distant and hidden of the times I was happy.
Alcohol and time have chipped away at the memory of days I never wanted to end.
Sometimes I sit and beat my head against a blank sheet of paper hoping they will fall out of my ear.
Not the Goldfinch though.
I could never forget her.
On a beach, with just enough time together, we met.
A playful uncertainty pulsed through my body at our first hellos.
She was art.
Outside of a photograph
Outside of a poem
Her existence, even on gray days outside of perfectly fitting yellow bikinis, was art.
She matched the flowers that day, which surprised me in the least as she embodied nature.
Real, calming.
Her body, small, but wholly woman and heavenly.
She was a Goldfinch, floating from water to tree, from flower to sand.
In my selfishness I wanted to catch her and keep her in a diamond cage in the corner of my room where the light hits in the morning.
I listened to her speak.
About how she wanted more, about the move she planned to make.
I listened to her truth.
As she spoke, she posed.
She stretched her arms to the sky like wings.
Fluttering her perfect little feet about in a dance that kept me watching mesmerized.
Her words and body melting into a song that made me forget how much I love jazz.
She laid on her blanket
I laid on mine
And for a little while it was silent.
Silence has never said so much to me before.
Our skin drank sun rays till we felt drunk with heat. We enjoyed the day.
The possibilities of life seemed endless for a few hours.
Perhaps I was lost in a dream, or perhaps I had dreamt this day before, and she finally made it so.
The promise of possibility took over my heart as I watched her bathe in the ocean water.
Counting every droplet on her skin like stars in the night sky, I felt refreshed in her energy.
I was so paralyzed by her beauty, I forgot how to walk.
Perhaps I am a Goldfinch too.
You make me believe I can fly.
I don’t remember most of the best things in my life.
But I will always.
Remember the Goldfinch.
SARA BRESLIN
FEATURED ARTIST
WWW.SARABRESLIN.COM
INSTAGRAM: @SARABRESLIN
BLUESKY: @SARABRESLIN
TIKTOK: @SARABRESLIN
SARA BRESLIN
Sara Breslin has made a name for herself as a Symbolist Figure Artist with colorful, feminine work informed by the late 19th-century Art Nouveau style and the early 20th-century Surrealism movement.
She obtained her BFA in 2014 from the University of Rhode Island, having majored in Fine Arts, and has continued her studio practice in Rhode Island ever since.
With representation in local galleries and retail locations, Breslin’s art has become a unique addition to the community. She regularly shows work in exhibitions and art fairs and frequently collaborates with nonprofits Beyond the Diagnosis and Art for Eyes.
Most notably, in 2023 Breslin presented an ambitious solo exhibition, Sonder at AS220 in Providence, RI.
Featured Works
Sara Breslin
Cycles
Aphrodite
Star-Born
Winter
Is It Me, Or Is It You?
Echoes
A Mother’s Gifts
Secret Keeper
Queen of the Night
Oracle of Delphi
Breslin’s watercolor and mixed media paintings meld reality and fantasy to create empowering images of the Divine Feminine. These images employ strong narrative concepts, incorporating elements from nature, ancient symbols, and dynamic colors to breathe life into her mesmerizing figures. Through her work, Breslin explores the power of womxn and femininity while delving into the complexity of human emotions.
Her own experiences deeply inform Breslin’s work, and she uses her paintings to express and affirm her own gender identity and mental health.
CYCLES
WATERCOLOR, COLORED PENCIL, AND ACRYL GOUACHE ON BOARD 31 5 X 17 IN (49 53X27 94 CM)
THE SISTER OF MY PIECE ‘METAMORPHOSIS’ C. 2019, ‘CYCLES’ C. 2024 WAS CREATED TO FURTHER EXPLORE THE IDEA OF CHANGE. USING FANTASY AND SURREALIST IMAGERY, I WANTED TO CAPTURE THE FEELING OF CONTINUOUS CHANGE THINGS THAT LIVE AND DIE AND THEN BEGIN AGAIN, THINGS THAT ARE ALWAYS IN A STATE OF FLUX, WHICH TO ME IS BOTH WONDERFUL AND SCARY CHANGE IS EVER-PRESENT IN ALL OF OUR LIVES, IN MANY WAYS THAT IS WHAT DEFINES LIFE: CHANGE
APHRODITE
WATERCOLOR AND ACRYL GOUACHE ON BOARD 15 5 X 11 5 IN (39 37X29 21 CM)
ONE OF MY FAVORITE GAY ICONS, APHRODITE IS AN ANCIENT GREEK GODDESS OF LOVE, BEAUTY, DESIRE, AND ALL ASPECTS OF SEXUALITY WHILE CREATING THIS PIECE I LISTENED TO "VENUS AND APHRODITE" BY BETTANY HUGHES, WHO TOOK ME ON A JOURNEY TO DISCOVER THE TRUTH BEHIND APHRODITE, AND WHY SHE IS SO MUCH MORE THAN NUDITY, ROMANCE AND SEX. I HIGHLY RECOMMEND READING IT! USING AN ALMOST COMPLETELY PINK PALETTE, THIS PIECE OF ARTWORK WAS AN ODE TO MY INNER CHILD.
STAR-BORN
WATERCOLOR AND MIXED MEDIA ON BOARD 10X8IN (25 5X20 3CM)
INSPIRED BY MY LOVE OF ALL THINGS FANTASY I WANT TO CAPTURE THE MAGIC OF STARS AND LIGHT
WINTER
COLORED
PAINTED IN 2022 DURING A SNOWSTORM, "WINTER" IS THE FIRST PIECE IN MY FOUR SEASONS SERIES.
WATERCOLOR
PENCIL SILVER LEAF AND ACRYL GOUACHE ON BOARD 11X14IN (27 94X35 56CM)
IS IT ME, OR IS IT YOU?
WATERCOLOR AND ACRYL GOUACHE ON BOARD 16X16 (40 64X40 64)
CREATED IN MID-2020, DURING THE HEIGHT OF THE PANDEMIC I HELD MY HEAD HIGH FOR MONTHS, TOOK EVERY TWIST AND TURN LIKE A CHAMP, AND TRIED NOT TO WORRY, BUT IT FINALLY GOT TO ME. I FELT DEFEATED. I BEGAN THINKING ABOUT STRENGTH. THE WORD AND THE MEANING BOTH EMPOWER ME AND SUFFOCATE ME ALL AT THE SAME TIME. I FOUND MY VERSION OF STRONG MEANT BEING TOXIC TO MYSELF AND IN 2020 I FOUND MYSELF FALLING BACK IN THOSE BAD HABITS THAT'S WHEN THIS PIECE WAS BORN THERE IS STRENGTH IN YIELDING TO OUR DEMONS, AND SOMETIMES THE SHADOWS ARE WHAT SAVE US
ECHOES
WATERCOLOR AND ACRYL GOUACHE ON BOARD 16X20 (40 64X50 8)
ECHO IS MY INTERPRETATION OF MEMORIES ORIGINALLY CALLED "THE WOODS", I STARTED THIS PIECE IN 2017 AND CAME BACK TO IT WITH A REDESIGN IN 2022 I WANTED TO CAPTURE THE FEELING OF NOSTALGIA AND THE SURREAL GRIP THE ECHOS OF THE PAST CAN HAVE ON YOU, GOOD OR BAD.
A MOTHER’S GIFTS
WATERCOLOR ACRYL GOUACHE AND 21K GOLD LEAF ON BOARD 10X20 (25 5X50 8)
I CREATED THIS PIECE AT THE BEGINNING OF 2023, AFTER FINISHING THE BOOK "I'M GLAD MY MOTHER DIED" BY JUDY MCCURRDY. I HAVE BEEN THINKING A LOT ABOUT THE THINGS THAT MOTHERS PASS DOWN TO DAUGHTERS AND THE CYCLE THAT CREATES. NOT ALL THINGS THAT ARE PASSED DOWN ARE GOOD AND NOT ALL ARE BAD. MOTHERS CAN PASS DOWN STRENGTH AND HUMOR, BUT THEY CAN ALSO PASS DOWN TRAUMA AND PAIN. I WANTED TO CAPTURE THE DUALITY OF THAT IN THIS PIECE AND THE SPIRITUAL CONNECTION THAT ALL WOMEN HAVE WITH EACH OTHER WE ARE ALL HER AND SHE IS US
SECRET KEEPER
WATERCOLOR 8X10IN (20 32X25 4CM)
CREATED IN 2024 AS THE FIRST PIECE IN MY 'SECRET KEEPERS' SERIES. BEAUTIFUL AND SLIGHTLY UNNERVING, IT MAKES YOU WONDER WHAT SECRETS SHE IS KEEPING.
ORACLE OF DELPHI
WATERCOLOR, ACRYL GOUACHE, AND 21K GOLD LEAF ON BOARD 10X10IN (25 4X25 4CM)
CREATED IN 2023 FOR ART FOR EYES, A NON-PROFIT IN MASSACHUSETTS THAT RAISES AWARENESS AND SUPPORTS CHILDREN BATTLING RETINOBLASTOMA (THE MOST COMMON TYPE OF EYE CANCER IN CHILDREN). THE ORACLE OF DELPHI CHANGED THE OUTCOME OF WARS, THE HEADS THAT CROWNS SAT UPON, AND HISTORY AS WE COULD HAVE KNOWN IT, ALL FROM THE VISIONS SHE SAW. SAW, WITHOUT THE USE OF HER EARTHLY EYES. TRUE SIGHT DOES NOT SIT IN THE THINGS WE CAN SEE, BUT RATHER THE THINGS WE CAN ENVISION
LISAMARIE
“IF THESE HANDS COULD TALK”
EACH AGE SPOT TELLS A STORY, EVERY WRINKLE A MEMORY, THESE OLD HANDS OF MINE ARE FULL OF HISTORY.
THESE HANDS ONCE HELD MY BABIES, COOKED THE MEALS, CLEANED THE HOUSE, THEY BANDAGED KNEES, WIPED AWAY TEARS, SEWED A BUTTON ON A BLOUSE.
THEY WORKED IN FACTORIES DURING WAR TIME, MADE ENDS MEET THROUGH THE DEPRESSION, FOUGHT ON THE FRONT LINES, VOTED FOR PROGRESSION.
THEY PLAYED MUSIC LEARNED AT JUILLIARD, FOUGHT FOR WOMENS RIGHTS, PUT MY KIDS THROUGH COLLEGE, BY WORKING THROUGH THE NIGHTS.
THESE HANDS HAVE SUPPORTED MY OTHER HALF, THROUGH ALL ASPECTS OF OUR LIFE. THEYVE HANDED OFF MY DAUGHTER TO BECOME SOMEONES WIFE. THEY’VE TAUGHT MY SON TO PLAY CATCH, BOUNCED MY GRANDCHILDREN ON MY KNEE. THEY’VE ENDURED EVERY FAILURE, CLAPPED AT EVERY VICTORY.
NOW THEY ARE ARTHRITIC AND OFTEN IN MUCH PAIN, THEY ARE SHAKEY AND STIFF AS THEY PUSH MY WALKER OR HOLD MY CANE.
MY KNUCKLES A BIT KNARLY MY FINGERS SLIGHTKY CURLED, AND IM OK WITH ALL OF THAT, AS THEYVE LEFT THEIR MARK UPON THIS WORLD.
F T H E S E H A N D S
“PHOTO BY JUSTIN DEGRAIDE” IG: @DE GRAIDE
ANDERSYN COSTA
SAVIOR
SAVIOR
There is more to life than becoming the sacrificial lamb There is love that exists that doesn’t require you to suffer Love that doesn’t hurt
The good girl complex of sacrifice and what you can endure does not equate the depth of love you have You do not have to turn yourself into a sacrificial lamb in order to be loved
CONTRIBUTING ARTISTS
MEET THE ARTISTS
JAY BURNS
Blue Sky - @tikijay.bsky.social IG - @tikijay
Art in January is about renewal and fresh starts. It’s also the first movie I saw in my youth that had man on man love. It profoundly changed my comedy.
AARON LEIDECKER
Contact/Booking- aaron.leidecker@vcfa.edu
Lurking: Instagram @aaronleidecker
Threads @aaronleidecker
Facebook- Aaron Leidecker
Bluesky- aaronleidecker.bsky.social
Art in January is radical honesty and shameless showboating.
DAVID THOMAS JR.
I made this magazine, I hope you like it. Instagram: @Daveytrout
Art in January is the resolution of the pasts madness
https://www.distrokid.com/hyperfollow/ianblack/too-fly
ANDERSYN COSTA
Andersyn Elaine
@andieandersyn
Art in January is necessary to carry on.
LISA MARIE
Instagram: @the heart of a gypsy
Art in January is like Xanax, it keeps you calm and sane when your housebound in the cold and snow.
JUSTIN DEGRAIDE
Instagram @de.graide www.justindegraide.com
“Art in January is the grain of winter’s silence captured on film. It’s the way light filters through bare trees and dances off frost-covered structures, creating timeless contrasts and subtle textures. It’s the patience to embrace shorter days, slower moments, and challenge of finding beauty in the quietest frames.”
SPECIAL THANKS
COVER MODEL X GOLDFINCH
KRISSY KENNEY
TAMARISK HOME
ART + FRIENDS FB GROUP
JUSTIN DEGRAIDE
