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HUMANIZE magazine Issue 15


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HUMANIZE YOUR IPHONE & IPAD


EVERYTHING MUSIC CAN DO FOR YOU

MUSIC

ing

k & Boo t n e m

Feos s o L y a - Juanit a d i r t a Ap e King s h t u l y e t g s n e j A His Ma e t s a r Le T ge Mana

io

d & Stu e r o St


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ay gente que define la sensación de hacer una tarta desde cero como algo pleno y gratificante. Issue 15, como una tarta hecha desde cero, ha sido creada desde los elementos editoriales más básicos en algo completo. No me siento plena, ni pienso que es gratificante, ya que al terminar este número, tengo que empezar de nuevo sin poder saborear realmente cada elemento que hemos usado para crearlo. Sin embargo, siento cierta humildad.

Some describe the feeling of baking a cake from scratch as something fulfilling and rewarding. Issue 15, like a cake made from scratch, has been created from the most basic elements in publishing into something whole. I am not fulfilled, nor do I feel it is rewarding, since just as I finish this issue, I have to begin all over again, without truly tasting each element used to create it. I do, however, feel humbled. Durante los últimos números, hemos tenido la ayuda de personas impresionantes. Nos ayudaron a encontrar contenido y a traducir, y gracias a ellos, tuvimos la oportunidad de construir otros aspectos de Humanize Magazine que no estaban relacionados con su edición. Para este número, decidimos hacerlo todo nosotras. Recibimos correos de varias personas con mucho talento que salen en este número, incluimos su obra, conseguimos más contenido y creamos todo solas. During the past couple of issues, we have had the assistance of some amazing individuals. They helped us find content and translate, and thanks to them, we were able to put together other aspects of Humanize Magazine that were unrelated to publishing it. For this issue, we decided to do it all ourselves. We received emails from a couple of the talented individuals that are featured in this issue, included their work, got more content and created everything on our own. Mientas pienso en Issue 15, no puedo de para de recordar por qué hicimos Humanize Magazine desde un principio. Siento humildad gracias a esta publicación en particular porque es una representación completa y honesta de lo que es en si y de quienes somos. As I sit and think about Issue 15, I cannot help but remember why we made Humanize Magazine to begin with. I am humbled by this particular publication because it is a complete and honest representation of what it is and of who we are. Disfrutad de Issue 15 y toma un momento para darte cuenta de que eres lo que haces, y no lo que comes. Enjoy Issue 15 and take a moment to realize that you are what you make, not what you eat. Karla D. Romero


HUMANIZE magazine Directora // Editor Karla D. Romero

karla@humanizemag.com

Diseño y Fotografía // Design and Photography Belma Hernández-Francés León belma@humanizemag.com

Colaboradores // Contributors Cristina Lorenzo Steve Cusato Gabriel Ruiz Jennifer Hutchinson Irene A. Canalís Ana Mingot Jordan Holtane

Publicidad // Advertising Arantxa Alviz

arantxa@humanizemag.com

Portada // Cover: Javier Jubera García

Preparó este delicioso número // Prepared this delicious issue

Humanize Magazine es una publicación independiente, sin pertenencia a grupo, colectivo o asociación. No se hace responsable de la opinión de sus colaboradores. Prohibida la reproducción parcial o total de cualquier contenido. Humanize Magazine is an independent publication that does not belong to a collective group or any association. It does not take responsibility for it contributors’ opinions. The reproduction of any content is prohibited.


8 Gabriel and The Hounds 14 Clean, Shave 18 Carolina Marín

60 Anna-Sophie Bergerna 74 The Food Freak I’m so hungry

82

Cristina Lorenzokina I’m so hungry

CONTENIDO CONTENTS 32 Javier Jubera 51 Gui

Mohallem

86 Desiderio Santoja 90 Earl Crown


gabriel and


d the hounds


Por // By: Karla D. Romero Cuéntanos un poco sobre ti. // Tell us a little bit about yourself. A brief bio, perhaps. Mido 1,80 y puedo correr una milla en 9 minutos y 33 segundos, pero sólo si lo hago con ganas. Nací en Singapur y me crie en Forest Hills, Queens. Ahora vivo en Brooklyn. Todo lo demás sobre mi lo puedes encontrar en mis canciones.

¿Cuál es tu proceso a la hora de escribir canciones? // What is your lyric-writing process?

I’m 5’11” and I can run a mile in 9 minutes and 33 seconds but only if I try really hard. I was born in Singapore and was raised in Forest Hills, Queens. I now live in Brooklyn. Everything else about me can be found in my songs.

Normalmente digo cosas sin pensar mientras grabo maquetas y esas palabras convertidas en frases a menudo se quedan en las canciones. Normalmente no me gusta editar. Otras veces hago una lista con palabras y diagramas y números – pero al final eso nunca funciona.

Cuentanos la historia detrás de Gabriel and The Hounds. ¿Por qué decidiste brindar homenaje a Kate Bush con “The Hounds”? // What’s the story behind Gabriel and The Hounds? Why did you decide to do homage to Kate Bush with “The Hounds”?

Most of the time, I spit things out of my mouth as I demo songs and those words and turns of phrase often stay put in the songs. I don’t often like to edit or be a re-worker. Other times, I make a chart with words and diagrams and numbers – but that never works out.

Todo el mundo debería querer Hounds of Love de Kate Bush. El nombre de mi grupo es simplemente una manera de recordarle a la gente que escuche ese álbum de nuevo.

¿Tienes alguna influencia musical (o no musical) que se pueda ver reflejada en tu música? ¿Quiénes son y por qué te han influenciado? // Do you have any musical (or non-musical) influences that are reflected in your music? Who and why are they influential?

Everybody should love Kate Bush’s Hounds of Love. My band name is but a gentle reminder to listen to that album again. ¿Crees que el genero de un grupo es mejor definido por el grupo mismo o por fans? Dicho eso, ¿cómo definirías tu música? // Do you think the definition or genre of a band is better defined by the band itself or by fans/ listeners? That being said, how would you define your music? Escritores de música y dependientes de tiendas de discos aplican géneros para que sepamos lo que “esperar” de un álbum, pero no se si músicos y sus fans les importan los géneros. Indie rock (el genero) antes significaba una cosa en concreto, y ya no. Era el género en el que me identificaba durante mucho tiempo. Music writers and record store clerks apply genres so that we know what to “expect” from a record, but I don’t know if musicians and fans care about genres. Indie rock (the genre) once meant a certain thing, but it doesn’t anymore. It was the genre I most related to for the longest period of time. ¿Cómo fue la transición de Takka Takka a lo que ahora es un proyecto solitario? Quizás te ponga en un compromiso, pero ¿tienes una preferencia? ¿Por qué o por qué no? // How has the transmission from Takka Takka to this somewhat solo endeavor been? This may be a bit of a compromising question, but do you have a preference? Why or why not? Se me da muy mal lo de tener reuniones y comunicarme y convencer a gente a que llegue a una conclusión. Entonces, en un proyecto donde sólo yo tengo voto era inevitable. Dicho eso, me encantan mis Takkas.

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I am very bad at meetings and at communicating and at convincing people to come to a consensus. So a project wherein I am the only vote was inevitable. That being said, I love my Takkas.

Rilke, los cubistas, los impresionistas, Richard Serra, Philip Glass, Richard Strauss y Brian Eno. Textura, textura, textura. Rilke, the Cubists, the impressionists, Richard Serra, Philip Glass, Richard Strauss and Brian Eno. Texture, texture, texture. Me encanta que Kiss Full of Teeth el diia de San Valentin. Despues de escuchar el disco (¡gracias a Riot Act Media!) creo que es muy apropiado. Es un disco tan intenso y lleno de romanticismo, y a la vez muy trágico. ¿Cómo describirías tu estado emocional cuando escribiste y grabaste este disco? ¿Crees que es posible desatarte, crear/re-crear emociones para hacer un disco como este? // I love the fact that Kiss Full of Teeth will be released on Valentine’s Day. Listening to the album (thanks to Riot Act Media!) I think it’s more than an appropriate date. It’s such an intense and densely romantic album, and so tragic at times. How would you describe your emotional state when you wrote and then recorded this album? Do you think it’s possible to detach, create/re-create emotions in order to make an album such as this one? Gracias. Este disco es el resultado de un romanticismo que salió mal. Mi estado emocional era de destrozado a desesperado, con un toque de optimismo. Es imposible desatarme de esas emociones. Thank you. The record is a result of romanticism gone wrong. My emotional state was distraught to desperate, with a hint of optimism thrown in. It is impossible for me to detach.


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¿Tienes una canción preferida en el disco o una que destaque más que otras? ¿Por qué o por qué no? // Do you have a favorite song on the album or one that simply stands out? Why or why not? “¿Eso qué me aportaría?” es la tesis principal de este proyecto. “What good would that do?” is the thesis statement of this whole project. En Brooklyn hay una escena musical y artística increíble. ¿Cómo lo describirías? ¿Influencia tu música y de qué manera? // There’s such an incredible artistic and musical scene in Brooklyn. How would you describe it? How does it influence your music, if it does so at all? Tengo mucha suerte de vivir con músicos tan buenos. Son personas encantadores y artistas impresionantes. ¿Cómo se siente uno aquí? Es como en la serie Big Love. Todos estamos casados con el mismo hombre y vivimos juntos en una comuna y compartimos a nuestros hijos. A veces es así. Otras veces es como Mad Max. I’m very lucky to be living among such amazing musicians. They are all wonderful people and impressive artists. What does it feel like here? It’s like in that show Big Love. We’re all married to the same Man and we live in one big compound and share our children. Sometimes it’s like that. Other times it’s like Mad Max. Ahora estas de gira por Europa. ¿Has estado alguna vez? ¿Qué tienes ganas de ver y qué quieres evitar?// You’re currently touring Europe. Have you been before? What do you look most and least forward to? Estuve con los Takkas. Me encanta Europa. Tengo muchas ganas de ir a sitios donde nunca he estado – todo el Reino Unido fuera de Londres. I’ve been over with the Takkas. I love Europe. I am most looking forward to being in places I haven’t before – all of the UK outside of London. A parte de la observación obvia de que tienes muchísimo talento, ¿cómo lograste llegar a la cima dentro de un abismo infinito de grupos independiente, sobre todo en Brookly? (Esta pregunta la puedes aplicar a Takka Takka y a Gabriel and The Hounds.) // Besides the obvious observation that you’re extremely talented, how did you manage to pull yourself above the infinite abyss of independent bands, especially in Brooklyn? (This can be applied to Takka Takka and Gabriel and The Hounds.) ¡GRACIAS! Mi objetivo es crear una obra que me haga orgulloso. Cada disco propio tiene sus fallos y aprendo muchísimo de cada uno y aplico esas lecciones a los siguientes discos. THANK YOU! My main focus is to create a body of work that I can be most proud of. Each record of mine has it flaws and I learn a ton from making each one and I apply those lessons to the next one.

¿Qué le aconsejarías a un grupo con talento como el tuyo que está intentando hacer un disco construido con tanta belleza y a la vez ir de gira y hacer todas las cosas que haces? // What would be your advice to a talented band such as yourself that’s trying to make such a beautifully crafted album and also tour and do all of the things that you’re doing? Lee mucho. Pasa mucho tiempo afuera, sólo, y después dentro con gente y alcohol. Se amable con los demás. Comparte tu obra con la gente constantemente. Se generoso con el arte de los demás. Read a lot. Spend time alone outside and then inside with people and alcohol. Be nice to others. Share your work with others constantly. Be generous with other people’s art. ¿Qué haces a parte de música? Y si no fueses músico, ¿qué te hubiese gustado hacer y por qué? // What else do you do besides music? And if you weren’t a musician, what would you have liked to do and why?
 He hecho tantas cosas que no tenían nada que ver con la música, que es difícil recordarlo todo (diseñador grafico, investigador, operador de grúas)… Ojala hubiese sido un pintor. Pero me he quedado estancado en la música. I have had so many careers outside of music, it’s hard to keep track (graphic designer, policy researcher, fork lift operator)…I wish I was a painter. But I am stuck in the music thing.

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CLEAN, SHAVEN Por // By: Jordan Holtane Traducción // Translation: Karla D. Romero

están matando a gente ahí fuera. // they're killing people out there. Se ha escrito mucho sobre la línea delgada entre la SANITY y INSANITY. Igualmente, existe un línea ligera entre como se retrata la INSANITY en el cine, una línea delicada que marca la diferencia entre EMPATHY y explotación. Viene de una combinación de humanizar al personaje y sumergir al público dentro de la experiencia de ese personaje; se debe mantener un balance de objetividad y subjetividad. En 1993, la multi-presupuestada obra maestra de Lodge Kerrigan Clean, Shaven hace esto precisamente. A través de una combinación de visualizaciones objetivas y frías, y un audio subjetivo y dudoso, la película crea un balance angustioso y ansioso de percepción ambigua. Much has been written of the fine line between sanity and insanity. Likewise, there is a fine line between the portrayal of insanity in film, a delicate line that makes all the difference between empathy and exploitation. It comes from a combination of humanizing the character and immersing the audience in that character’s experience; a balance of objectivity and subjectivity must be maintained. Lodge Kerrigan’s 1993 multi-budget masterpiece Clean, Shaven does exactly this. Through a combination of objective, cold visuals and subjective, dubious audio, the films strikes a harrowing, anxious balance of perceptive ambiguity. La película nos introduce a Peter Green, un esquizofrénico paranoico que vuelve a su pueblo después de estar en lugares desconocidos. En una secuencia de apertura alarmante, Peter sigue fuera de plano a una niña y se oyen gritos, pero no sabemos con seguridad lo que ha ocurrido. Está intentando encontrar a su hija y a la vez es perseguido por un detective que está investigando la muerte de una niña. ¿Le ha matado Peter? ¿Es la misma niña de la secuencia de apertura? No lo sabemos. Al ser aislados dentro de la perspectiva de Peter, no sabemos de qué fiarnos. Cada estimulo llega con sospecha y duda. Como el mundo de Peter, la película es una nube de ambigüedad; en un momento dado, está atravesando un camino de tierra a una gran velocidad, mirando nerviosamente hacia atrás. Suena con fuerza una sirena de coche de policía. ¿Pero en realidad le están persiguiendo? Jamás vemos el coche de policía, pero Peter está aterrorizado. Y eso es lo que importa de verdad. The film introduces us to Peter Green, a paranoid schizophrenic man, returning to his hometown from places unknown. In a startling opening sequence, Peter follows a young girl off-screen; loud thumps and screams are heard, but we get no confirmation of what happened. He is trying to find his daughter, but is meanwhile being pursued by a detective investigating the death of a young girl. Did Peter kill her? Is it even the girl from the opening? We do not know. In being plunged into Peter’s perspective, we know not what cues to trust. Every stimulus is met with suspicion and doubt. Like Peter’s living world, the film is a haze of ambiguity; at one point, he’s speeding down a dirt road, nervously looking back. A police siren wails. But is he actually being pursued? We never see a police car, but Peter is terrified. And that’s what really matters.

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El objetivo obvio de Kerrigan es la interpretación complicada de un personaje que sufre de esquizofrenia, que se enfrenta en contra del tratamiento común de un desorden mental en una película, como una curiosidad unidimensional o un objeto de patetismo barato. Primero, Kerrigan no permite que exista una distancia cómoda entre el publico y Peter; en la vida real no te acercaría a él. Pero aquí le vemos de cerca y somos obligados a considerarle más allá y detrás de su exterior. Vemos los cortes y moratones en su piel. Le vemos auto-mutilarse. Vemos como se asoma su humanidad, siendo victima de una distorsión recíproca; responde con sinceridad a estímulos rotos y aquellos a su alrededor responden a Peter con aprehensión honesta. Cuando interactúa con su madre o su hija, hay una sensación real de amor y cariño a través de la paranoia; es desgarrados, realmente trágico. Es obvio que Peter siento lo mismo que nosotros, pero el sonido psicótico lo entierra y lo oscurece.

like visuals. This cold and clinical mise-en-scène creates a real sense of tension with the sound design; the film becomes something more than the sum of its parts. However, when Peter has retreated fully within his own mind, even these visuals become affected, tainted by his condition. There are splinters of nightmares, perhaps these are things Peter has seen, or, once again, perhaps they are imagined. Para Peter, el único respiro viene cuando puede centrarse en alguna tarea. Mientras se sienta en una mesa de picnic, echa sobre tras sobre de azúcar en su café; el ruido baja. Sin embargo, una vez que vuelve a su coche, el ruido empieza a filtrarse de nuevo: la presión aplastante, asfixiadora y horrenda de la paranoia. En las pocas escenas con su familia, vemos como Peter intenta esconder esta paranoia; fotogramas ajustados pero a la vez ambulantes, implican una lucha por el control, por el enfoque, que al final siempre acaban con una derrota de la batalla.

Kerrigan’s clear objective here is a complex portrayal of a character that suffers from schizophrenia, to contend against the common treatment of mental disorder in film as a one-dimensional curiosity, or an object of cheap pathos. First, Kerrigan doesn’t allow the audience the comfort of distance from Peter; he is a character that most people, on the street, would give a wide berth. But we see him up close and are forced to consider him beyond and behind his exterior. We see the little cuts and scratches and bruises on his skin. We see him compelled into acts of self-mutilation. We see his humanity shine through, victim to some reciprocal distortion; he is responding honestly to broken stimuli, and those around him respond to Peter with honest apprehension. When he interacts with his mother or daughter, there is a real sense of love and affection through the paranoia; it’s heartbreaking, truly tragic. It’s obvious that Peter feels the same emotions we do, but they’re muddied and obscured by psychic noise. Kerrigan también decide sumergir al publico en la obsesión claustrofóbica de Peter. En este sentido, el diseño del sonido de la película es implacable, opresivo; oímos (supuestamente) lo que oye Peter, aullidos fracturados, ruido blanco, chillidos, gritos, gemidos de fantasmas imaginarios o memorias que le persiguen. La mirada psicótica auditiva es contrastada con visuales sueltos, objetivos y casi como de un documental. Este mise-en-scène frio y clínico crea una sensación de tensión real, acompañado con el diseño del sonido; la película se convierte en algo más allá de la suma de sus partes. Sin embargo, una vez que Peter está metido completamente en su propia mente, estos visuales son afectados, contaminados por su condición. Vemos piezas de sus pesadillas, quizás cosas que haya visto Peter o, una vez más, sean cosas de su imaginación.

For Peter, the only reprieves seem to come when he is able to concentrate on some task. While sitting at a picnic table, he pours packet after packet of sugar into his coffee; the noise subsides. However, once he gets back into his car, it starts to seep in again: the crushing, suffocating, ghastly pressure of paranoia. The few scenes with his family find Peter actively struggling to push back this paranoia; tight, yet wandering frames imply that struggle for control, for focus, not lingering too long before he always loses the battle. Esta película es pura incertidumbre, un follón de cabos sueltos. La historia está contada parcialmente desde el punto de vista de Peter, lo cual es inestable, ¿no? ¿Eso significa que los otros personaje sí son fiables? La madre de Peter quiere a su hijo, pero es fría y mantiene su distancia, y está cansada. El detective que persigue a Peter carece de equilibrio, pisoteando todo lo moral, enfadándose, pasándose constantemente. Entonces tenemos que pensar ¿de quién nos fiamos? ¿Dónde entra Peter en todo esto, con sus paranoias en un mundo tan ambiguo? Al final nos encontramos con un collage de información fracturada, escogiendo las piezas y decidiendo lo que pasó realmente. Debemos determinar en lo que realmente confiamos y averiguar la narrativa solos, como Peter tiene que hacer todos los días, en cada momento. Y en eso, llegamos a estar cerca de él, y ahí es donde Kerrigan nos quiere.

Kerrigan also chooses to submerge the viewer in Peter’s claustrophobic mania. To this end, the film’s sound design is unrelenting, oppressive; we hear (presumably) what Peter hears, the fractured cues, the white noise, the screams, cries, yells, whimpers of ghosts imagined or memories that haunt him. This aural psycho-scope is contrasted with spare, objective, almost documentary-

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This is a film of uncertainty, a mess of dangling loose ends. The story is told partly through Peter’s mind, which is unreliable, isn’t it? Does that necessarily mean the other characters are reliable? Peter’s mother clearly loves her son, but she is cold, distant, and tired. The detective chasing after him seems unbalanced, stomping on moral ground, losing his temper, crossing lines. So we’re left to wonder who can we trust? Where does Peter fit in, with his paranoia, in a world of ambiguity? We are ultimately given a collage of fractured information, left to take the pieces and decide for ourselves what happened. We must determine what we can trust, and figure out a narrative for ourselves, like Peter must do every day, every moment. And in that, we are close to him, which is right where Kerrigan wants us to be.


CAROLINA MARÍN CALLEJAS o el juegode las formas or the form game “Je est un autre” -Rimbaud-

Por // By: Gabriel Ruíz Traducción // Translation: Karla D. Romero

En el prólogo de aquel precioso libro (http://www. scribd.com/doc/13339079/Borges-Manual-de-ZoologiaFantastica) que Jorge Luis Borges y Margarita Guerrero escribieron sobre los seres imaginarios, puede leerse que su manual está constituido por los extraños entes que a lo largo del tiempo ha engendrado la fantasía de los hombres: el ave Roc, el Bahamut, El Basilisco, el Hipogrifo… seres todos estos que trastornan la realidad en su devenir: no hay en ellos nada definitivo; representan la posibilidad de ser algo más. Son seres que desafían los límites de la naturaleza porque están en constante metamorfosis.

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In the prologue in that beautiful book (http://www. scribd.com/doc/13339079/Borges-Manual-de-ZoologiaFantastica) that Jorge Luis Borges and Margarita Guerrero wrote about imaginary beings, one can read that their manual is made up of those strange beings that have been around since the dawn of man: rocs (or rukhs), bahamuts, basilisks, hyppogryphs… all of these creatures disturb reality in their own existence: there’s nothing definitive about them; they represent the possibility of being something else. They defy the limits of nature because they’re in a constant state of metamorphosis.


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Es precisamente esa emergencia de lo otro lo que está presente en la obra de Carolina Marín Callejas (http:// carolinamarincallejas.com/): es ella una reinvención de la naturaleza, una construcción de una nueva fauna en la que espiamos a unos personajes humanoides confundidos con ella, (de)formados por ella. En su trabajo la Fauna recupera su original sentido latino: es otra vez una diosa fecunda que no cesa de engendrar nuevos seres. Carolina juega con las posibilidades de las permutaciones y crea su propio hábitat que está en constante movimiento gracias a las distintas ordenaciones de sus elementos. La obra es el anhelo de tener todos los encantamientos que se puedan engendrar. It’s precisely the emergence of the other which is present in the work of Carolina Marín Callejas (http:// carolinamarincallejas.com/): she is the reinvention of nature, the construction of a new fauna where we spy on humanoid characters that pretend to be her, (de)formed by her. In her work, the Fauna recovers its original Latin definition: it’s once again a fertile goddess that never ceases to birth more beings. Carolina plays with the possibilities of permutations and she created her own habitat, which is constantly moving, thanks to the organizational variety of its elements. Her work is the desire to have all of the enchantments that one could possibly create. Nos enseñaron en el colegio que un cambio en la fauna de un ecosistema puede alterar varios factores constitutivos de éste, hasta el punto de transformarlo en otro. Es una actualización de esa vieja lección de biología la que tenemos aquí: cuando los seres que habitan un mundo cambian, el mundo cambia con ellos. Es quizá esto lo encantador que hay en este trabajo, la creación de un ecosistema gráfico propio. Hay una dependencia, una continuidad entre las distintas obras; no sólo tenemos la impresión de que todas ellas recorren el mismo espacio, sino que existen pequeños guiños visibles que nos llevan de una a otra. En ese mundo cambiante la burra sin cola podría irrumpir entre las zorras que realizan sus ejercicios de estiramientos, no sólo porque los escenarios se antojan vecinos sino porque es también la ausencia de cola la que avergüenza a la zorra, la que le arrebata su esplendor y la une con aquella burra que pasea entre las flores. We were taught in school that a change in the fauna of an ecosystem could alter various constituent factors of this ecosystem, to the point where it transforms into something else. What we have here is an update on that old biology lesson: when the beings that inhabit a world change, the world changes with them. This idea is perhaps what makes this project so enchanting, the creation of one’s own graphic ecosystem. There’s a dependency, continuity between the different pieces; not only are we under the impression that all of the pieces are in the same space, but there are also visible messages that take us from one to the other. In that ever-changing world, the donkey without a tail could burst between the foxes that are stretching. Not only because the settings are similar, but also because of the absence of the tail that embarrasses the fox, the one that snatches its magnificence and unites it with that donkey that strolls through the flowers.

Parece entonces lógico que Carolina se haya dedicado últimamente a ilustrar sus seres deambulando en una estructura lineal, a través de una suerte de fuelle de acordeón (http://carolinamarincallejas.com/index. php?/dibujo/dibujo/), en una continuidad que por un lado nos narra el proceso de transformación (el hombre emplumado que deviene lobo, pez, mujer, máscara) y por otro se vuelve narración. Estamos aquí ante unas pequeñas historias que esperan su lector adecuado, aquel que tiene la clave para comprender la secreta alteridad de las formas, capaz de ver los tiempos del caracol o de reconocer el ser que habita en la hiena. It seems logical then that Carolina has been spending her recent time in illustrating her creatures strolling in a linear structure, as if walking through the bellows of an accordion (http://carolinamarincallejas.com/index. php?/dibujo/dibujo/), in a continuity that, on one hand narrates the process of transformation (the winged man that turns into a wolf, fish, woman, mask) and that on the other hand turns into a story. We stand before a series of brief stories that await their appropriate reader, the one that has the key to understand the secret alteration of forms, able to see the time of the snail or recognize the creature that lives within the hyena.

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Los seres que habitan este ecosistema no son completamente animales; tampoco son ya humanos. Cuando Carolina nos propone que somosotros (http:// somosotros.tumblr.com/) nos está mostrando que en su universo algo de nosotros se conserva y algo se va irremediablemente. No dejamos de ser completamente lo que éramos al tiempo que confluimos en algo más, en esos personajes plasmados en el momento mismo de la alteración. ¿Pero de dónde surgen tales personajes? ¿De dónde las historias? Carolina misma nos lo dice, nos lo revela a través de lo que sabe hacer, a través de sus imágenes: en los grabados (http://carolinamarincallejas.com/index.php?/grabado/paciencia/) nos asomamos a ese momento previo, al instante en que aún los reinos naturales están diferenciados; y en sus fotos (http://www.flickr.com/photos/soda_shop) vemos el origen de sus bordados, de sus dibujos, de sus collages. La obra de Carolina está hecha de la materia de su vida: de sus viajes, sus amigos, sus amores, sus miedos. En esa suerte de ceremonia interior se invocan las memorias transformadas, los recuerdos mezclados del pasado que engendran ese presente de texturas, de formas, de colores. Las experiencias vividas mutan en su rastro, que son esas imágenes negándose a evocar con exactitud lo sucedido y prefiriendo la alteración, el juego con las líneas. Y es una fortuna que así sea, es necesario el encuentro con esas figuras que nos interpelan sin terror, con inocencia, pues siempre “es bueno seguir multiplicando los polvorines mentales, el humor que busca y favorece las mutaciones más descabelladas (...) es bueno que existan los bestiarios colmados de transgresiones, de patas donde debería haber alas y de ojos puestos en el lugar de los dientes” (Julio Cortázar, Paseo entre las jaulas). Y es que el humor, ese viejo compañero, es esencial para entender que la vida es un juego de variaciones.

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The creatures that inhabit this ecosystem are not purely animals; nor are they human anymore. When Carolina proposes that somosotros (http://somosotros.tumblr. com/) is showing us that in its universe, something of ours is preserved and something inevitably goes away. We’re still partly what we were before, while converging into something else, into those characters expressed during that very moment where they changed. But where do these characters come from? Where do their stories come from? Carolina reveals these answers through her images: in her engravings (http://carolinamarincallejas. com/index.php?/grabado/paciencia/) we take a peek at that previous moment, the instant where the natural kingdoms are still different; and in her pictures (http:// www.flickr.com/photos/soda_shop) we see the origin of her embroideries, her drawings, her collages. Carolina’s work is made up of her life: her trips, her friends, her loves, her fears. With such luck on internal ceremony, transformed memories, mixed memories from the past that created the present of textures, forms, colors, are invoked. Experiences are mutated and reflected on her face, and those images refuse to evoke with precision what has happened, and prefers change, the game with lines. And it’s a fortune that it’s this way, the encounter with those figures that question everything without fear, with innocence is necessary, since, “it’s good to keep multiplying mental powder kegs, humor that searches and favors the most insane mutations (…) it’s good that bestiaries heaping with transgressions, where there are legs instead of wings and eyes where teeth should be” (Julio Cortázar, “Paseo entre las jaulas,” Territorios, 1978). And humor, that old friend, is essential in understanding that life is a game of variations.


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Javier Jubera GarcĂ­a


“El tesón y el trabajo duro va en la sangre, no lo puedo evitar” // “Tenacity and hard work is in my blood, I can’t help it.” Por // By: Karla D. Romero Fotos // Photos: Belma H-F León Subimos a lo que parecía ser la última planta del Circulo de Bellas Artes de Madrid, aunque no llegamos tan arriba. Al salir del ascensor, vimos restos de un antes en el arte que al estar ahí, uno pensaba que dominaba esta ciudad – antiguos carteles que señalaban “curso de dibujo”, con antiguas fuentes de carcelería. Javier Jubera García, un joven artista de la Rioja que trabaja en Madrid, nos llevó a la sala donde se realizaban los grabados en este magnifico edificio. Fue abrumador ver tanto material crudo, tanto papel, tantas estampas sobre las mesas y esas gigantescas maquinas que con un poco de esfuerzo humano, reproducen una y otra obra de arte. We went up to what seemed to be the last floor of the Fine Arts Circle in Madrid, although we didn’t go that far up. When we stepped off of the elevator, we saw the remains of what was once there, and I couldn’t help but think that art once ruled this city – old signs that said, “Drawing class,” with old poster typography. Javier Jubera García, a young artist from the Rioja region of Spain, who has been working as an artist in Madrid for five years, took us to the room where the engraving was done in this magnificent building. It was overwhelming to see so much raw material, so much paper, so many prints on the tables and those gigantic machines that with some human effort, reproduce one work of art after the other. Vimos como trabajaba Javier y era algo precioso en si. El proceso del grabado es algo que nos traslada a otra época, y desde esa sala, con ese olor a aguafuerte y ese sabor metálico, veíamos como rodaban los brazos de Javier sobre las vistas de los tejados soleados de la Gran Vía. Sin duda, fue una tarde encantadora.

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Effort We saw how Javier worked, something beautiful within itself. The engraving process is something that takes us to another time and from that room, with that scent of nitric acid and that metallic taste, we saw how Javier’s arms turned over the view of the roofs of Gran Via. It was without a doubt an enchanting afternoon. No muy lejos del Circulo de Bellas Artes, nos dirigimos a un café por Chueca donde sonaban canciones de pop setentero y ochentero español. El ambiente quizás no era completamente adecuado, pero a veces la gente que te rodea hace que olvides todo lo demás. Javier empezó a contarnos su historia. Not far from the Fine Arts Circle, we arrived at a café in Chueca where seventies and eighties Spanish pop songs rang out. Perhaps the atmosphere wasn’t the most adequate, but sometimes the people that surround you make you forget everything else. Javier started telling us his story.


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“El mundo del arte en Madrid es intenso, muy intenso… creo que no se puede flaquear ni un día, o sea, tienes que estar al pie del cañón constantemente. No puedes permitirte el lujo de ser vago… es muy competitivo”, describió Javier. “También veo que es muy enriquecedor porque también hay mucha gente que se dedica a esto y puedes ver lo que se hace por ahí”. “The art world in Madrid is intense, very intense… I think that you can’t slack off at all, you have to always be ready for anything at any given time. You can’t afford to be lazy… it’s very competitive,” described Javier. “I also think it’s enlightening because there are a lot of people doing this and you can see what is being created out there.” Javier se dedica al dibujo, a la ilustración y a el grabado. Una obra de Javier se reconoce instantáneamente por sus líneas continuas, sus formas suaves y a la vez rígidas en algunas esquinas de los objetos que crea. Dice que le encanta el dibujo, porque, “es muy sencillo y muy directo”, y sin el dibujo, no se puede hacer nada. “[Mi estilo] yo creo que sale solo… son mogollón de años trabajando entonces vas viendo como dibujabas antes, las cosas que pensabas antes, por lo que plasmabas antes, como las desarrollas y qué enfoques artísticos les das”, dijo Javier. “Soy un poco clasicote yo… teniendo en cuenta que vivimos en un contexto muy moderno que es la ostia.” Javier does drawings, illustrations and engravings. Any piece by Javier is easily recognizable because of its continuous lines, its smooth forms and equally rigid corners in many of the objects that he creates. He says he loves drawing because, “it’s very simply and very direct,” and without drawing, you can’t do anything else. “I think that [my style] comes out by itself… I’ve spent a lot of year working in this field so I can see how I drew before, the things I used to think about, what I used to capture before, how I develop them and what artistic approach I give them,” said Javier. “I’m a big of a classical guy… keeping in mind that we live in a very modern context which is amazing.” Esto puede que sea una ventaja para Javier, al enfrentarse a sus homólogos modernos: “Yo no lo llamo competición, yo lo llamo que estamos en el mismo contexto que nos ha tocado vivir tanto a ti como a mi, y tú haces unas cosas y yo hago otras, entonces ahí ya no hay duelos de ningún modo. La competición me parece algo espantoso”, añadió Javier. This could be an advantage for Javier when confronting his modern counterparts: “I don’t call it competition, I call it living in the same context that we’ve both been forced to live in, and you do one thing and I do other things. So there aren’t any types of duels. Competition is a terrifying thing for me,” added Javier.


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Más allá de su estilo personal, el grabado tiene un lugar especial en su obra actual. “Yo creo que el grabado va siempre muy unido a la ilustración… a mi me ha gustado mucho porque creo que se separa bastante lo que es la parte más técnica de la ilustración, entonces yo puedo soltarme con materiales, hacer lo que realmente me apetece…” ¿Y si pudiese dedicarse a algo aún más especifico? Para él, ilustrar para prensa e ilustrar los grandes clásicos de la historia sería perfecto. Beyond his personal style, engraving holds a special place in Javier’s current work. “I think engraving is always closely tied to illustration… I’ve always loved it because I think it distinguished quite a bit between the more technical aspect of illustration, therefore I can experiment with different material, I can do whatever I really feel like doing…” And what if he could do something even more specific? For him, to illustrate for a newspaper and to illustrate literary classics would be perfect. Su estilo viene de algo muy humano, muy natural. “Me inspira mucho la vida misma, como tal. Los comportamientos humanos, todas sus características, la incompatibilidad de las personas con el mundo real… el ser humano… es difícil de explicar, yo creo que por eso lo dibujo y lo expreso,” comentó Javier. “La vejez me interesa un montón, como las personas vamos degenerando, como nos vamos debilitando”. His style comes from something very human, very natural. “I’m inspired by life itself, as it is. Human behavior, all of its characteristics, people’s incompatibility with the real world… human beings… it’s difficult to explain, which is why I think that I draw it and express it that way,” commented Javier. “Old age is something that interests me a lot, how people degenerate, how we become weak.” La obra de Javier es la interpretación de lo que le rodea y su dedicación diaria a ésta se puede ver reflejada en cada línea de cada pieza. “Yo creo que [mi estilo] es muy honesto y puro y verdadero”, dijo Javier. “El tesón y el trabajo duro va en la sangre, no lo puedo evitar”. Keeping Javier’s work is an interpretation of what surrounds him and his daily commitment to his art is reflected in each line of each of his pieces. “I think that [my style] is very honest and pure and true,” said Javier. “Tenacity and hard work is in my blood, I can’t help it.”

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GUI Mohallem Por // By: Ana Mingot


We’re all mad here. During the process of editing these pictures, choosing and combining them with the quotes I slowly understood I was talking about my madness. -Gui Mohallem

Hay gente a la que conoces que parece que no está anclada a la tierra. Algo les envuelve que parece casi etéreo. Es como si al no tener los pies en la tierra, estuvieran envueltos en una atmosfera más honesta, aferrada a sentimientos y con el ímpetu de aquellos que solo buscan conocerse mejor. Así me resulto Gui Mohallem la primera vez que le conocí. También me imagino que era uno de sus mejores momentos: la inauguración de su primera exposición individual en Nueva York en la Rabbit Hole Gallery en Dumbo, Brooklyn. Sometimes you meet people that don’t seem anchored to the ground. There is an air surrounding them that makes them seem almost ethereal. It’s almost as if by not having their feet grounded, they are wrapped in a more honest atmosphere, clinging to feelings and with the momentum of those that are only in search of knowing themselves better. That´s the way Gui Mohallem seemed to me the first time I met him. It was also one of his best moments: the opening of his first solo show in New York at the Rabbit Hole Gallery in Dumbo, Brooklyn. A aquella inauguración fui con un amigo que había sido retratado en la exposición. Tal vez retratado no sea la palabra exacta. Más bien diría que había sido invitado a participar en un proceso artístico que investiga no solo los límites de la fotografía, de la representación, sino también de la cordura y de la locura que se esconde en aquellas frases que decimos sin pensar. La exposición estaba unida a unas 20 fotografías de gran formato unidas a un sello que contenía una frase que solo se revelaba al sellar algún papel u otro soporte (la mayoría de los espectadores se tatuaban el cuerpo). Frases sueltas, sin contexto, que nos adentran en la cotidiana locura que nos envuelve a todos. Mi amigo no me quiso explicar como habían sido logradas aquellas fotografías cuyo movimiento las convertía casi abstractas, levemente nostálgicas, ni como habían sido escogidas aquellas frases. Aparte de que las imágenes habían sido captadas con una cámara estenopéica digital no sabía mucho más del proceso creativo. Aún recuerdo a Gui contándonos con un entusiasmo contagioso como funcionaba su cámara digital estenopéica y como en sus talleres en favelas de Sao Paolo, con cámaras estenopeicas hechas a mano se le había ocurrido la idea de Ensayo para la locura. I went to the opening with a friend that had been portrayed in the exhibit. Maybe portrayed isn’t exactly the right word. It might be to say that my friend had participated in an artistic process investigating not only the limits of photography, of representation, but also of human sanity and the madness lingering behind those phrases we say without even thinking. There were about 20 large-format photographs in the exhibit, each tied to a stamp which contained a phrase that was only revealed by printing it on a piece of paper or another support (most spectators where tattooing their bodies with them). Stray sentences, deprived of context, that suggest that world of daily madness that surrounds us all. My friend did not want to explain how those photographs, with an

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excessive movement that turned them almost abstract, slightly nostalgic, had been made, nor how those phrases had been chosen. Apart from the fact that the images had been captured with a pinhole camera, I didn’t know much more about the process. I still remember Gui telling us with contagious enthusiasm how his digital pinhole camera worked and how in his workshops in Sao Paulo´s favelas, working with handmade pinhole cameras, the idea for Rehearsal to Madness had come about. En su forma más simple, una cámara estenopeica o cámara obscura como también se conoce, consiste en una caja, o incluso una habitación, que únicamente permite la entrada de luz a través de un minúsculo orificio en una de sus paredes. En la pared contraria se encontraría la película o el papel fotográfico. La técnica ha sido utilizada durante siglos para observar eclipses de sol sin dañar los ojos, y durante el siglo XVI empezó a ser utilizado como soporte al dibujo (el sujeto posaba fuera de la cámara obscura y la imagen se reflejaba en un papel que trazaba el artista). Leonardo da Vinci, René Decartes, Durero, e Isaac Newton, todos usaron la cámara obscura para sus investigaciones, pero no fue hasta 1850 cuando el científico escocés Sir David Brewster tomó la primera fotográfica con una cámara estenopeica. Sin embargo, Gui no estaba usando un carrete fotográfico, sino que había construido un extraño híbrido: una cámara digital cuyo objetivo había sido reemplazado por una tapa de objetivo modificada por un agujero, enlazando la última tecnología con una de las más antiguas y básicas técnicas fotográficas. Al utilizar esta técnica, Gui hace referencia a los orígenes de la fotografía, logrando captar una especie de realidad de ensueño, ilusoria, levemente fuera de foco, insondable. Al mismo tiempo al unir la técnica con una cámara digital es capaz de manipular y editar las imágenes digitalmente hasta obtener el resultado deseado. In its most simple form, a pinhole camera or camera obscura as it is also known, consists of a box, or even a room, which only allows light in through a small hole in one of its walls. On the other side of the hole, the film or photographic paper is placed. The technique has been used for centuries in order to observe solar eclipses without hurting the eyes and during the 16th century it started to be used as an aid to drawing (the subject would pose outside the camera obscura and the image reflected would be traced by the artist). Leonardo da Vinci, René Decartes, Albrecht Durer, and Isaac Newton, all used the camera obscura for their investigations but it was not until 1850 that the Scottish scientist Sir David Brewster took the first photograph with a pinhole camera. Gui however was not using a film roll on the other side of the pinhole. Instead he had constructed a strange hybrid: a digital camera whose lens had been replaced by a lens cover modified by a small hole. Blending the latest technology with one of the oldest and most basic photographic techniques, Gui captures a dreamlike reality, illusory and slightly out of focus. It also allows him manipulate and digitally edit his images until he obtains the desired result.


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Días después de la inauguración, volví a ver a Gui. Me habló de sus excursiones a Coney Island, cruzando Brooklyn en metro hasta llegar a la costa. Una noche me preguntó si quería participar en Ensayo para la locura. Quedamos un viernes a mediados de otoño. A pesar del frío, Nueva York como siempre bullía. Nos tomamos algo en un bar asiático con tapas de extraños sabores más tailandeses que chinos. Un sitio ruidoso que nos envolvió en un anonimato lleno de confidencias y en la intimidad de la conversación algo dije que Gui anotó mentalmente. En cualquier caso, según me comentó más tarde, dio pie a la foto que tomó después. Days after the opening I saw Gui again. He told me about his trips to Coney Island, crossing Brooklyn by subway to get to the coast. One night he asked me if I wanted to participate in Rehearsal to madness. We met on a Friday in the middle of fall. Despite the cold, New York as always seemed to be boiling. We had something in an Asian bar with bites of strange flavors more Thai than Chinese. A noisy place that wrapped us in an anonymity full of intimacies where I said something that Gui jotted down mentally; something which as he later explained, gave place to the photograph that he took afterwards. Por aquella época yo vivía en un barrio caribeño, en un apartamento enfrente del Jardín Botánico de Brooklyn, sitio idóneo para escapar de vez en cuando de la ciudad. Decidí que ese sería el sitio donde tomaríamos la fotografía. Dimos una vuelta y en medio de un paseo lleno de cerezos sin flor, me dijo que dejara mis cosas en el suelo. Me cogió de las manos y de repente, para mi gran sorpresa, empezó a darme vueltas sin parar mientras con su cámara iba disparando foto tras foto. En su libro Camara Lucida, Roland Barthes dice imaginarse que: “El gesto esencial del operador consiste en sorprender algo o a alguien, y que tal gesto es, perfecto cuando se efectúa sin que lo sepa el sujeto fotografiado. De este gesto derivan todas las fotos cuyo principio es el “choque” puesto que el “choque” fotográfico no consiste tanto en traumatizar como en revelar lo que tan bien escondido estaba que hasta el propio actor lo ignoraba o no tenía conciencia de ello”. Y así, buscando atrapar lo esencial velado, Gui forzaba este momento en el que posar es imposible y preso de la velocidad del giro, la persona casi ni es consciente de que está siendo retratada. Al no estar consciente de ser retratada, la máscara desaparece y en su lugar tal vez nos encontremos a nosotros mismos. Around that time I lived in a Caribbean neighborhood in Brooklyn. Our apartment was right in front of the Botanic Garden, the perfect place to get away from the city every so often. I decided to meet him there to take the photograph. We walked around until we got to a field full of cherry trees with no blossoms. He asked me to drop my things on the floor. He suddenly took my hands and to my surprise, started twirling me around fast while his camera shot photo after photo. In his book Camera Lucida, Roland Barthes imagines that the “essential gesture of the Operator is to surprise something or someone (through the little hole of the camera), and that this gesture is therefore perfect when it is performed unbeknownst to the subject being photographed. From this gesture derive all photographs whose principle (or better, whose alibi) is “shock”; for the photographic “shock” (quite different from the punctum) consists less in traumatizing than in revealing what was so well hidden that the actor himself was unaware or unconscious of it”. In this way, Gui forces the moment in which posing is impossible and caught in the speed of the turn, the person is almost unaware of being portrayed. In this way Gui seems capable of catching the person´s veiled essence, forcing the mask to dissapear.

Reafirmando la idea de que, más allá de capturar la realidad, la fotografía es una interpretación del mundo, las imágenes de Gui nos resultan como un recuerdo captado o una sensación reencontrada, un sueño retratado. Las frases que van unidas a cada fotografía de la serie, aquellas ocurrencias que probablemente la persona ya ni recuerde haber dicho son reapropiadas por Gui, sumergiéndonos en los subtextos de la imagen. Pensamientos personales, íntimos, en el límite entre la cordura y la locura, que nos permiten entrar en el mundo donde habitan y se desenvuelven estos personajes borrosos, en movimiento. El resultado final, esa mezcla de imagen y texto, es en su esencia audiovisual. La conversación evocada interactúa con la imagen en un intercambio de libre asociación. El retrato borroso, anónimo, se convierte en un personaje narrativo y el contenido íntimo del texto permite dar al espectador diferentes posibilidades contemplativas de la imagen. Reaffirming the idea that, beyond capturing reality, photography is a reinterpretation of the world, Gui´s images seem like a captured memory or a rediscovered sensation, a portrayed dream. The phrases tied to the images, sayings that not even the person portrayed remembers saying, are reappropriated by Gui, submerging us in the subtexts of the images. Personal thoughts, intimate, bordering on sanity and madness and allowing us to enter the world in which these blurry characters live. The end result, that mix between image and text is, in its essence, audiovisual. The recalled conversation interacts with the image in an interchange of free association. The blurry portrait, anonymous, becomes a narrative character and the intimate content of the text allows the viewer different possibilities of the image. Al poco tiempo de que Gui me tomara la fotografía, nos despedimos. Creo que no volví a saber de él hasta que me envío la imagen final ya desde Sao Paulo y desde entonces hemos seguido en contacto. Yo ya he dejado Brooklyn por Madrid, donde hace poco vino Gui con motivo de PhotoEspaña, armado de otras fotografías, otras historias y su personalidad desbordantemente sincera. Shortly after Gui took my photograph, we said goodbye. I don´t think I heard back from him until he sent me the final print from Sao Paulo and ever since then we have been in contact. I have long left Brooklyn and settled in Madrid, where not long ago Gui came, armed with other photographs, other stories and his personality brimming with sincerity.

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ANNA Sophie

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+O Por // By: Anna-Sophie Berger: Diseño vs. arte // Design vs. Art Nací en Viena pero mis padres decidieron mudarse al campo, donde me crié. Ahí crie animales salvajes, como ciervos y cuervos y pasee la mayoría de mis días a fuera durante ocho años. Fui a un colegio de monjas, lo cual no estuvo tan mal como suena, pero fue una locura de mundo en si. Desde muy pequeña sentía que mi vida en el pueblo, fuera de la naturaleza, no tenía nada que me interesara y no podía esperar a irme de nuevo a Viena para siempre. Sabía que quería ser artista, la mitad del tiempo que pasé en el colegio la pasé haciendo fotos, o sea que fui de latín a técnicas de cuarto oscuro. I was born in Vienna but my parents decided to move to the countryside, which is where I grew up. There I would raise wild animals, such as deer and crows and spent my days mostly outside for eight years. I went to monastery school, which was less dogmatic as it sounds but a little crazy universe of its own. Very early I felt that village life, apart from nature, had nothing that I was interested in and I was dying to move back to Vienna for good. I knew I was to do art, half of my school time I already spent on taking pictures, so from Latin translation contests I switched to darkroom techniques. Cuando tuve que elegir las clases de universidad en Viena, decidí hacer las pruebas para moda y fotografía. Recordando este tiempo, debo de admitir que no conocía las diferencias reales entre el arte y el diseño. Lo único que quería hacer era crear. Una vez que me aceptaron las dos clases, elegí lo que me parecía más imposible, ya que nunca lo había hecho – diseño de moda. Una vez que descubrí la estructura rígida que dividía el diseño del arte, todas esas cosas que uno no puede hacer, estaba horrorizada al principio. Simplemente no dejé de hacer fotos y trabajar artísticamente, a la par con mi diseño completamente separado de mi trabajo de moda. Confronted with the problem of choosing one of the classes of my university in Vienna, I decided to try the exams for both fashion and photography. Recalling this time, I have to say I had no idea about the real differences between art and design. All I wanted to do was create. As both classes accepted me, I chose what seemed more impossible for I had never ever done it – fashion design. Finding out about the rather rigid frameworks dividing design from art, all the things one couldn’t do, I was appalled in the beginning. But I simply never stopped taking photographs and working artistically, either aligned to my design or completely independent from my fashion work.

Viví en Nueva York el año pasado con Mark Borthwick y fue una gran experiencia, porque me enseñó que podía trabajar para gente a la que admiraba y valoraba, y al final, tendría que tener mi propio proyecto. I lived in New York last year to work with Mark Borthwick which was a great experience, for it showed me that I could only work for people whose work I admired and valued, and that in the end, I would have to have my own project. Moda Actualmente estoy viviendo en Paris, ayudando a Adeline Andre su line haute couture y volveré a Viena para hacer medio año de una clase de arte transmedia antes de terminar mi diploma de diseño. Estoy realizando diferentes proyectos relacionados con la moda y el arte; me encanta colaborar con amigo. Tendré varias exposiciones pequeñas este año y espero seguir así. Escribo y hablo mucho, escribo textos y si tengo tiempo, me encantaría hacer un trabajo teórico sobre el tema del arte y el diseño. I am currently living in Paris helping Adeline Andre with her haute couture line and I will return to Vienna to do half a year in the transmedia art class before finishing my design diploma. I am working on different projects, related to fashion and art; I love to collaborate with friends. I will have several little exhibitions this year and I hope to continue exactly that way. I read and discuss a lot, I write texts and if there should be any time left I would also love to do theoretical works on the subject of art and design. www.anna-sophie-berger.com http://anna-sophie-berger.tumblr.com

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Por // By: Steve Cusato Fotos // Photos: Alexandra French Ilustración // Illustration: Irene A. Canalís Traducción // Translation: Karla D. Romero

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Me encanta hacer asados, estoy seguro de que a todos también. Me encanta la parrilla ardiendo, las llamas abrasadoras en las que ponemos la comida, esperar con una bebida y estar seguro de que nada se quema. Por supuesto hay matices que distinguen una buena parrilla de una mala pero no hay nada que un poco de práctica no pueda solucionar. Un par de cosas que aprenderás delante del fuego es que no todos los asados son iguales y que conociendo tu parrilla y como calienta puede ayudar a mejorar lo que tu parrilla significa. Tampoco tienes que preocuparte por cualquier asado que quieras hacer, quieres que esté churruscadito y ver que pasa. En casi todo, asar es tenerlo todo preparado, listo para salir fuera y echarlo todo al fuego. En esta receta, yo uso una parrilla eléctrica… es lo que tengo por ahora. Es una comida pura que me encanta comer.

that a little practice can’t fix. A few things you’ll learn from some time in front of the flame is that all grills aren’t created equal and that getting to know your grill, its hot spots and how well it cooks food can really improve the outcome of what your grilling significantly. You also don’t want to fuss with whatever you’re grilling, you want a nice char so just leave it alone and let it happen. For the most part, grilling is all about prep, getting everything ready to just go outside and slap it on the grill. In this recipe, I’m using an electric grill… it’s what I had at the time. It’s a solid meal that I love to eat.

I love to grill as I’m sure most everyone does. I love that its just hot grates over a scorching flame that you throw food on, stand around with a drink and make sure nothing catches fire. Of course there are nuances that distinguish good grillers from bad grillers but its nothing

This probably serves about 4 people but I’ll make it for two, get some heroes and make a ridiculous Vietnamese Banh Mi sandwich to have for lunch the next day...that’s next time…

Este plato sirve para 4 personas pero lo haré para dos. Consigue un par de héroes y haz un espectacular sandwich Vietnamese Banh Mi para almorzar al día siguiente…aunque esa receta la dejaremos para otro día…


INGREDIENTES PARA EL ADOBO MARINADE INGREDIENTS • 600g de falda, preferiblemente biológica // About a 1 1/2 Lb Flank Steak, Preferably No Antibiotics or Growth Hormones and Grass-fed • 4-5 Limas // 4-5 Limes • 2 cebollinos // 2 Scallions, Chopped • 3 ajos rallados // 3 Garlic Cloves, Grated • Un trozo de jengibre rallado // A knob of Ginger, Grated • 2-3 cucharadas de salsa de soja // 2-3 Tablespoons of Soy Sauce • Un pellizco grande de pimienta picante molida // A Heaping Pinch of Red Pepper Flake • Sal y pimienta // Salt & Pepper • Aceite // Oil for the Grates

1

Para hacer el adobo, mezcla el zumo de la lima, con el jengibre y el ajo rallado, el cebollino, la pimienta picante molida, la sal y la pimienta negra. Si quieres añadirle un toque dulce, puedes ponerle un poco de miel o néctar de agave si lo tienes a mano. Puedes poner el filete o bien en una bolsa de congelado o en un tupperware, alíñalo generosamente con sal y pimienta. Añade el adobo y estate seguro de que todo el filete este cubierto. Tápalo y mételo en la nevera durante una hora. To make your marinade, combine the lime juice, the grated ginger and garlic, the scallions, the soy sauce, the red pepper flake and salt and pepper. If you want to add a little sweetness, you can add a little honey or agave nectar if you’ve got it on hand. Either put the steak on a large freezer zip-lock bag or a Tupperware container and season the steak generously with salt and pepper. Add the marinade and make sure the whole steak is coated. Cover and refrigerate for at least an hour.


El chimichurri es una salsa ácida verde de Argentina. Está hecha de hierbas, ajo, vinagre y aceite. ¡Está riquísima! Chimichurri is a tangy green sauce from Argentina. It’s basically just some herbs, garlic, vinegar and oil. It’s real good!

SALA CHIMICHURRI CHIMICHURRI SAUCE • Un puñado de grande de perejil // A Big Handful of Flat-Leaf Parsley • Un puñado pequeño de cilantro // A Small Handful of Cilantro • 3 gajos de ajo // 3 Garlic Cloves • Un pellizco de pimienta picante molida // Pinch of Red Pepper Flake • ½ vaso de aceite de oliva // About a ½ cup of Olive Oil • Sal // Salt • Una picadora // A Blender

2 Trocea el perejil, el cilantro y el ajo. Si tienes una buena picadora, no necesitarás picarlo mucho, la mia es un poco débil así que la pico bastante… Chop the herbs and the garlic. If you have a good blender, you won’t need to chop it but since mine is a little wimp, I chop to give it a little head start... Echar dentro de la picadora la pimienta picante molida, el vinagre de vino, el aceite de oliva, sal y mézclalo bien. Ponlo en la nevera hasta que listo para servir. Toss into the blender with red pepper flake, red wine vinegar, olive oil, salt and zap it up nice! Throw it in the fridge until your ready to plate.

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2 ingredientes… eso es todo. // 2 ingredient... that’s all. Si no te gustan los espárragos, no los has probado de la forma correcta. No necesitas ni sal, ni pimienta, ni aceite, ni limón. La grasa y el toque sabroso de la panceta es todo lo que necesitas, la parrilla casi carameliza el esparrago. Es impresionante, ¡hazlo! If you don’t like asparagus, you probably had it the wrong way. You don’t need salt or pepper or oil or lemon in this recipe. The fat and the saltiness from the pancetta is all of the flavor you need and the grill kind of caramelizes the asparagus, it’s amazing, just do it!

ESPARRAGOS A LA PARRILLA ENROLLADOS CON BACÓN GRILLED PANCETTA WRAPPED ASPARAGUS • 1 manojo de espárragos verdes. Evita los espárragos mustios, no son buenos // 1 Bunch of Fresh Asparagus. Avoid the limp asparagus when shopping, limp is not good • 100g de bacon // ¼ lb of Paper Thin Pancetta

3 Corta el final de los espárragos. Mucha gente dice de pelar la parte de fuera pero es un rollo y yo no veo la necesidad. Enrolla los espárragos con el bacón y ponlos en la nevera hasta que la parrilla este caliente y hallas empezados hacer el arroz. Cut off the woody ends of the asparagus. Some people say to shave the outside of the asparagus but what a pain in the ass that is, plus I don’t see the need. Wrap the asparagus with the pancetta and throw it in the fridge until your grill heats up and you’ve started on the rice.

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Cuando digo perfecto, no intento echarme flores, hay un sistema muy fácil que hace que tu arroz salga perfecto siempre. Le cogí el truco a este arroz y no me puedo creer que nadie no haya adivinado. Incluyo las medidas sólo en caso de que te asustes pero prometo que funciona. When I say perfect, I’m not trying to brag, there’s merely an easy system to make sure your rice comes out perfect every time. I picked up this little trick for perfect rice but I still cannot believe anyone actually figured this thing out. I included measurements just in case this scares you but I promise, it works.

4

Dividir en dos el ajo y picar. Pon a

calentar a fuego medio-alto la mantequilla (para dar sabor) y el aceite en un cazo (para no asegurarnos de que la mantequilla no se quema). Cuando esté caliente, añadimos el año y lo dejamos hasta que esté doradito, más o menos 3-5 minutos, pero estate seguro de que no se quema. Añade el arroz, un poco de sal y un poco más de aceite si ves que está un poco seco. Remueve el arroz y tuestalo durante 1-2 minutos, estando, otra vez, seguro de que no se nos quema (me ha pasado y es una pena). Halve lengthwise then slice the garlic. Heat a small pot over medium-high heat and add the butter (flavor) and olive oil (to make sure the butter doesn’t burn). When it’s hot, add the garlic and cook until it just begins to brown, probably about 3-5 minutes, but make sure not to burn the garlic...use your judgment. Add the rice, a pinch of salt and a little bit more olive oil if the pot looks a little dry. Stir the rice to cover in oil and toast for about 1-2 minutes again making sure not to burn anything (I’ve done before, its a waste). Cuando el arroz empiece a oler a nuez, es el momento de echar el caldo. Y es aquí donde viene el truco. Echa el caldo, pero pon el dedo corazón en el caldo y toca la parte alta del arroz (no el fondo del cazo)… sabrás cuando habrás echado suficiente cuando el caldo llegue a la primera falange del dedo corazón. Ponlo en ebullición, baja el fuego y tápalo. Déjalo durante 15 minutos y tu arroz estará perfecto siempre.

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When the rice starts to smell nutty, its time to add the stock. Here is where the trick comes in. Add the stock but stick your middle finger into the stock and touch the top of the rice (not the bottom of the pan)... you’ll know you have enough stock when it just reaches the first joint at the top of your middle finger. Bring it to the boil, drop the heat to low and put a lid on. Cook for 15 minutes and your rice is fragrant and perfect, every time.

ARROZ BASMATI AL AJILLO PERFECT GARLIC BASMATI RICE • 1 vaso de arroz Basmati // 1 cup of Basmati Rice • 2 vasos de caldo de verduras // 2 Cups of Vegetable Stock • 4-5 dientes de ajo, picados muy finitos (no tienes porque usar tanto, a mi me encanta) // 4-5 Garlic Cloves, Thinly Sliced (You don’t have to use that much if you don’t like too much but I love garlic, big time) • Un pedazo de mantequilla // A Knob of Butter • Un par de cucharadas de aceite de oliva // A Few Tablespoons of Olive Oil • Sal // Salt


5 Hasta ahora la parrilla debería estar precalentada al máximo. By now your grill should already be preheated on high so its nice and hot. Saca la carne de la marinada y límpialo un poco con papel de cocina para secarlo… déjalo durante 15-30 minutos (cuando cocinas carne, siempre debes dejar que se ponga a temperatura ambiente antes de hacerla y SIEMPRE dejarla un rato después de hacerla y cortar un cacho. Esto hace que se distribuyan bien los jugos y así también sigue haciéndose un poco). Pon el filete en la parrilla de forma diagonal y hazlo durante 2 minutos y medio... después muévelo 90 grados y hazlo otros 2 minutos y medio. Después de unos 5-6 minutos hechos en ese lado, dale la vuelta y repite estos pasos en ese lado. Después de darle la última vuelta al filete, puedes empezar a echar los espárragos dentro. Después de 10-12 minutos, el filete debería estar entre poco hecho y su punto, pero cuando lo quites de la parrilla y lo dejes un rato antes de comer, el calor que tiene el filete hará que se ponga en su punto. Termina de hacer los espárragos – estarán hechos en cuanto veas que parezcan que están hechos… de nuevo, usa tu instinto. Take the meat out of the marinade and dab it with a paper towel to dry it off...let it sit for 15-30 minutes (whenever you cook meat, you always want it to come to room temperature before you cook it and ALWAYS let it rest after you cook it before cutting into it. This lets the juices redistribute and it also continues to cook a little bit more). Put the steak on the grill on a diagonal and cook for 2 ½ minutes... then turn it 90 degrees and cook for another 2 ½ minutes. After about 5-6 minutes cooking on that side, flip it over and repeat the same steps on the other side. After the last turn of the steak, you can start throwing on the asparagus. After 10-12 minutes, your steak should be a little under medium rare but when you take it off to rest, the residual heat will cook the steak to medium rare. Finish grilling the asparagus – they’re basically done when they look done... again, use your judgment. Cuando el filete este listo, córtalo al bies (o en trozos muy pequeños o un ángulo en contra del grano, esto hará que esté más tierno, y eso es bueno) When the steak is done resting, slice it on the bias (or really thin slices on an angle against the grain... this will make it extra tender and tender is good). Para emplatar, haz una montaña de arroz y pon los espárragos al lado. Pon unos trozos de carne y una cucharada de chimichurri encima y a comer. To plate, make a pile of the rice and lay the asparagus next to it. Lay a few slices of the meat out and then spoon the chimichurri sauce over the steak and dig in. humanize 81


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Por // By: Cristina Lorenzo Fotos // Photos: Cristina Lorenzo Ilustración// Illustration: Irene A. Canalís Traducción // Translation: Karla D. Romero Aunque nos os guste demasiado el caqui, podéis elaborar este bizcocho con total seguridad de que disfrutaréis de su sabor pues apenas se distingue y en cambio le aporta una extraordinaria jugosidad lo que lo convierte en uno de los mejores bizcochos que podáis elaborar, y si añadimos nueces o pepitas de chocolate a la masa ya será el no va más.

Athough you might not like persimmon too much, I can guarantee that you’ll love the way this bread tastes. The persimmon has very little flavor and makes the bread moist which makes this bread delicious and it only gets better if you add pecans and chocolate chips to the dough!

INGREDIENTES // INGREDIENTS

• 240g de huevos (5) // 5 eggs • 240g de aceite de oliva suave, frito y frío // 240g of smooth olive oil, fried and cold • 240g de azúcar // 240g of sugar • 240g de harina de fuerza // 240g of hard wheat (baker’s flour) • 240g de caqui pelado y cortado en trozos // 240g of pealed and chopped persimmon • 1 sobre de levadura química o polvos de hornear (16g) // 16g of baking powder • Una pizca de sal // A pinch of salt

Batimos los huevos con el azúcar, el aceite y los caquis. Unimos y tamizamos la harina, con la sal y la levadura. Unimos ambas mezclas (sin batir) y volcamos la crema resultante en un molde de cake untado con mantequilla y espolvoreado de harina. Introducir a horno precalentado a 180ºC durante 40 minutos aproximadamente o hasta que al pinchar con un palillo este salga limpio. Retirar, dejar enfriar 10 minutos y desmoldar. Podemos servirlo acompañado de alguna salsa de chocolate.

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Beat the eggs with the sugar, the oil and the persimmon. Combine and sift the hard wheat with the salt and the baking powder. Combine both mixtures (without beating) and pour the mix in a cake mold, spreading butter and sprinkling flour. Place in the oven, preheated at 180ºC during approximately 40 minutes or check with a toothpick by poking it – if it comes out clean, it’s ready. Removed, let it sit for 10 minutes and remove from mold. It can be served with any chocolate sauce.


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Por // By: Desiderio Santoja Traducción // Translation: Karla D. Romero

Raúl se acordaba perfectamente del momento en el que perdió su primer juguete. Se trataba de aquel tren de madera, el que tenía tantos vagones de colores y que le había regalado su abuelo al cumplir tres años. Desapareció sin más, se esfumó sin dejar rastro alguno. Una tarde, simplemente, ya no lo encontró en aquella enorme estantería que tenía por pared en su cuarto y que estaba repleta de juguetes. Raúl remembered perfectly the exact moment when he lost his first toy. It was one of those wooden trains, those with different colored cars, and his grandfather had given it to him when he turned three. It disappeared without a trace. When he went to look for it one afternoon, on that gigantic shelf against his bedroom wall, it was no longer there. El niño entonces repasó sus acciones, sus decisiones, pensando en lo que había hecho, en lo que había podido suceder. Pero nada, aquel día no había tenido tiempo para jugar. Su madre se había ido a trabajar, era su primer día en aquella mugrienta cafetería que finalmente había decidido contratarla tras meses de entrevistas y pruebas, y él se había quedado con su padrastro viendo la televisión, toda la mañana. Aquel perezoso no trabajaba ni hacía nada que se le asemejara. He traced his steps, his decisions, trying to remember what he’d done, what could have happened. But nothing came to mind, he hadn’t had time to play that day. His mother had gone to work and it was her first day in that disgusting café that had finally decided to hire her, after months of interviews, and he had stayed with his stepfather watching TV all morning. That lazy bum didn’t work or do much of anything at all. El incidente lo desconcertó, incluso lo preocupó, de ahí que le preguntara a su madre nada más regresar ésta a casa. Pero ella tampoco parecía saber nada. Era la última opción tras buscarlo por todas partes, su última esperanza: que su madre lo hubiese guardado, por el motivo que fuera. Pero no sólo no conocía el paradero del tren de madera, sino que además no le daba ninguna importancia a su desaparición. Pensaba que ya lo encontraría, que podía haberlo olvidado en cualquier parte. Aunque el chico sabía, con total seguridad, que había desaparecido. The incident puzzled and even worried him, so much so that he asked his mother as soon as she got home. She didn’t seem to know anything about it either. It was his last option after he had looked everywhere for it, his last hope: that his mother had put it away, for whatever reason. Not only did she not know where the train was, but she didn’t seem to care much about its disappearance. She thought he’d find it at some point, that he had forgotten it somewhere. Although he knew for sure that it had vanished.

A la mañana siguiente Raúl volvió a quedarse solo con su padrastro, para disgusto del pequeño. Era un hombre peculiar, por tildarlo de algún modo, de extrañas costumbres y gustos. Él prefería la compañía de su madre, pero ésta debía trabajar. Ella los mantenía a todos, a los tres. Porque el padrastro de Raúl, además de peculiar, era un vago. The next morning, Raúl was once again alone with his stepfather, which upset him. He was a peculiar man, to say the least, with strange habits. She put bread on the table for the three of them. Because Raúl’s stepfather, aside from being peculiar, was lazy. Antes de comer, el niño pudo escapar durante unos minutos de su atosigante padrastro. Siempre quería que estuviesen juntos, que se hicieran amigos. Pero Raúl no quería. A él no le gustaba aquel hombre excesivamente sudoroso que decía tantas palabras mal sonantes y al que parecía crecerle un espeso pelo por todo el cuerpo. Así que se escabulló como pudo y subió hasta su habitación. Quería estar a solas, realmente lo necesitaba. Cuando entonces reparó en algo, o mejor dicho, en la ausencia de ese algo. Before lunch, he was able to escape the grip of his stepfather for a few minutes. He always wanted to be together so they’d become friends. But Raúl didn’t want to. He didn’t like that sweaty man that said such ugly words that seemed to have hair growing all over his body. So he escaped however he could and went up to his room. He wanted to be alone, he really need to be alone. Until he came across something, or rather, the absence of that something. Su peluche favorito, un payaso rechoncho de expresión bonachona, no estaba con el resto. Había desaparecido, del mismo modo que lo había hecho el tren. Raúl estaba ahora seguro de que algo sucedía en aquella casa. Ya eran dos los juguetes que habían desaparecido estando el fuera de la habitación, estando él con… Entonces cayó Raúl. Al fin lo comprendió. His favorite stuffed toy, a chubby clown with a easy-going expression, wasn’t with the rest of the toys. It had vanished, just as the train had. Raúl was sure that something was going on in that house. There were now two instances of disappearing toys when he wasn’t in his soon, when he was with… then Raúl realized what was happening. He finally understood it all. Cada vez que estaba con su padrastro, algo desaparecía de su cuarto. Each time he was with his stepfather, something would disappear from his room.

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Al principio pensó que aquel indeseable podía estar asociado con unos malvados gnomos que le robaban sus pertenencias. Su padrastro distraía al dueño, lo mantenía alejado, fuera del punto en cuestión, y luego sus secuaces llevaban a cabo el trabajo sucio. Pero aquella no fue más que una primera impresión. Una fugaz, volátil. Una infantil. Raúl ya era un chico mayor, pese a divertirse y pasar el tiempo con juguetes, como para creer en la magia y en los seres sobrenaturales. At first he thought that that undesirable man was working together with some evil trolls that were stealing his belongings. His stepdad would distract the owner, he would keep him far from his room, then his henchmen would do all of the dirty work. But that was only his initial impression. A volatile and fleeting impression. A childish impression. Raúl was a big boy now, despite playing with toys, and he didn’t believe in magic or supernatural creatures. Si existiesen los gnomos y las hadas, las princesas y los magos, estos nunca habrían permitido que su padre se fuera, que sucediesen cosas malas. Que le sucediesen cosas malas a él, a Raúl, a un simple niño. If trolls and fairies existed, princesses and wizards would have never let his father leave or let anything else bad happen. They would never allow bad things to happen to a boy like Raúl. De ahí que decidiera dejarlo correr, esperar hasta el día siguiente, hasta quedarse a solas con su padrastro, a ver qué sucedía. Y para su desgracia, algo volvió a desaparecer. Sólo que esta vez fueron dos juguetes en vez de uno. He decided to let it go, to wait until the next day when he was alone with his stepfather, to see what would happen. Unfortunately for him, something disappeared again. Except this time two toys disappeared instead of one. Raúl no lo podía creer, ahora sí que estaba furioso. Fue al encuentro de su padrastro y le dijo que parase, que le devolviese sus juguetes, que eran suyos. Pero éste ni se inmutó. Le dijo que todo lo suyo le pertenecía, porque ahora él le pertenecía. Ahora era su padre, era suyo. Aunque lo que más sorprendió a Raúl fue la desfachatez con la que le comunicó que no iba a detenerse. También le dijo que no hablara de aquel asunto con su madre, porque no le iba a creer. Pero aún así Raúl lo hizo, debía intentarlo. Y por supuesto, como muy bien le dijo aquel espantoso hombre, su madre no le creyó.

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Raúl couldn’t believe it. Now he was really angry. He went to his stepfather and told him to stop, to give him back his toys, that they were his. His stepfather didn’t move a muscle. He told Raúl that everything that belonged to him was now his, because Raúl belonged to him. He said he was now his father. What really surprised Raúl was the nerve his stepfather had when he told Raúl that he wasn’t going to stop. He also told him to not mention this to his mother, because she wouldn’t believe him anyway. Raúl told her anyway, he at least needed to try. And of course, as that horrid man told him, his mother didn’t believe him. La agotada mujer primero lloró, por lo que según ella, eran unas horribles acusaciones. Luego se enojó mucho, pero mucho, y abofeteó a Raúl con todas sus fuerzas. Aunque lo peor fue cuando el momento de arrepentimiento nunca llegó. Nunca dejó escucharse un perdón por parte de la madre de Raúl. De modo que el chico, deprimido, y sumamente decepcionado por cómo había acabado el asunto, dejó el tema como olvidado en su pequeña cabecita y nunca volvió a sacarlo. The exhausted woman cried first, because according to her, these were horrible accusations. Then she got extremely angry and slapped Raúl as hard as she could. The worst part was when her moment of regret never arrived. Not a single, “I’m sorry,” was spoken by Raúl’s mother. He dropped the subject, depressed and extremely disappointed about the way things had turned out. He never mentioned it again. Aquel tirano nunca recibió su merecido, nunca fue reprendido por lo que hizo, por lo que seguía haciendo. Nadie creyó a Raúl. Y de aquel modo llegó un día en el que aquella pared que había sido la envidia de cualquier niño, se quedó vacía, sin un solo juguete. Sin nada que hiciera referencia a una infancia feliz. That tyrant never got what he had coming, he was never punished for what he’d done, so he continued to do so. No one believed Raúl. And the day arrived when that wall that had been every child’s dream was completely empty, without a single toy. Nothing that reminded him of his happy childhood. Así fue como Raúl se dio cuenta de que su padrastro le había robado su infancia, su inocencia, poco a poco, y cada vez que los dos se quedaban a solas. This is how Raúl realized that his stepfather had stolen his childhood, his innocence, little by little, every time they were alone.


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RATHSKELLER RAT KILLER Por // By: Earl Crown Ilustración // Illustration: Jennifer Jutchinson

All Oscar Strangeways wanted from his Sunday afternoons were fountain Cokes and peace. He usually had unrealistic expectations. Oscar felt a hand on his shoulder. He nearly got pulled off of his bar stool. The hand belonged to George Tirpitz. With the foulest of cheap beer breath, George slurred into Oscar’s face, “What about thuhh-- whabout—BURRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAP.” George vomited onto the ground and with a fair amount of accuracy considering his condition. Most of the barf was in a neat pile between the bar stools. A bit got onto Oscar’s shoe. In Oscar’s mind, any amount of vomit on his shoe was unacceptable. Chaka Khan was singing, “I feee-eell for you. I think I love you,” just as George finished puking. Oscar almost always played that song on the jukebox at the Rendezvous. Sometimes he played it twice, just to piss-off the regulars. Frustrated with George’s typically disgusting antics, Oscar leaned forward and yelled down to the other end of the bar, “Madge, can I get a mop, please?” The Rendezvous was the type of bar where if you puked, as long as you cleaned it up, they would let you keep drinking. It was also the type of bar where the staff did not care if Oscar came in on a Sunday afternoon and ordered Cokes and blatantly smoked weed in the Billiard Room. Oscar tipped well, even when he was drinking Cokes instead of Tanqueray.

trashcan. Once he had disposed of the solids, he got to work with the mop. As George mopped the floor and the foot rail on the bar, Oscar stuck out his defiled foot. George mopped the small patch of vomit off of Oscar’s black leather square-toed shoe. George continued his question from earlier, “Wha-aboud the time you put me down some stairs? Why’d you do that?” Oscar frowned and replied, “I was at the BOTTOM of the stairs and you FELL down them. I did NOT push you. You were in a blackout drunk, and you fell down some steps. I did not and would not push you.” “Why’d I r’member it that way?” George persisted. Whenever George got drunk around Oscar, Oscar had to defend himself for this same imaginary crime. Oscar reasoned, “You think I did it because it sounds like some shit I would do. But I didn’t.” “You pushed that dude,” George was laughing hysterically, pulling the full trash bag from the can in order to replace it with a fresh bag. He continued, “Y-you pushed that asshole down some steps right over here,” pointing upward to the dark, empty upstairs bar on the second floor. Oscar sipped his fountain Coke. He was often the victim of an over-stated reputation. Oscar had done some outrageous things over the years, and he had been in a few public scuffles. But his reputation for fisticuffs and mayhem went way beyond the objective truth.

In his younger, rougher days, Oscar had even thrown the bouncer at the Rendezvous down a flight of stairs (out of boredom). They fired the bouncer, and Oscar Strangeways strolled back into the Rendezvous the very next night. Nobody cared.

George Tirpitz was even more infamous in Baltimore than Oscar Strangeways. But unlike with Oscar, the tales of George’s antics were usually true. George did not need to have any tall tales constructed around him. He was already living a tall tale.

George was scooping his vomit up off the ground with a plastic cup and throwing it into a huge, round Rubbermaid

George, pale and gaunt, shuffled out the front door of the bar, dragging the trash bag full of broken bottles and vomit

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to the dumpster in the alley. His shaved head glowed in the sunlight that momentarily flooded the doorway. While George was outside, Oscar used that opportunity to go to the men’s room. As you might imagine, the Rendezvous’ restrooms were bleak and filthy. At night, the men’s room at the ‘Vous was the best place in the neighborhood to buy cocaine. There was a mirror that stretched across the wall next to the urinal. Other than the gaping crack down the middle and the missing chunk on the bottom, the mirror portrayed the illusion that this urine-soaked closet was twice its actual size.

Oscar pulled a fat joint out of his pack of Parliaments, lit it, and passed it to Charlie Apples. Oscar asked, “What’s the over-under on George’s life right now, anyway?” Charlie exhaled and said, “Probably a year,” as he passed the joint back to Oscar, “maybe sixteen months.” Oscar inhaled like he’d been bit by a snake and the antidote was in the joint. Exhaling, Oscar told Charlie, “I’d take the under, either way.”

Oscar watched himself in the mirror while he peed. His gray eyes were bloodshot from smoking joints. Oscar thought he looked kind of like David Gedge from the band The Wedding Present, only a bit taller. Oscar’s shoulders were broad and his face was locked into a look of perpetual disapproval. Even when he was having fun, he still had that look on his face. George burst into the men’s room like he was a skinhead Dick Van Dyke, fumbling with the door as it flew open, and landing on his face. Now George had puke AND piss on his face. “Jesus, George,” Oscar said as he flushed the urinal with his right foot, “we’ve gotta get you cleaned-up.” George mumbled, “I’ll be fine.”

Charlie laughed, “We should start a Tirpitz Death Pool.” George’s voice came from the other room, “That bitch Veronika will probably bet the under, too.” George walked down to where Charlie and Oscar were standing next to a pool table, and tried to grab the smoking joint. Oscar quickly pulled his hand away from George, saying, “You’ve got barf-mouth. I don’t want your filthy fuckin lips on my joint.” Oscar passed the joint to Charlie.

Oscar stepped over George and out the restroom door.

“C’mon Oscar, I washed up and gargled with some of this Natty Boh,” George protested, displaying his can of cheap beer.

George’s voice followed him, yelling, “An’ yoooodoanlook at ALL like David Gedge! You look like Fatty Arbuckle!”

Charlie exhaled and sang, “Fuck yoooooooooo, George,” and handed the joint back to Oscar.

“Fuck you, George.”

Apples continued to bust balls with George as the two walked back to the bar room.

“Yah, FUCK you George,” Madge echoed from behind the bar. The three drunks at the bar immediately followed-up with a jumbled chorus of “Fuck you, George.” Madge put another fountain Coca-Cola in front of Oscar. He left two bucks on the bar, which was strictly a tip for Madge. A fountain soda only costs a bar about 5 cents. A good bartender won’t charge you for a fountain soda. Oscar walked past the bar and made his way back to the sunken room, the room with the pool tables.

Still smoking at the pool table, Oscar was thinking about “that bitch” Veronika as he toked on the joint. Veronika was George’s gorgeous German girlfriend. She had long, straight brownish-blonde hair and bright, blue eyes. Veronika was fit, but not too trim. She had the best bubblebutt, albeit a smallish bubble, that Oscar had ever seen on a White woman. Veronika was beautiful, by anyone’s standards. Oscar Strangeways had watched a lot of George’s friends make clumsy attempts to flirt with Veronika. She never responded to them, not even in a polite way. She just stared them into oblivion.

“Hey Strange-ways!” It was Oscar’s friend, Charlie Apples. Charlie was an editor at the City Paper, and a well-known gambling addict. He was also one of Oscar’s favorite people, despite the fact that he never pronounced Oscar’s last name correctly. He greeted his friend Charlie, “Hey Apples. It’s pronounced Strang, like twang. Strang-ways. Not Strange-ways like Dr. Strangelove.” Charlie grinned. He was almost always grinning. Charlie observed, “I see your boy George got sick at the bar. Again.” “Boy George,” Oscar mumbled, “that’s hilarious.”

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Oscar never made any passes at Veronika. He wanted to believe that his restraint was out of respect for George. This was bullshit, of course, because Oscar did not really have any respect for George. He had affection for George. He felt pity for George, but that pity was mixed with disgust. The real reason Oscar never tried to bed Veronika was that he assumed she was not interested. Veronika and George had spent many evenings at Oscar’s house. Usually they were already a bit drunk when they arrived. George usually had a six-pack of National Bohemian with him whenever he visited Oscar’s house. He’d roll through all six in about an hour or so, then drink whatever Oscar had to offer. Veronika and Oscar would smoke grass and talk about music. Veronika was a musician. She played the cello for the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra. Often,


George would pass out on one couch, and Oscar and Veronika would go on talking for hours while George slept.

Veronika yelled from the kitchen, “George, take Yoshi out for a walk!”

Oscar made his way back to the bar and yelled, “Yo GREEK! I’m taking you home to Veronika. Let’s eat some pot roast.” He sometimes referred to George as “Greek” because George was Greek on his mother’s side.

George and the dog hustled to the back of the house and into the kitchen and out the back door.

George responded with, “Hey Madge, gimme one more,” as he counted out five quarters to pay for the beer. Madge arrived with the beer, scowling at George. She slammed down the Natty Boh on the bar. The foam from the cheap beer soaked everything, including George. George set down a sixth quarter and said, “That’s for you Madge. Get yourself something nice.”

Veronika came out of the kitchen and through the dining room and into the living room. She saw Oscar and smiled. She came over to Oscar for their traditional greeting, a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. To Oscar’s surprise, she walked over to him and kissed him directly on the mouth for a full three seconds. He felt her lips tugging on his bottom lip. He gave her ass a little squeeze. “Are you hungry?” she asked, still smiling and holding her body close to Oscar. “Starving,” he replied.

The two men left the bar. Both were looking forward to eating pot roast at George’s house. Oscar was looking forward to seeing Veronika. In contrast to Oscar, George was not looking forward to seeing his girlfriend, as they had been fighting like rabid wolverines for days. She was tired of watching him get drunk, act out, and pass out. George was happy Oscar was coming home with him for dinner. He thought his friend might be an effective buffer against Veronika’s disdain.

Feeling an erection developing, Oscar pulled away and walked into the dining room. He sat down at the table and pulled out a big sack of weed. Oscar asked Veronika, “Where did you guys put your bong?” She frowned and replied, “George got drunk and dropped it.” Oscar was not pleased.

Skinny, bald-headed George was grinning broadly, one bottom front tooth missing, sitting in the passenger seat of Oscar’s car. It was a moist, muggy August Sunday in Baltimore. Oscar was smoking another in a series of joints, and he was not sharing. George was oblivious, finishing his last beer and throwing the can out the window. Roxy Music’s “2 HB” was playing on the stereo at a skull shattering volume. Bryan Ferry was belting out, “Here’s looking at YOU, kid...” Turning the corner onto Keswick Road, Oscar watched an entire herd of rats scurry across the street. He wondered what had motivated the rats to cross the road. George and Veronika lived in a crumbling rowhome on Keswick Road in Hampden. Hampden above 36th Street had been transformed from a working-class neighborhood to a fashionable spot for gentry and wannabe artists. The gentry began their invasion of Hampden in the mid-1990’s, and by 2005 Hampden was full of Volvos and Suburus with “I Love City Life” bumper stickers. While the gentrification had raised property values (which benefited Oscar, who had a house on Beech Avenue), it had also destroyed the neighborhood’s soul. The original residents had been priced out and forced out by a bunch of Whole Foods douchebags. George and Veronika had been forced by circumstances to rent BELOW 36th street, where Hampden still looked like Hampden. George stumbled into the front door, followed closely by Oscar. They were greeted with enthusiasm, barking, and slobber by Yoshi, a giant black Lab/Shepherd mix. Yoshi loved Oscar, and practically tackled him every time he came to visit. Oscar was not much of a “dog person”. He found Yoshi’s enthusiasm annoying. The house smelled like a combination of cigarettes, smelly dog and pot roast.

“That was a beautiful glass bong! I gave that to you two weeks ago, and it’s already broken?!” Veronika sat down across the table from Oscar and spoke. “I apologize, Oscar. It was a wonderful gift, but George is an arschloch. He breaks things all the time.” Just then George and Yoshi came in through the back door. George sat down at the dining room table with Veronika and Oscar. He looked at the bag of weed and said to Oscar, “Yah dude, I broke the bong the other night. We’ll have to smoke a joint.” In her German accent, Veronika asked Oscar, “Do you have your paperz?” Oscar and George made eye contact, and both of them began laughing hysterically. Veronika seemed perplexed by their laughter. “Vat’s so funny?” she queried. George explained, “Hey, Kroutee-pants, you probably shouldn’t ask somebody ‘do you have your papers’ with that German accent. You’re making the Polack nervous.” Veronika finally understood their amusement, and joined them in laughing. She commented to Oscar, “Strangeways is not a Polish name. Is your Mom Polish?” “No,” Oscar replied, “She’s French-Canadian. Strangeways is not my family’s original name. Our original name is BorKommerovski.” Intrigued, Veronika asked, “Vy did they change the name?” Oscar proceeded to tell Veronika the story of how his

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grandfather had been in the Polish Army in 1939, and that he was a pilot. His grandfather had flown out of Poland when its government surrendered to the Nazis, escaping to England. Oscar’s grandfather enlisted with the RAF, and flew against the Germans during the Blitz. His grandfather’s cousin was the general in charge of the Polish government when they surrendered to the Germans. Oscar’s grandfather was so ashamed of his cousin, General Bor-Kommerovski, for being such a terrible leader, that he chose to change the family name. During the war, Oscar’s grandfather was stationed in a town called Strangeways in England. Thus, he changed the family name to Strangeways. While in England, he met and married a Polish-American nurse. After the war was over, Oscar’s grandfather moved to the United States, choosing to live in Baltimore with his wife’s family.

George chimed in with an aggressive tone, almost yelling, “I MADE THIS. All she did was watch it while it cooked.”

When Oscar had finished his story, Veronika smiled and said, “No vonder you did not want to show me your papers.”

Slamming the refilled pint glass on the table, she admonished George, “STOP hitting the fucking DOG!”

Oscar did, in fact, have his papers on him, and he rolled a thick spliff. He watched intently as Veronika wrapped her lips around it and inhaled. He watched her chest expand. He watched her exhale, smoke dancing around her face. George noticed that Oscar was staring at Veronika. Veronika noticed George noticing that Oscar was watching her. She smiled and gave Oscar a quick kiss on the lips.

“Its MY dog, you bitch. I’ll do what I want.”

“Thank you, Oscar,” she said, passing the spliff back to Oscar, “Let me get dinner served.” She stood up and walked back into the kitchen. George and Yoshi followed her. Oscar could hear George grilling Veronika. “Why the fuck are you kissing Oscar? Especially in front of me. That’s fucked up.” Veronika did not respond. Oscar heard the over door open, and then the clank of metal against metal. George continued, “Did you remember to baste this meat, or what? I started a great pot roast here before I left. I hope you didn’t ruin it.” Now Veronika responded with, “George, shut the fuck up and take these plates into the dining room. I’ll bring you a beer.” George shuffled into the dining room and rougly dropped the plates on the table. The utensils that were on top of the plates scattered around the table. He shot a hostile look at Oscar. Oscar smiled, and handed George the smoking joint. George inhaled deeply, with one eye mostly shut and the other still staring at Oscar. This was George’s way of being menacing, or so he thought. Oscar out-weighed George by about fifty pounds. He found George’s attempt at intimidation to be amusing. Veronika walked quickly into the dining room and handed George a beer in a glass, then returned quickly to the kitchen. She emerged seconds later with the pot roast, already sliced. George had already gulped down his entire beer. He was angry-drinking at this point. “Veronika,” Oscar said, “this looks GREAT.”

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Then George handed his empty glass to Veronika, and waved her toward the kitchen. Veronika took the empty glass and mumbled, “asshole” as she went to pour George another beer. As Oscar began serving pot roast onto each person’s plate, Yoshi was highly agitated. The dog paced and barked and tried to put his face on Veronika’s plate. George violently struck Yoshi on the nose with an open hand. Yoshi let out a low growl, showing his teeth to George. Veronika emerged again from the kitchen and witnessed the incident.

Veronika took a piece of meat from the platter, held it in front of Yoshi’s face, and used the meat to lure Yoshi into the kitchen and out the back door. She left the dog in the back yard. George drank about half of his beer, then looked closely at the glass. He loudly questioned Veronika as she came back into the room. “Veronika, this beer tastes bitter as shit. What the fuck?” She sighed and answered, “Its Grolsch. I bought two sixpacks for you while you were at the bar.” George snapped, “I fucking hate Grolsch.” “Well,” she fired back, “You’d better drink it, because its the only beer in the house.” George finished the beer, and stuck out the pint glass with a sudden jerk of his arm. The glass stopped about two inches from Veronika’s face. She frowned and grabbed the glass. Veronika turned to Oscar and asked, “Do you want a beer, Oscar?” Oscar already had a mouth full of pot roast, and so he simply shook his head. Swallowing the meat, he asked for a Coke. Veronika went to fetch a Coke for Oscar, taking George’s glass with her to refill it yet again. “George,” Oscar said, “this pot roast is terrific.” George grunted something unintelligible in response. Oscar pressed on, saying, “you’re good at three things George: cooking, playing guitar, and drinking. You’re almost as accomplished as a chef as you are as a drunk.” George was an excellent chef. But he had been fired by every good restaurant in Baltimore because of his constant intoxication and general unreliability. McCabe’s Restaurant had fired George a week earlier when they caught him pissing into a crab steamer. Months earlier, Holy Frijoles had fired George for smoking crack in the walk-in freezer. This firing was particularly ridiculous since the owner himself was constantly snorting coke in that same freezer.


Veronika served George his third beer, and finally sat down to eat. The three dinner companions ate voraciously, with hardly a word spoken. Veronika watched George intently, as if she expected him to explode at any moment. Yoshi could be heard barking in the back yard. George drank a fourth and then a fifth Grolsch, both served to him by Veronika. Each time she went to the kitchen and came back with another beer, George would said progressively shittier things to her. “Wasn’t your grandpappa, Sergeant Meenks, a guard at Auschwitz?” George cackled and coughed at his own terrible joke. Veronika answered “Fuck you, George.” But despite George’s obnoxious behavior, Oscar noticed that Veronika was smiling through all of it, even when she was telling George to go fuck himself. She seemed delighted about something, but Oscar could not understand what was making her smile through the verbal abuse. She turned to Oscar and said, “You know Oscar, George has a lot of trouble fucking me. Did you know that? He gets so drunk that his cock can’t get hard half the time. Then when he can’t fuck me, he gets upset and either cries or hits me or both.” Oscar muttered, “Jesus Christ, don’t tell me these things.” George was trembling with rage. He tried to stand up, but instantly fell to the floor. He tried to get up again by using his toppled chair as a brace, but instead his head impacted the edge of the table. George was a bloody, flailing mess. All he could do was cuss. He couldn’t even crawl. “Veronika Meenks, y--” George coughed up a chunk of blood and roast beef before continuing, “you KROUT CUNT!” George coughed up still more blood. His nose bled. Yoshi was going absolutely bananas in the back yard, barking bloody murder at the back door. Oscar stood up to leave. The situation was getting ugly, and he wanted no part of it. As he made his way out of the room, Oscar emplored George, “For shit’s sake man, get some help. Call an ambulance.” Veronika followed Oscar out into the living room and grabbed him by the arm. “Don’t leave yet,” she said, and kissed Oscar hard on the mouth. They kissed for what seemed like a full minute. George could be heard moaning in the next room. Yoshi was still barking madly in the back yard. Oscar enjoyed kissing Veronika, but he pulled away from her. He knew that George could potentially crawl in from the next room and see what was happening. As if she had read his thoughts, Veronika assured Oscar, “Don’t worry about George. He’s completely fucked. He won’t be conscious in a few seconds.”

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“You don’t know that, Veronika. And besides, this whole situation is fucked. If you want to leave George, if you’re not happy, just leave him. If you like me and want to be with me, do it the right way. Break up with George.” “I just did,” she responded, “I just killed him, so there is nothing preventing us from getting together.” George was still moaning. The dining room floor was covered in blood. Yoshi could smell the blood from outside, which only fueled his insatiable desire to get back into the house. Oscar was stunned. He asked Veronika if she was joking. She assured him she was serious. Oscar felt rage and disgust bubbling up in his stomach. He grabbed Veronika around the neck, and through her onto a couch. He was screaming at Veronika, “How the FUCK could you poison somebody? You sick krout! DID YOU POISON ME, TOO?!” Veronika groaned, “I put it in his beer. I used rat poison and klonipin.” Oscar’s hands were tightening around Veronika’s neck. In the back of his mind, he considered calling an ambulance, but he figured it was too late for George. “Fuck me,” she said, “George is dead. Fuck me.” Yoshi had barked himself horse. George’s moaning and flailing was growing softer as the moments passed. “Fuck me.” Oscar took his hands from around Veronika’s neck, and flipped her over onto her stomach. He yanked her jeans downward, exposing her vibrating butt. He ripped off her knickers without even fully removing her jeans. Oscar fucked Veronika with a furious vigor. She pushed herself against his throbbing cock with violence, screaming “fuck me” the entire time. It was all over in a matter of seconds. Oscar came inside Veronika, then threw her down onto the floor. The dog, Yoshi, had stopped barking, and was now whining. George could not be heard at all. Oscar zipped up his fly and trotted out the door and down the street to his car. Three days passed, and Oscar did not hear from either George or Veronika. He had driven past their house each day, afraid to stop and inquire about their status. Oscar spent Wednesday afternoon in another bar, the Mt. Royal Tavern. He was drinking gin and tonic, going outside to the back alley every few minutes to smoke a cigarette and/or a joint. Four drinks and two joints into the process, Oscar went into the alley behind the Mt. Royal to have another cigarette. He could feel somebody following him. He turned and looked


to see Charlie Apples.

Oscar was relieved to hear she had taken the wrap.

“Hey Strangeways,” Charlie said.

Charlie continued, “Its horrible, man. They found the dog dead, too.”

Oscar did not bother to correct his pronounciation. “Hey Charlie.”

Oscar was confused by this news, and asked, “Wait, wait... Yoshi’s dead? Are you sure?”

Charlie continued, “It looks like we were right about taking the under on Tirpitz.”

“They found him in the back yard. She poisoned the dog, too.”

Oscar feigned ignorance, “What do you mean?”

Oscar was paralyzed with emotion. He could not talk or even move. He just trembled and sucked on his cigarette. Charlie kept talking for a few seconds, but the words were not penetrating Oscar’s mind. Oscar was thinking about the dog, thinking about Yoshi.

Charlie chuckled and said, “I mean they found him dead. That German girl killed him. She poisoned him. He’s dead.” Oscar pretended to be surprised, “Holy shit, really? That’s crazy.” Oscar was getting nervous, on the verge of a panic attack. He wondered if any witnesses had seen him leaving the house on Keswick. He wondered if crazy-ass Veronika had tried to implicate him as an accessory to murder.

Charlie walked away and into the Tavern. A tear was streaming down Oscar’s face as he thought about Yoshi the dog. His throat tightened, and in a barely audible tone he said, “Fuckin’ dog. Poor bastard.” It was all Oscar could manage

“It’s fucking bananas,” Charlie said, “she killed him with rat poison. They’ve got her in the looney-bin now, over at Springfield Hospital. She confessed to the whole thing. They said she was naked when the cops came in. Apparently she called 911 herself. That bitch is coo-coo.”

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HUMANIZE magazine

Humanize Issue 15  

Humanize Magazine is a completely bilingual publication (Spanish and English) that deals with indie and alternative culture in an innovative...

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