Issue 4: Duality - Humankind Zine

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On the Cover Illustration by Phoebe Nerem Instagram: @phersace Collage by Crystal Bowden Instagram: @crystalbowdencreates 2

Editor’s Note


Zine 3

Four: It has been a year since our last issue. After wrapping up Issue Three: Take Root, the team finally got around to something we’ve been wanting to do: a rebrand. Because our mission and content stayed constant, I guess you could say this was more of a visual update. We began brainstorming ideas for Issue Four at the start of the new year. Duality was one of the themes suggested by the community on our Instagram account. I was stuck in a creative rut earlier this year. I felt lost. Our executive team underwent transitions. Madelyne, our former blog director, and Haeun, our former creative director, both left the team after two years with Humankind Zine. Sidney, our social media director, was on a hiatus until the summer break. Some team members had to leave or simply disappeared. We didn’t have enough people in certain teams which made publishing consistent content difficult. It was a overwhelming at times. I was also figuring out my personal life, which included balancing 22 units in my final semester of community college, work, and ongoing health problems. With all of these things happening, I thought about ending the zine entirely or at least putting it in a indefinite hiatus. This issue serves as a friendly reminder that everything will work out in the end. It really helps that I get to work with an extremely patient and compassionate team. Crystal and Phoebe, our resident collagist and blog writer who also enjoys illustrating, took on the task of creating the cover for this issue. Given the amount of freedom and a Pinterest mood board with a bunch of faces and motion blur, I was blown away by the final product. These two, along with Haeun, one of our graphic designers Jennifer, a few former members of the blog team, including myself, were also involved in our re-branding effort. Jennifer was responsible for the amazing logo, while the rest of us worked on picking out fonts and brand colors that you see today. I took over the role of creative director and it’s been going well. I saw this as an opportunity to gain confidence in my creative direction and ideas. We also had some more talented people join our team over time. As for Issue Four, we received submissions from 67 contributors from all over the world with the help of other publications and individuals I would like to specifically thank the contributors involved in the Issue Four Artist Interview Series on Instagram. This was my first time outside of team applications where I heard from the contributors’ reason for submitting to Humankind Zine. I teared up a little when I read that people resonated with our message, and viewed our work as one of a kind. I will admit that I am hard on myself, so reading these responses helped me look at the brighter side of things and motivated me to keep on going. Anyways, thank you for always supporting Humankind Zine. We’re not leaving any time soon. There’s more to come. �� Stay Human, Libbe FounderPhan+Editor in Chief of Humankind


I want to acknowledge everyone who made everything from January 2022 leading up to now. Whether you’re on the team still or not, I hope you know that we couldn’t have done this without you

Blog Team + Guest Contributors: Phoebe Nerem, Regina Alieenteena, Joyce Chen, Angel Tortelo Coletti, Yvonne Pan, Audrey Fong, Shereen Rana, Emily Van Ryn, Maya Abraham, and Kila Lambertt

Thank you, Humankind Zine Team!

Madelyne R. Sosa (Blog Director), Tessa Martinez (Blog Director)

Founding Editor in Chief and Creative Director : Libbe Phan Blog Director: Muskan Kaur Social Media Director: Sidney Alexander Former Executive Team Members: Haeun Jeon (Creative Director)

Creative Team: Jennifer Gringas, Crystal Bowden, Hafsah Bibi, Kasey Edgerton, and Danielle Alexandra Issue Four Designers: Libbe Phan, Jennifer Gringas, Kila Lambertt, and Kasey Edgerton


Humankind Zine Re-Brand: Libbe Phan, Haeun Jeon, Jennifer Gringas, Phoebe Nerem, Crystal Bowden, Tessa Martinez, Joyce Chen, and Angel Tortelo Coletti


opinions or thoughts

Eva Carretero del Castillo Francesca Alaimo Irina Novikova Harri HollandWoodTait Irina Novikova Irtiza Sharief Isabella McClelland Jaina Cipriano Jazel dela Paz Jimena JocelynYengleWongJohnWolfer Josephine Raye Kelly Josh Stein Juan Sebastián Cassiani Kasey Edgerton Kate LăcrăKaydenTatsumiVargasGrozăvescu Lara


Cortez Vivien Solveig Zorbari Dinee-Laago 5

the artist. Aleksandra Płonka Anastasia Viaznikova Angela Patera Antonio bedfordtowersCoelho Bidisha P. Kashyap Brenna Tomas Colette CiaraCatherineCamillePomerleauTaginiVázquezChidoSimbarasiMei-LanRossDamlaÇ



Raj Bharaj Riley Sharma

Robi Gottlieb Cahen Rose Selina StephenWagnerRendonTammyHuaTeriAnderson

this zine belong

Four Contributors

the original artist.

Marnuse Dshamilja Roshani


Pedro Miguel Silva Coelho Silvestre Pieter Lübbe



Vicente Ortiz



NOTE: All seen in to Any expressed in of

Martha Stefani-Bose

writing are

For the best viewing experience, switch to desktop or a tablet �� 6


Eyes Wide Shut Josephine Raye Kelly Bay Area, California Instagram: @jrk.dreamscape 8

Floating Head Josephine Raye Kelly Bay Area, California Instagram: @jrk.dreamscape 9

Pain as Healer Josephine Raye Kelly Bay Area, California Instagram: @jrk.dreamscape 10

Seetangible.more of Josephine on Instagram: @jrk.dreamscape.

Artist Bio I’m a multimedia artist and writer who can never commit to one genre or medium of creation. I make art and pieces of writing therapeutically, to make sense of my internal world. My work almost always comes from a place of irresistible compulsion to make a feeling or experience


Artist Statement At the beginning 2022, I started working on a surreal collage project about healing from structural dissociation and using art as a way to find integration. I made almost twenty collage cards that featured magazine cutouts, vintage art, childhood photographs, and original drawings. They all represented parts of myself, some that I embraced and others I’d exiled. When I look at all of them together I realize how strange and exciting it is to hold so many different perspectives, fears, and desires in one body.

Jocelyn Wong Vancouver, British Columbia Instagram: @joceamber


Instead of waiting for its wrath to subside, letting time and nature take its more graceful course, I’d allow for the hotness to entirely consume me - let the skin at the roof of my mouth slough away like the dusty debris of a fruitless scratch-n-win.


Today, as I nurse the burnt roof of my mouth with a piece of ice, post-congee consumption, I wonder: Was I wrong? Or were the wounds of my passion meant to help remind me that the flames of my culture must remain alive?

I loathed the nights my parents would drop me off at grandma and grandpa’s place on Nanaimo and 22nd, anticipating the swampy humidity of their non-air conditioned space.

Adorned with scallions, sometimes pork floss, and a scant dash of Lao Gan Ma, there always existed a method for consuming the sacredly scorching stuff.

“Mix the liquid, let air hit its surfaces. You won’t burn the roof of your mouth if you practice something we elders call patience.”

Grandma always had a habit of serving her congee scalding. And being impatient, I’d often burn my tongue.

But, most of all, I disliked visiting Grandpa at the restaurant he worked at - hated seeing the bubbling wounds from the deep fryer on his wrinkling hands. Any semblance of grease on his skin reminded me of the time my 3rd grade teacher denounced all Chinese fare for being greasy, MSG-filled, and terrible for the figure. Was knowing the amount of work my grandma and grandpa did for the sake of my family here terrible for me? Or was it worse that I knew that regardless, despite their noblest, most patient efforts, the quality of their lives would always pale in comparison to the most privileged Canadians?

Like a lesson passed from generation to generation, or an unspoken truth that oft descended to muscle memory, she’d scold me when I’d wince at the temperature of her cooking - then teach me the secret of her ancient soup ways:

“Scrape the top layer off with the tip of your spoon,” she’d say.

Instead, I’d munch on the youtiao, hoping to gulp down her concoction when I’d built up just enough courage to risk it all. What grandma never understood was that I hated the heat.

I could never really just deal with it. I always jumped into the heat, hot-headed and chock full of passion - letting wounds stay wounds, fighting flames with even more scorn. Like calling the girl who jokily stretched her eyelids into slits in front of me a racist bitch - or throwing rocks at the boy who’d made fun of my very ethnically-tied last name. Instead of listening to grandma, instead of waiting for the food or my fiery rage to come down to a reasonable temperature, I dreamt of pouring molten soup down the shirts of everyone who ever made the facets of my culture seem non-appetizing. But then again, I’d be wasting some damn good soup.

I hated waiting in the crowded warmth, when they’d drag my brother and I to Chinatown on the weekends. We’d stand in line at the bustling butcher shop on the corner, smelling that unique blend of animal flesh, immigrant sweat, and five spice mix.


I don’t have pretty privilege. I don’t know what it’s like to walk into a room full of interested smiles or get away with something simply because of the symmetry of my face. I spent all of my school days yearning for the unspoken advantage of society valuing you more for being nice to look at. Boys never asked me out but instead passed through me on their way to my friends. When boys finally did speak to me, I was plagued with “your friend is hot, can I have her number?”. I would use the excuse of talking about my friends to keep the conversation going, so to unknowing people it might look like boys were interested in me. I would sit at my desk and internally beg for that special attention from the mature teacher that I fancied so badly, but he never looked at me. I studied myself in the mirror, desperate to know how life could be more accommodating. I made my school skirt shorter and wore more eyeliner. I made myself quieter and softer, hoping I could finally get an invite into the naturally biased club of my dreams. I’m still hating from the outside when it’s years later and I watch as my colleagues get the shifts they want because my manager likes looking at their legs in our uniform. My tips are smaller than the other girls even though I’m smiling just as much as them. People don’t speak to me first or offer help when they see me struggling. I feel rejected when a man won’t introduce himself to me when I’m out with my friends. I absolutely cannot relate when my friends tell me about the men that won’t leave them alone, or the stares they get from creeps on the street. I don’t have pretty privilege. I can walk into a room and nobody stares at me with lust. I managed to get through school without boys calling me a slut, simply because I wasn’t given the opportunity to reject them. I watched that girl grit her teeth as my teacher laid his eyes on her, grazing her leg and asking her to stay after class. I won’t ever know what it’s like to be in the club, but I now see how my colleagues let my manager stare at their legs so they can get the shifts they need to make their lives bearable. I watch girls get uncomfortable when men interject with their help and opinion that wasn’t asked for.

My friends can’t enjoy their night out without a man putting a hand on their lower back to get past. I’m so grateful that I cannot relate when my friends tell me about the men that won’t leave them alone.

It’s easy to assume that men won’t treat you like a human being if they don’t find you attractive. I wonder if it’s better to not be treated like a human being if it means the wrong ones will leave you alone. The curse I thought I’d been dealt has eventually become a blessing. I guess I’m pretty privileged.

Written by Harri @warrihoodWood Privilege



Tammy Hua Southern Instagram:California@tamalamadingdong Reflections of Self Jazel Dela Paz Toronto, Canada Instagram: @imagine.jpg 15


Guns n’ Roses Pawel,PacholecPoland

Collage artwork that shows two symbolic items which are flowers and guns. Each one represents the opposite value and quality. One is the symbol of peace, love and harmony and the second one stands for war, fight and violence. Composition is inspired by artists such as Kurt Schwitters and Robert Rauschenberg and artwork itself refers to style of dadaism.

Aleksandra Płonka InstagramPoland @_halo_ola_ Meditation 17

This piece probes at the pain and fear associated with the silent oppression of self. It is a visual exploration of the feeling of having something hold power over you. The girl places a hand over her throat representing the fear, inability, and lack of desire to seek help and sanctuary away from her demons. It is her mind that is the victim and yet her mind that is the abuser. Madie Aquino Southern California Instagram: @madie.aquino

CONTROL Acrylic, ink, and paper on canvas board



Pedro Miguel Silva Algés, Portugal Instagram: @ps.artshop

Love in the Bring Us


Silva Coelho Sivestre Portugal@ps.artshop the



In The Clouds I Monoprint, Oil based paint Erin Williams St Louis, Missouri Instagram : @erin_the_creator 22

Monoprint, Oil based paint From a technical standpoint, I make each of my monoprints using oil paint & plexiglass. Rolled, and pressed on to watercolor paper. Printmaking is a process that I have heavily gravitated towards in 2021, and have unlocked a new sphere of creativity after exploring acrylic abstracts and drawing. In creating each work, I am most inspired by preserving floral beauty, creating abstracts, and the rust process that takes place due to natural weathering on metals in urban environments. The impressions that come through really speaks to me, and have permeated my psyche in a way that creates the most unique and transformative type of work.


In The Clouds II

Study 03 Lara Gallagher London, United Kingdom 24

Study 05 Lara Gallagher 25


This piece was a response to Western culture’s seeming obsession with the story of Leda and the Swan. It depicts duality in two ways; Leda, the traditional victim choosing not to be one anymore, and the swan itself, beautiful on the surface if you don’t realize what’s happening. As a rape victim myself, I often find modern images inspired by this story disturbing. Usually Leda looks kind of surprised or baffled and doesn’t even seem upset by a gross violation of her person. Those romanticised depictions fail to give agency to Leda. It felt like high time someone give her a chance to fight back. The piece is a digital self-portrait.

Riley Ren Seattle,

Leda Tells the Swan to Get Bent


Colette Pomerleau Berlin, Germany

| Instagram: @ofcuriosities

Colette Pomerleau is an artist born in Las Vegas to lounge musicians, where she grew up thinking that slot machines were meant to be played everywhere. She now floats between the west coast, USA and Berlin to sustain an unhealthy attraction to capture specific things: emotive portraits, peculiar moments and lonely landscapes.



a calledneighborhoodplanned

A photo series where I explore the broader topic of suburbia, home, and belonging. Growing up in Las Vegas and never quite feeling a close sense of place has always been one of the strongest phenomena of duality I’ve experienced.



Sometimes I feel like there’s two of us in here Selina Wagner Seattle,




Nicole Reid is the author of So, You Think I’m Superwoman and poetry book Words Never Said. Nicole writes for women, sharing her own experiences as well as observations and current affairs, exploring topics that need to be spoken on including divorce, authenticity, singleness and faith. She believes that our stories in our voices can change the world, and uses her writing to encourageinspire, and empower others.

A former Early Years Practitioner, Nicole is also a mother and resides in London, UK. You can connect with her on Instagram @soyouthinkimsuperwoman

Nicole Reid London, United Kingdom @soyouthinkimsuperwoman

Therapy taught me to interrupt anxious thinking What if things work out? AndPerspectivewhatifmy hard work does pay off? One minute I am proud of myself Then the next I feel like I ain’t doing enough The mind is willing But my body seems weak To be able to pull it altogether Holding it all in Doesn’t seem to help Trapped But Excitingoptimismtimes ahead In movements of my mind Transferring to my legs Progress



12 by 12 inch colored pencil piece I made this piece to represent the intersection of life, work, and the emotions I experience through them. Flow


18’ X 24’-inch, colored-pencil piece Representing the intersection of one’s self-perception, and that of others. It symbolizes the importance of a well-rounded self-image.

Introspective 33

Instagram: @m4rnuse 34

David Marnuse Berlin, Germany


Like Air, Water, Fire & Earth they exist in synchronization

My Two sides make your life fun & Interesting

The symbol of Gemini is twins Duality of the Twins


I adapt like the Emperor Penguins – In Harsh temperatures

I often get asked “When is your birthday”

Gemini’s duality does the same I quickly change my mood, sulking isn’t in my nature

I am an Asset! My astrological air sign is Gemini

My two sides are necessary for survival

A Gemini’s Fate Raj Bharaj Ontario, Canada Instagram:

Eyes wander away & I know what they are thinking

I tell them “It’s in June”

Not Two Faced Not Two Personalities Not Two Bodies Not Two Characters Just Versatile

I learn quickly – so that they don’t leave me behind

I alter my personalities based on my environment

I know what they want to say that Gemini’s are Two Faced Often unkindly labeled Good & Evil Two-Faced Personalities

A Gemini’s Fate I change like the clouds – Calm Rain Thunder

The one can’t exist without the other

I smile often, even in front of horrible humans

Kate katetatsumi.comTorrance,TatsumiCalifornia|@kate_tatsumi|@_venusceramics 36

Hapa Girl is a ceramic sculpture examining the artist’s own cultural identity. The sculpture is divided into two sections. A flat Dala horse on one side and a cherry blossom on the other, each connected to a blank mirror. Both symbolize generic icons of Japanese and Swedish culture. Surrounding both are jars with lids. They read, What do you feel like, Asian? I could tell you were, Hapa, I don’t know...and White?






Ciara Mei-Lan Ross Toronto,


Dualism Lăcră



I look for diversity in the subjects I choose, using darkness and shadows to emphasize solitude, fear, sadness, isolation. It’s a whole process of discovering, experimenting, understanding and learning. Human emotions are expressed in a lyrical way of seeing the world, focusing on the details of ordinary life. There is a frequent isolation of humankind in an urban environment that can be observed at a universal scale. A recurrent theme in my Photography is Time and how people react to it. I try to capture the fragility and shortness of a moment, a moment that instantly becomes a memory. There have been a lot of debates on this theme, but the mystery still revolves around it.


About the Artist Lăcră Grozăvescu is a Romanian photographer and painter who excels in the use of colors combinations and texture, focusing on documenting space and the feeling implied by that space. She explores the connection between the external and internal and the transition from material to spiritual, from human to divine. With a unique sense of place and a fine eye for detail, the work of Lăcră focuses on finding the unusual in ordinary places. The colors Lăcră uses in her work create a sense of rhythm and harmony, inviting the viewer to appreciate and see the magic in everyday life. Born in 1996 in Caracal, Romania. Member of Maono Magazine (St.Petersburg).

Artist Statement

I think of my pictures to be a testimony of a universal space where physical time is irrelevant, emphasizing how the real concept of ‘Time’ can be quite different for each individual. While for some stands still, for others moves continuously back and forth.


Camille Tagini, contemporary multidisciplinary artist whose artworks are selected into the exclusive collections by art experts, takes you into the nitty gritty “Red” - original oil painting full of little mysteries waiting to be unraveled. We’re in downtown Manhattan on the corner of Greenwich Avenue, the year is 1942…. Minimalist geometric lines soften and polish the atmosphere, making everything appear to be in order. With loose brushstrokes, the artist layers red, black, yellow and green colors to create a spirited color combination with depth and texture. We cannot help but wonder if this scene ever existed outside of the artist’s mind. It does seem theatrical and illusory. Camille Tagini allows us to witness the intimacy of the modern busy life while also experiencing the silence of the empty street. We are inside and outside. by Camille Tagini Instagram: camille.tagini




Self Portrait Natalie Vance British Columbia, Canada Instagram: @_nastalie 47


Wound womb all my stories share a wound womb. a bleeding babbling node scratched softened tenuous, a septic indentation sacred incantation of “my mother my mother my mother” as if she hasn’t already guzzled given me enough. as if she didn’t bruise bathe a starched-cotton battleground bed with a flood of herself; hound halve me from her own foible fibre and say, “let the wolves world have her.” i am still choking on counting the beginnings i owe her, so how do I trade tread the middle? how do i tell her it hurts without also screaming saying, “Fuck Thank you for giving me your sin skin.” how do I taunt tell her about the nightmares that vilify her visit me without also saying, “I sure can be bitter.” “I’m sorry that I can’t be better.” how do I tell her that I have mauled missed home without also saying, “I am the wrath you birthed.” “I am a waste of your blood.” Rhea Sharma from @thiswaveisbreakingIndia



ON My Skin Raj Bharaj If you search for purity of my body YOU won’t notice it ON my Skin anymore If you are wanting me to be Pure My skin won’t respond to your requirement no more If you are waiting for me to become Pure Let me tell you, you will be waiting for an ITheTheeternity...PurePuritykeepitfor myself I keep it ON my body and IN my Soul You simply don’t see it. You eyes are tainted Your thoughts of my skin are jaded /jammed with Papier-mâché My body... You are ashamed of My body... You are the one that has used it Your blind-ness isn’t needed anymore My Skin is will be Pure My Body is will be Pure My Soul is will be Pure My heart is will be Pure YouAlwaysjust don’t have the eyes to see my soul.

Love as a complex feeling 'The Beginning Series' First Kiss Anastasia Viaznikova Novogrudok, Belarus Instagram: @anastasia_vivaart 51

Self Portrait Natalie Vance British Columbia, Canada Instagram: @_nastalie 52



Self Portrait Natalie Vance British Columbia, Canada Instagram: @_nastalie55


Self Portrait Natalie Vance British Columbia, Canada Instagram: @_nastalie 57

JuanCassianiSebastián Barranquilla, Colombia Instagram: @porcassio 58


We Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On Theatre, magic, transformation, and illusion are at the center of this piece. Revolving around the idea of gender being fluid, and performative. Using body language in contrast with having a voice. Like most of my work, this piece focuses on gender identity, and unmasking our societal persona in favor of acceptance and courage to show who we really are.

Francesca Alaimo London, United Kingdom




Melancholia Camille Tagini Instagram: @camille.tagini

The general darkness of the painting contrasts with the clarity of the main character giving it even more mystery. Using different colors, especially the green one, she explores its effect on the sensitive and emotional sphere of a Acceptanceperson. and resilience are essential part of her work. How women and humanity feel are matter for her. Imperfection makes poetry that inspires her work. This creates empathy and empowerment with other women and people. It gives her a sense of congruence and belonging.


Melancholia refers to Ophelia in Shakespeare’s Hamlet, found mysteriously dead in a stream after falling into madness occasioned by her father’s death.

Inspired by Eugène Delacroix and John Everett Millais, Camille Tagini, contemporary multidisciplinary artist based in Paris, has a fine art background that she uses to craft vivid oil artworks.

i miss you, but i don’t miss whoever i was with you i miss your smile, but i don’t miss forcing one i miss spending evenings in you basement listening to abba, but i don’t miss the tearstained cheeks that often followed. i miss dancing with you in the street, but i don’t miss feeling like you didn’t want to be dancing with me. i miss our picnics in the park with our friends, but i don’t miss sitting back, leaving myself out of the fun. i miss writing you letters and pouring my heart on to pages, but i don’t miss helping you write your own love letters. i miss the feeling of loving you, but i don’t miss whatever it is that you called loving me. Holland Tait Georgia, USA

i miss


Ana Sofia is a work where I want to externalize a beautiful woman who, being of a focused and reserved personality, manages to be at the same time happy, full of life!

Ana Sofia Antonio InstagramPortugalCoelho@antoniocoelhoart


Two pieces on the different ways two people see the same event, and how time and media can change those views over a life.

Inflatable plastic 66

Stephen Rendon Seguin, Texas, United States

wide angle establishing shot of the h if you remember yourself in the small moving crowd this shot almost stops existing your own point of view insteadsomeofportion of air the dvd holds 55 minutes of 720 p recorded footage the first 25 cameraman walking in unfocused lines capturing small sections of every body the lens pointed to the ground in parts him forgetting he’s holing or unworried about it what feels like endless recoding time left handtobouncecastlewideanglefloatingsundust music just the same as insect life in the background the bounce castle columns covering the sun papier-mâché through black netting half a second then cut unlike something real they smile with the plastic



for a few hundred frames he uses the green glass bottle in his other hand as a filter to cover the lens lifted broken paper candy sugar dirt for a few hundred after his own reflection recoded in unopened window glass these two-hundred frames the only moment i know for sure what my father’s point of view is his eyes focused over the reflective glass watching this swarm grouping and uncoupling everything half his paycheck bought twisted discarded shoved away and saved my voice was once the voice on the dvd saying put the camera down in less than ten minutes he’ll listen to me and ill never know exactly what he looked at again —

you take out your phone and this is the image you get. you try to explain to them it’s just your cheap phone camera that if you had a different model they could see what you see when you put the phone down. which you don’t do. the impulse to film your surroundings enough the same to the one that drove them two hundred year ago to get on horses and call themselves cowboys. people forget that a camera lens doesn’t just make things like your local sky less beautiful it also makes ugliness more attractive. accepting that it’s not what the camera captured that’s real it’s what was captured that is means you not only accept this of the stars you accept this of your house your town and yourself at some point it becomes an actual or perceived freedom to accept the camera as truth to spend time learning how and money on ways to better capture what we see. you don’t have to change your economic standing to escape here? just save up two-hundred for a new lens like saving up or stealing a horseto ride to a new town.


Zorbari Dinee-Laago InstagramNigeria @DinisArts_House Untitled 70

A Woman in Her Prime 71


Este Oeste (East West) Colored pencil on paper, 4.24 x 5.5 in Vicente Ortiz Cortez New York City, New York Instagram Dark And Light AngelaGreecePatera 73


Right: Ground / Crop Martha www.marthastefani-bose.comInstagramGlasgow,Stefani-BoseScotland@marthastefanibose


Left: Cluster / Flow

Martha Stefani-Bose’s coloured pencil drawings feature intricate patterns, textures and colours arranged with meticulous care. She scours her surroundings in the city for reference material, creating small sketches in-situ. Small, often overlooked details such as trod-on street debris, plant life, puddles, textures of walls, gravel, and pavements are what catch her eye. Compositions are created using pairs of elements with opposing origins, for example manmade and organic, which are broken apart and moulded into new, fantastical forms. Unmoored from their original context, they are abstracted and embellished in vibrant colour, set against stark white grounds.


bedfordtowers Instagram: @bedfordtowers 77

“I get along with nearly everyone, but–” I interjected and ran over the end of the sentence. “I also get along with everyone, but–” We finished together, haltingly. “I don’t think they understand me.”

Damla Boston,ÇMassachusetts

“I love orange candies and despise dark chocolate.”

“Fifth rewatch of a sitcom where everyone is broke with giant apartments.”

“Do you eat sandwich cookies filling-first?”

“I can’t stand the two boys who live next door.” “I have perfect grades in trigonometry.”

“I have a younger brother.”

“Often. Skirts?” “Not since grade four.” “I’m sorry for your loss.” “I’m not.”

“ – past me, at something they wish I was.”

“No,” she repeated. “I am me.”

“You’re me.”

“I think they wish I was different.”

Mirror Self

I smiled to see her confusion. “I know you hate orange-flavored candies and prefer dark chocolate.”

I noticed a spot on one cheek. A freckle or a mole. I raised a hand to my own cheek (she copied the motion) but I felt nothing under my fingers. I leaned in closer to the glass surface. I felt cool glass and the edge of the sink pressing into my waist. Then, yielding warmth. I braced an arm against the wall, hiked a knee onto the sink, and tumbled forward through the glass. I fell past my mirror-self, arms brushing as she stepped aside, startled.


“I’m failing remedial algebra.” “I’m really into long-running science fiction television right now.”

I watched her turn her face three quarters one way, then the other. Her hair was short like mine, but brushed in a way that framed her round face prettily. She was pretty. All her features together made a type of sense. I squinted and her eyes became smaller, the expression more puzzled. She mirrored me, as always, but I wondered if it was truly reciprocal. Was she unsettled to see me, too?

“I have a younger sister and we’re best friends.”“Itolerate my brother. Makeup? Jewelry?”

“It feels like they look through me –”

My mirror-self scrunched the bridge of her nose. I watched her brows lift and her round eyes open wide. Her jaw slackened, tightened. My fingers dug into my skin, feeling around the hard corner of bone.

“I eat the cookie bits first.” After that we were trading hits without a pause for breath between. I stared into my mirror-self’s eyes but couldn’t recognize her. How could I have thought us similar, identical even?“My best friends are the two girls who live next door.”

She blinked, twice. “I think people are confused by me… or disappointed?”


Erica Tempe,ClarkArizona, USA Instagram Chosen Hand drawn pen and ink


She turned to face the hole in the wall. I mirrored her. I gazed at those walls that had contained me until a few minutes ago. She stepped forward and locked her hands on the sides of the sink. She brought a knee up, propelling herself over into the glass. I gave her a boost to get her back foot fully off the floor. We faced each other again through the barrier of the mirror. Some order reasserted itself. My mirror-self raised a hand, and I copied her. I saw a smile, genuine if a bit hesitant, and knew my face echoed it exactly.


I Thought I Had Lost You

Francesca Alaimo London, United Kingdom


This piece is about reconciliation with our own duality. In life, we often lose ourself in the meanders of our mind or numb ourself through people and activities. The mirror is the stage of recognition and acceptance. We reconcile our many selves when we accept that in order to be whole we cannot be one.

Myles Gainesville,DuniganFlorida, DoubleInstagramwww.mylesdunigan.comUSA@mylesduniganNegative#2 82

These prints were created using hand-altered/destroyed photographs, printed lithographically onto translucent paper, and finally merged together to achieve the final image. I was interested in the unintended spaces that emerged through this process, how the fusion of these two spaces could create something uncanny, and how this methodology can function as a physical metaphor for human memory (how we merge or misremember different times, places, people). Lithograph with chine college on paper. 2019

Double Negative #3 DOUBLE NEGATIVE 83

Twins Jeff Twins Theresa 84

Marisa Culatto

TwinsInstagramwww.marisaculatto.comUK@marisaculatto(photography)explores our mechanisms for mentally constructing acceptable physical identities, both our own and that of others. Most faces are clearly not symmetrical but our mind processes seem to average them out for our perception – including our own in the mirror. Every so often this “averaging” capacity switches itself off in my head and can’t help seeing the two other possible faces all at once. So I’m working with that to try and reveal to myself, and the public what we do, turning each sitter into two “twins”. These are, therefore, double portraits of each side (each half doubled up) of the sitter’s face. The twins are more or less similar depending on the symmetry (or lack of it) of the original Thisindividual.body raises the question of who we really are. If our own face contains these two other possibilities (as well as the “real” unsymmetrical version), could this also offer the notion that identity is, perhaps, a fluid and multiple matter, and that we are not locked into one unique way of being ourselves?

Twins 85

Hers & His Emily Instagramwww.emilyperina.comBrooklyn,PerinaUSA@esp_sculpture 86



Faced with the economic disaster that plagued his homeland, he was dedicated to peeling sweet tangerines. When taxes went up, he changed his hairstyle. When schools closed, he offered to teach maths with puppets. His neighbours repeated terrified "But what has this man?" "How is it that there are no signs of frustration in his person?", "Has he stopped caring about his country?"

From looking at him so much, an idea arose in the pictorial mind of that special little man. August realised what he needed. A mask. But it had to be a special mask, with fantastic properties. That, instead of scaring, enchanted. That, instead of stunning, fascinates every inhabitant of his homeland. So, with the full supervision of heaven, Augustus began the process of manufacturing a unique element in nature. He passionately weaved fruit shells, sock threads, straw hair, and rainbow-colored tear cloths. His face was the basis for him to work, and according Jimena Yengle Peru

August was saddened, realising his role in similar scenes from time immemorial. Well-drawn tears fell on his angelic face. He remained contemplating his great companion, the Sky Lord.

August was not a man like the one Da Vinci drew. He was not a coded citizen. Even his appearance was not usual. He created his feet as firm as the armour of an Icarus. His fingers were so long that they connected between deep earthly roots. His eyes were painted in oil by the sky itself, and thus he was enunciated as a true work of art in the chaotic exhibition of life. He came to earth, wrapped in autumn leaves. The rain colored his first steps, and the mischievous hummingbird fed his heart with an appetising pollen. He was growing, or at least getting closer to Lord Heaven. He was learning everything that his imagination could teach him. He was creating any connection that nurtured him internally. When he was two decades old, he realised that something had changed around him. The world was beginning to scare haggard people. His homeland was beginning to crumble, covering every corner with noxious dust. The ladies stopped sweeping their triumphal entrances, the children were almost as distraught as their parents, and the cats begged the mice for cheese. Even the latte was stale, and his dessert portion no longer came with an almond cookie. They changed the caramel sauce stores for groups of moneylenders. They cremated the fairy tales, and replaced them with guides designed to generate hundreds of dollars in a single day. Those who walked, began to run. And those who ran, moved off the planet. Bitter chaos broke out, flavoured with tree tomatoes. Being expropriated from his warm home, August decided to start a late-night cupcake business with just a straw chair. He received the daily visit of butterflies, beetles and every creature native to the garden, which lived under the castle of sunflowers. After an exhausting trip, the clients shared a dance evening with August. A twelfth of a cupcake was enough to satisfy his diners. From time to time, he would receive a visit from Lord Heaven, who would settle for the aroma of tamarind muffins. Demand was low, and revenues weren't exactly high, but the company sweetened the spirit of the misaligned man. Also, under his chair there was not a trace of a single crumb. Good thing August had a morning job for profit. However, corruption swept through the laundry company he worked for, and he was kicked out penniless, carrying a pile of stinky socks. He decided to wash each sock, to sew them together, forming a tent, like the one his great-great-grandparents lived in. Around it, he planted green apple seeds, but immensely tall daisies grew.



Some children were whispering around, wondering impetuously "is the mysterious man a stainless steel machine?" and they were hiding from the apparent stranger who possessed the unfortunate smile. One day in November, the sky was angry. August came out of his tent, and began to recite love poems to him, to brighten his day. The sky gave him a look of compassion, as sorrow fluttered through his clouds. A wise man and his golden horse were passing by, both dressed in blue velvet. They leaned out to look closely at that specimen named Augustu. They examined from corner to corner, that wide smile that the man possessed. When they saw that it was true, they were even more scared. They took a few undisguised steps back, covering their terrified eyes.


This is how the country ruled to knock down August's small tent, where he lived surrounded by sunflowers. They claimed the lack of "sensitivity" to his homeland. Of course, in addition to that, they accused him of instilling terror in society, distressing thoughts and nightmares night and day. For them, Augustu was a dangerous clown, who did not possess human features.

August was surprised with the seriousness of the accusations, but his mask did not reveal the breadth of his open mouth. He begged his friend Lord Sky that it was a silly bureaucratic mistake. The citizens of terror ordered their children to cut the socks that made up the tent. The children ordered their dogs to destroy the old fabric of the socks. The dogs ordered the wasps to carry the remains of the cloth to the sea, because he received everything. They approached Augustus, and surrounding him demanded a valid answer. They expected him to lie down and cry and apologise, begging for a couple of pills. He just answered: “What do you want me to do? My reaction will not cultivate a catastrophe, like the one in which you remain." August smiled, drawing pictures in his mind. The sky was so pleasing that he dropped paint of all colours, so that the view was always a palette of oils, different from the eyes of a single country. 89

to him, he could not find better ground. When finished, he felt like the most handsome prince of a terrifying homeland. His mask was so well made that not a single millimetre of his face was visible. or Augustus. He had accomplished his goal. He was entirely covered, on all four sides. That little man was excited, knowing that he could now walk humming songs, dance with the children and feed the blue pigeons. He had not realised that he could never see his blue eyes again, nor his pink lips reflected in the water with which he rinsed his face every noon. In reality, he hadn't noticed a seriously significant detail. August couldn't see. But he was such a different man from the rest that he seemed not to recognize his blindness. He set out to become the most handsome hunk. Wearing a turquoise shirt and flowered underpants, he asked heaven that, this time, his scary little homeland would love him very much. To be invited to dance, to hold his hand as he ran, and to serve him at the coffee with milk stalls. Thus, Augustus left his tent, guided by the murmurs of the celestial doves. Around him, the general managers strolled bored. They approached to look closely at his mask, and when they knew it was true, they were shocked. Their faces were shocked. The children searched for burrows as emergency shelters, while the adults climbed the fire escapes of the most modern skyscrapers. Everyone was looking for a way to escape him, except August. He hopped on one foot, while he sang to the sky. That singular man, he could not clearly witness the spectacle that was happening around him, since his mask did not allow him to see. By not observing faces of anger and spasm, he believed in his only alternative... that people had marvelled at his mask. He felt powerful, like an exemplary prince. He came to imagine himself on the covers of artisan newspapers. Those that bore the name of each attack, in August's imagination, would bear his name. With great strides and leaps through the clouds, he returned to his tent pleased, believing himself to be the luckiest. The sky sighed in relief and dismay at the same time, letting cotton candy out of his dilated pupils. For the rest of the day, that magical nebula was dedicated to spying on August, without ceasing to take care of him. There was the sky, turning into rain to clean the poop of the celestial pigeons, which dirtied August's shirt. There was the sky inventing earplugs made of fog, so that Auguso would not hear the screams of the fearful. There was the sky, turning into a gale, to stop August every time he encountered a hole in the track, a trap in the road, or a puddle of stinking mud.

Instagram: @jimenaramos_y.

Jimena Yengle is a Peruvian writer, artist, and cultural manager, known for her book Roma Enamorada and her lyrical work. She is the director of two virtual spaces: Roma Enamorada (aimed at young people) and Magic Maneuvers (aimed at children). Her writing and visual art work are published by various international magazines. She is currently directing a play for the Juvenis Festival in Kingston, and is preparing for the publication of her second book.

About Jimena

Portfolio: O6E08X0eXbc4AYJllQhb/view?

Days passed and the impact of Augustus's mask subsided. Bored General Managers, monotonous downtown office workers,annoying kids, rude dogs, and smoke salesmen, gave up fear and changed it out of revulsion They met to decide democratically what they would do with that savvy man.

(2) (3) (4) (1) 90

This collage portrays the contrast of a protest on the background while the body of a protester is replaced by the leaves of a garden Juan Sebastián Cassiani Barranquilla, Colombia Instagram: @porcassio

1) To Power, Poison and Prosperity

Pieter Lübbe South Instagram:Africa@pieter.lubbe

4) Contraste con Hojas

3) Get Out Jaina Cipriano Boston, Masachusetts @jainasphotography

2) Seen/Unseen Jaina Cipriano Boston, Masachusetts @jainasphotography


The Dualists John Wolfer Cincinnati, Ohio Instagram: @wolfermade72 Acrylic painting of cowboy figures with laser-cut text. 92

John Wolfer Cincinnati, Ohio Instagram: @wolfermade72 of cowboy figures with laser-cut

Acrylic painting

text. 93

What We Came For

Angel Nueve Mark Roman Missouri Instagram:

@__mysticalmark 94

AG The theory of opposites would suggest we cannot exist in the same room, Without creating world catastrophe Or mass destruction because of intensity, Light, colour and others. But we never understood each other enough for Those kinds of battles Fighting occurs over a board game and inaccuracies Of a science that loves you more than you love it I don’t pretend to understand. You would tell me science has no emotion But I don’t believe you Opposites attract, opposites repel, There is no balance outside a chemical equation Of polite chemistry and the biology of being older friends, Different states of mattering. Pathogens in the body of an astrophysicist, And I will remember how you said we are all made of star material. Maya 95

Transparent the inside opens a window at night. trembling layers folding the wind, coldness swings from surrendering trees, seasons condone the rage of caged air, voices of men keep battling for ears, a boy in a far away place lends you his eyes a hidden spot within you is scrutinised by light, burning flesh cools down in slowly leaking blood moonlight peaks through vandalised clouds you lay still, silver rays piercing your mind, until morning adds soap to the mess, draping all her mistakes in a familiar robe. Nights the outside bats an eyelid tonight. a vision rests on the crests of eyelashes a slender moon tickles flashes in sockets an iris turns into a warped mirror a routine so strange it remains unseen when you step out of this impossible sight, darkness does not swallow familiar white. when you bow down to the blue, the air does not end where the water begins. your senses stretch into new shapes of emotions, a lasting trace before leaving this place, a single mouth cannot conjure the words for a dream that is written all over your face. Dshamilja Roshani Berlin, Germany Instagram: @dshamilja.r 96


I’m Eva Carretero del Castillo, photographer and native from Carabanchel. Since I was very little, I started taking photographs of children and landscapes with an old Werlisa Club Color that my father left me. My interest for photography led me to study Fine Arts Photography and Visuals, where I learnt how to develop my photographs in a chemical lab — a knowledge that was lost with many people of my generation. I’ve been part of exhibitions, contests, audiovisual projects and studies, realizing commisions and events while I’ve developed a consciousness for abstract and minimalist photography. My photography is born both from a tranquil character and a curious and restless mind. Everything can be photographed. Eva Carretero del Castillo Madrid, Spain | Instagram: @eva.del.castillo

“A or B” 98

Isolated the walls have been cold my body touch-hungry wind on bones like songs of death, but the sun painted a window today between shadow valleys of my flesh the whole night wrapped in golden echoes, a dream decaying on my skin. I ask the moon how to endure the torture when withdrawal turns into a permanent thing

Love the door has been closed my mouth housing ghosts air as pale as naked teeth. as I plucked a hug from the street, I tucked it under a pillow heap. the moon stays silent and deserted, I know it speaks in secret tongues of sharing unheard bedtime stories. we seek hidden touch between our sheets.

Dshamilja Roshani Berlin, Germany Instagram: @dshamilja.r


Catherine Vázquez, Instagram @catherineee.zc



Lilibeth Hernández, Instagram @bethhdzc

As her body faces forward, a woman’s head looks back, her hands holding a veil that prevents her from seeing clearly.

Sharp Absolution Lingerie, resin dipped feather Emily www.emilyperina.comInstagramBrooklyn,PerinaUSA@esp_sculpture 101

Pawel,PacholecPoland Divided City 102

The Divided City is a show where, in a maze of elements, the illusion effect is often used, as well as borrowing Escher’s vision of the city.


The diploma thesis “Divided City” refers directly to the works of Maurits C. Escher through his perception, dual vision and schematicity. As in Escher’s case, there is an entry into the Pythagorean mathematics, that is, treating the number in terms of proportion, not measurement. The number is also treated in the spirit of Platonic philosophy as a sign of order and truth. The topic taken up, which can be said, is as old as the world, i.e. an appeal to human morality and aesthetics. The moral issues raised here, such as good and evil, or the sacred and the profane, are confronted with art geniuses who have also touched on this topic, such as Hieronim Bosch or Hans Memling. Our mind also likes to solve puzzles and riddles, which was greatly used by Maurits C. Escher in his work, disturbing our visual perception and cognitive model.


Audrey Riley Ren Seattle,



Rose InstagramTehran,AnsariIran@rose_ansarii How can we coexist with others in spite of the diversity that exists in society? Can we achieve a harmonious dance of interaction with others?



Iritza Sharief Kashmir, India Painting The Soul 110

Iritza Sharief Kashmir, India WomanMysterious 111

I need a place to wrap my growing body, let’s get out of here — I am a musician And I am not loved enough to continue. Did you mean dying or wasted time — I never ask the right questions, you struggle to communicate And I knew you for many, little seconds only because I ran out of explanations

SS Untitled artist, you said.


On why and how people leave. You sang your songs as I live my life A good one, I am happy To have met you once If that is all I get, your space Is kind and filled with pouring rain. I am dry earth and lack of rhythm. Maya

Dilute Metamorphosis Rose Ansari Tehran, HumanInstagram:Iran@rose_ansariialwaystriestoadapt herself to her surroundings. In every moment she is choosing how to act to be similar to a pattern. She intends to adapt to her time; In this transformation, her human nature remains the same. There is a duality between the truth and an illusion. There is a continual transformation from reality to trans parenting imagination. Watch the audiovisual performance piece on YouTube: Music by John Daniel.


A list



Bidisha P. Kashyap Assam, Instagram:India@bidishaa_a

(- the pale blue scarf | my breakdowns) My life has been a cluster of agony and trauma and you painted me in bits of warmth, upon every thunderstorm. But now, whenever the wind rolls past by and the other side of my bed lays empty, I seek for the ‘calm’ in my words; they fall short when it comes to you but at least, it is less lonely now. (- your absence | this aching void.) ‘Better days’ I laugh at myself as the sleeves of your shirt falls off my hands. IAgain.wonder, how your half of the sky is treating you or is there a sky on your end, at all; my hands tremble. Will I be able hold your hand againif not this life, then perhaps the rest that follows? (- your shirt | my hand, unheld.) The moon is silent on my scars as I let myself break again, tonight. Residues of your heartbeat resides in every inch of this roomfrom the edge of the linen curtains to the creases of these satin sheets in poetries and in sighs; you are everywhere. but not here. (- your half used bottle of cologne | my sanity.)

She is seven summers old now, and sits on the edge of my nightstandReciting my past in lullabies, everytime i try to fall asleep. Her words keeps me on my toes but when they ends, your absence screams louder than the wounds, I whisper my prayers upon.

(- your record player | my unheard songs) There is a summer love tucked with smiles and sighs. But every little crease upon it’s patterns calls out to the storms that swallowed your Howshadows.much am I destined to break, till all I can utter, is fragments of broken poetry which still hopes to reach your shore, somehow.


A set of apologises forms a heavy lump on my Ithroatrefuse to let them out and they creep up to my skull, rotting every little fragment on their way. I place the flowers on your grave unable to get my words out for the hundredth time. How extraordinary do you have to be, to leave a poet starving for words even after years of not having your shadows around your lover? (- your absence | our unsaid goodbyes)

crosstown Traffic II Fluorescent and metallic acrylics on canvas, 24x36", 2022 116

Josh Stein Napa, California Instagram: @steincreates 117


Ciara Mei-Lan Ross Toronto,

Distance Chido Simbarasi Lacombe, Canada Instagram: @burnt_ropes There you are, where Here (with the force of many tides), wades away from. There, your heart helms my whole… right Here, with no silhouette of our fare. Here,these gusts ferry titters and jitters this air could not bare. Your North meets my South where the rest would no dare. EvenYet… when the ray of my sun turns it’s back on the glim of your moon, We’ll always find each other where Here meets There.


'Metamorphoses Ekaterina Омск, 120

Ekaterina Russia 121


I See Everything Anastasia Viaznikova Novogrudok, Belarus Instagram: @anastasia_vivaart Cute Creatures Series Acrylic, oil pastel on stretched canvas, 40*50 cm 122

Metallic acrylics on unstretched canvas, 18x24", 2021 #312 Matte Camo V Josh Stein Napa, Instagram:California@m4rnuse 123


Collapse Selina Wagner Seattle, Washington Website: 125

www.kaseyedgerton.comNewKaseyUntitledEdgertonYork,USA 126

www.kaseyedgerton.comNewKaseyUntitledEdgertonYork,USA Remy Aleksandra Płonka Poland Instagram @_halo_ola_/ 127



Brenna Tomas Sault Ste www.brennatomas.comMarie You Were

Although space is often considered attached to time, my association of time is affixed to memory. Space is believed to be depicted using reliable mathematics and time and memory are considered linear. However, the linear systems used to measure experiences of time and memory have been improperly imposed onto our ideals, constantly marking our memories with beginnings and endings rather than depths and weights.This investigation into memory has supported my effort to break free of the culturally imposed behaviours entrenched within the schema and rebuild the visual patterns that are associated with my ‘first nature.’ My artistic work is a performative practice which delves into the individualized unconscious, distinguishing time spent through marks made rather than seconds lost.

YoungAmuse  129





A rose hugs her petals tight to her chest, cradling them with love and appreciation. The red of her flesh: battered and bruised. Exploited, overlooked.

Nora Lisa Harr New Jersey Instagram: @noralisaharr 133

A girl sits at the table, petals wilting away. The dim light over her casts a shadow across her cheeks. Seats around her are filled with the bodies of people she doesn’t like. She passes time by cutting the dead meat on her plate into tinier and tinier pieces. Men around her talk obnoxiously loud:Women are like children… Her leg bounces against the wooden chair. Up and down.Upand down.Upand down. Breathing was meant to be controlled. Slow, steady. Walls seem so high. Her; so tiny. The underside of her petals– that is where her beauty lies. In the shadows, she is vibrant red, glowing against the darkness. Full of color. Full of her livelihood, that had been dismissed for too long. Each vein is able to be seen; a stark reminder of the pulse that beats against her wrist. She guards these fragile moments; to be seen is to be weak.

Alone, in her room.

The sun had climbed under the Earth and left the girl in darkness. It is there that she can weep; she can whine over the little things. Tiny moments that are considered too insignificant to cry about. Collapsing to the ground, heavy breathing. Allowing her bare knees to touch the hardwood floor. Her forehead presses against her palm with sweat. Loud and unruly. Tears crawling across her reddened face. Screams echo into the abyss. The underside of her petals, angry and loud; blaring like a siren. She is a nuisance to look at. But to be nuisance is to be alive.

Pain sears down her stem and through her roots. Thorns dulling with each second that passes her by. Defenses sinking. She is ravenous for attention; she is delicacy.


Vivien @too_fat_to_paintCologne,SolveigGermany "stop making sense" Ballpointpen drawing Life and DeathTeri @tinyteri13WalthamAndersonAbbey The piece looks at duality in being there and not at the same time. 135

CREATURE Irina @irinanov4155,Belarus,NovikovaMinsk @iriba1187novikova, @irina369tall 137

A dark, gloomy sky, a shadow has already descended on the whole world, and you, like an owl, are hooting and sighing... Do not look at your reflection, it doubles in many windows, it is like a ghost white and not material, it is something that can only be outlined by a contour pencil sketch .... Graphite quietly glides scratching the window and your movements in the darkness, you keep walking and thinking that someone has died ... Or is still alive ... Life is like a shadow during the day and alive at night ... Living before goofy and pulp..

Irina Novikova 138



YouUnavailingly.humiliated and abused. The stench of dirt, the cologne of dirt. It stuck to me like the strongest glue.

I have two bodies. One carries a baggage of unwanted experiences The other pretends like there is nothing wrong. You touched me. I am fighting for existence The battle is constant. Like after a hot shower The condensation gathers I wipe the mirror to recognise my true-self But the steam works hard to cover the very thing that I am trying to reveal. You did force me. It is my fault, the water was indeed too hot. I rubbed my body till it bled Trying in hope to feel a new self.

The project "Two wrongs don't make a right.” is an exploration on the topic of trauma and its effects on the body and the mind. One of the common defence mechanisms is dissociation, resulting in perceiving yourself as identity fragmented into two or more distinct personality states, which is the main focus of this project. The series consists of black and white photographs, which are single shots of myself. The long exposure aims to underline the feeling of being trapped in a body of multiple personalities. Purposely there is a dust that can be seen on each photograph, which is like a reminder of traumatic past events, that one tries to deny.

For years I have washed, for years it has remained. Every day is a body of displaced memories. In one body, I have two, living and breathing bodies. Monika www.monikadeimling.comInstagramGermanyDeimling@monika_deimling

Two wrongs don't make a right.




Dear Diary,

“Hurry up,” Mark shouted at me, pressing the door to the bathroom in a tad while I was showering. “I’ve really got to get in there and fuck. You know I always like to fuck in the morning,” he continued to shout.

“That’s gross, Creature. Grow up.” Mark’s voice trailed off as he unpressed the door and lay down on his bed, which was only inches from the shower. I finished scrubbing my assholes and then cleaned my hands, then shut off the calcified water coming from the shower head.


I showered quickly this morning, sure to scrub my assholes: the one in my ass and the one on my face. Some humans have this strange custom where they will stick a brush with paste into the asshole on their face, but they absolutely refuse to touch the one in their butt. A lot of them won’t go anywhere near it. Wouldn’t lay a finger on it to save their colon. They are afraid, for God only knows what reason.

The neighbors banged on the wall, but I couldn’t tell if they were mad at the noise or if they were just doing their morning fuck. Or they might be wrapping up their early morning plastering and passing out in bed. I try not to be too nosy. Nobody really knows who their neighbors are when the blinds close. “I’ll be right out.” I yelled to Mark. “I just have to finish cleaning my assholes and take my pills.”

I wouldn’t know, a young demon like me. A few of the human’s I’ve lived with actually did clean their assholes. Both of them. Those are the decent sort. Not to uppity. They don’t blame me nearly as much as the others do for my job.

Demon’s New Diary

Michael V Rodriguez Oakland, California IG: @youngniceman

I didn’t know everyone would be fucking in the shower all the time when I agreed to split the rent with humans. How could I have know when the most intimate thing I had ever done in a shower was cry.

As I’ve said, when I flay people they start to talk. A lot of people want to blame me or Satan, at first. They ask, “Why make this world? Why do this? Is fucking and passing out drunk that bad? Worse than this? Where we can’t do it of our own free will. Wouldn’t letting us make the choice ourselves be punishment Fairenough?”enough questions, but I always tell them the same thing: I am just an arbiter of their fate. A mere creature invented to carry out

I heard rustling in Mark’s bed. Maybe he couldn’t wait and had started fucking? Who knew. I dried my feet before stepping on the bath mat then stood there and brushed my teeth. After I took my pills I called to Mark, “All done.” But before I could go out the door that led to my room, Mark busted into the bathroom through his door, gagging himself. “Aww, c’mon,” he gurgled, his hand still in his mouth. “Sorry Mark,” I apologized and backed into my room, shutting my door behind me. I pressed my ear to the door and I could hear Mark choking himself. I listened for a minute and then stopped. It was Mark’s private time. It was his time to use the bathroom. A sacred time. I unpressed my ear and turned to face myself in the mirror. I looked the same as I always had. I looked human. But that’s the thing, humans age. Whereas demons? Not so much. I put on my uniform, black, black, and more black, and pinned on my Sexual Purity League button, so the people would know what I was supposed to represent. I didn’t understand the whole idea of being sexually pure. Probably because I didn’t have sex. Don’t feel bad for me diary. No demons can have sex. That is our curse for I don’t know what reason. The important thing is that God knew.


God knew why having purity in sex was the only way the sinners would stay on the right track. I didn’t have to know. Besides, the humans always understood what it meant when I came around, and—well, it’s hard for me to say this, but I come around and, you know, chop them up and eat them alive very slowly. I know, I know.

It’s actually not as cruel as it sounds. They don’t feel a thing, after a while, and we usually have a good conversation before they pass into the next world. The next world is much better. It’s far more real. People in this one just want to fuck and pass out drunk. I mean, who doesn’t want to fuck and pass out drunk? The thing is, here that’s all they do. It’s cruel; I know, but I didn’t make up the rules.

this cruelty of eating them alive. I don’t mind my job. It has good benefits. I can send money to my family, sometimes. I live a good life, sure. But would I prefer to be eating people alive? Absolutely not. Don’t blame me, I tell them, I could have been made a shit shoveler in the world where everyone eats their own shit all the time. You see, there’s not many job options for a demon. After I have this conversation with my—client, the pills I give them start to work and their pain subsides. It’s up to us demons who gets the pills, but I give them to everyone. That’s my prerogative. Turns out I’m not so bad after all. In their subdued state, my clients usually start to empathize with me. They congratulate me on a job well done. They thank me for my kindness and rejoice at what their travels might be like back in the real world. They say I should get a raise. At least enough to live on my own. Must be hard to live with the damned, they say. Better than living with my mother, I tell them. This is where they usually start to go in on my boss. I get it. Their fear of death is somewhat rekindled as I finish off eating their limbs and torso, savoring them as I’m supposed to, as if I’m polishing off a bucket of fast food chicken. They need someone to blame because they see the end is near. They need a reason for everything they’ve gone through down here. How could Satan be so cruel, they ask, as to devise all these terrible worlds we have to go through to get back to the real world? That’s when I like to remind them, Satan's as cruel as God made him. And here I’m about to eat their heart. I always time it perfectly because I might hate my job but I'm damn good at it. Their eyes open like blossoming flowers. A light shines deep inside. “It’s God’s fault,” they exalt. But it’s not God’s fault either. Nothing made God, so God has no guidance for their actions. They’re just kind of winging it. Also, if you think about it, since God is all knowing, God isn’t informed by anything. You see, they’re quite pigheaded. What has happened will always have happened and is the right thing to have happened, says God. I’ve met god plenty of times. It always goes the same way. They like to drop by and inspect my work, you know, with the whole omnipresent thing. They’re a terrible bore, as is anyone who is always right.


What a jerk. God did pretty good in the beginning, I think, with the whole making the universe thing, but as time went on God’s mistakes started to pile up. He did a bunch of things he couldn’t undo. We all know what it’s like to get behind on what we owe, but imagine if all that debt you made, you could never unmake and, in fact, that debt would always increase. That’s what creation is like for God. Things he creates he cannot uncreate because in undoing there is always the fact that the thing must have been done for it to be undone. Even if God were to erase every creature's memory, God would still know what had passed had passed.

“But what if it wasn’t?”

For instance, once God made humans he could not unmake them. God could alter them, but God could not erase the fact that humans had existed in the history of what was, what is, and will be. That event happened. Even if God were to erase it, it still would have happened. Do you get it, dear diary? Do you? Even if the event were made not to happen, it would have to have happened for it to be undone.

To which God always responds, “It’s a paradox, so there is no answer, but I know the answer.” And I say, “God that’s what you said last time.”

“But could you even consider not being what you are?” I ask.

But God, being God, knows my thoughts, of course, and God says, “Why of course I know what I am.”

That’s how it ends every time. Such a bore. One time I asked God why it always ends that way and God had the audacity to tell me, “Because that is the way it always will end.”

“That is the only answer, my child.”

Everytime I talk with God I always think to myself, “Does God even know what God is?”

Whether time is linear or circular, everything that happens or doesn’t happen, happens or doesn’t happen. Those are the facts. The facts are the facts. In fact, I usually tell my clients to imagine the universe as one big book. There are two sets of facts in the book. One section records all the events that happened. And the other section records all the events that didn’t happen and all the ways in which they 147

didn’t happen. God made this one big book and he made other universes, other books. He created multiverses, books of books, and even books beyond our comprehension that are not books, but in being not books, thus defining their bookness. All these books. All these existences or non-existences. But in all Gods might and ability, God still gave humans the ability to be imperfect. God gave humans the ability to make mistakes, by which God allowed themself to make mistakes; thus, the creation of my boss. But even though their life is already written in the big book, the humans are allowed to have their own perception of the world. That is special. Even God couldn’t know what it is like to be human because God would also know that he was God, which is not what it’s like to be human. It would also defy his creation: perception, which can only be perceived by one. Even God cannot see what you and only you can see because all the while god will see itself. But I am just a lowly demon playing at understanding God. I Justdigress.before I eat my client’s brain, I impart to them the sole wisdom that God gives to lowly creatures like us demons, whose greatest hopes are always dashed by his mistake. I tell the client, “Don’t come back. Hell is in your mind. And heaven is too. In this world of fucking and getting drunk all the time, you have no choice, but when you go back to the real world you will. If fucking and getting drunk all the time is your heaven, make it so and it will be so. If not, then find your heaven. Because the truth is, the earth is hell and heaven. It’s your perception that sends you down here with us, in pieces. All you experience of hell is in life: every nightmare or dayterror is a small slice. You come down here in those tiny pieces of your life and I regurgitate you into being whole. That is my first duty. That’s why it’s only fitting that I eat you and send you back as my final duty, so I can unmake the thing I “Letmade.this journey steel you against the harshness of the world. Build a world in which hell you cannot perceive. Alleviate us demons from our pitiful existence of no fucking or getting drunk. That is our only wish. Prove that we are not eternal. Let us become something else. Abolish hell. Banish us. Make your world your heaven and make that the only thing you and everyone around you can know. Each, their own heaven. We’re tired of eating people and cleaning up their shit down here in hell. Whose punishment is worse? Ours or yours?


It’s been nice having Mark around. He’s in that early stage of fucking and getting drunk all the time, between terror and utter disgust, where he’s still enjoying it. Sometimes he lets me watch. I think it’s so interesting how humans can fuck themselves and each other in so many ways. From the most gentle to the most violent, it never ceases to tickle my perpetual virginity.

It’s also been nice having you around, my dearest diary. Finally, someone who listens and understands me. God, I hope this day is over quick. I hope it flays by. Oh forgive me, I’m bad.


But by that time, my client has usually already gone. Back to the real world. That’s when I pop pills again and head home. And that’s the only time when I feel bad. I feel alone.


“I know what I’m asking isn’t easy, but make it so. Please remember when you return.”

Humankind Zine | @humankindzine

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