Issue Two: Rebirth and Renewal

Page 1

On the Cover

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Editor’s Note



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b s n n c d w c b e o t t u s

Fire Starter by Charissa Olano from Toronto, Canada


beginnings are tumultuous, the stripping down of your skin to the bones so that you may remake yourself in a new image. rinse and repeat. the complexity of human nature and the never-ending struggle of our brains to cope with this life makes us the unhealthiest and most disillusioned animals on earth. these new beginnings will always end the same as the one before it, creating a circular cycle of madness. yet, we still hope. there is beauty to be found there, in the peeling back of layers, even if change isn’t permanent. permanence may be overrated. if there was no hope within the madness, then wouldn’t we just drown in the weightiness of our thoughts and experiences? At the very least this keeps us moving is some direction or another rather than snuggling into the darkest places and living there. Written by Crystal Bowden from Atlanta, Georgia Instagram: @crystal_bowden

Stage 1 dumpster kat

Richmond, VA |

Stage 2 dumpster kat

Richmond, VA |

Changing of the Light

“Do We Ruin Each Other?” (2020), 9x12 acrylic by Tashana Poblete from Canada Portfolio: Instagram:

Both of these images were moments of huge amounts of grief surrounded by moments of solitude and trying to find beauty in the quiet and safety in community. I think these moments of loss and grief are often impacted by rebirth and renewal to move forward in our lives.

Noonan, Briana_Rebirth and Renewal 1 : aken after I lost my dog due to chronic illness taken nd during a huge period of transition in finding and ut more about my chronic illness and what that meant for my life.

Noonan, Briana_Rebirth, and Renewal 2: taken later when my stepmom was in a terrible car accident that nearly took her life.

Bri Noonan Phoenix, AZ @briananoonan & @asweatpantskindoflove

Nica Collective Rome, Italy

KORE “Whenever the earth is covered with the fragrant, multi-colored flowers of spring, then from the thick darkness you will rise again, a marvelous prodigy for mortal men and gods.� Homeric hymn to Demeter, vv. 401 – 403 Kore daughter of Demeter and Zeus spends half of the year underground in the kingdom of the Underworld. Her renaissance during spring symbolizes the rebirth of nature and the fertility of men and earth. The grain of wheat, dear to the mother, is comparable to the fetus in the woman's belly and the furrows on the ground are equivalent to the traces left on the body by the miracle of life. Goddess of death but also of the return to life, Kore expresses the great contradiction of the living being: death is already present in life itself. Giving life necessarily includes giving death, as in addition to the risks of pregnancy and birth, every living being is born mortal. The plant must die to feed the soil and be born stronger the following year. And in the great rite of passage of childbirth the woman dies to herself to be reborn a mother. Through the signs left on the body by the nine months of pregnancy and the imprints of leaves, flowers, roots, KORE wants to give voice to the intrinsic, ancestral bond between the woman who becomes a mother and the cycles of life on planet earth. A project by Bianca Ceriani and Juliette Wayenberg (Nica Collective). Digital photographs and lumen prints.

Bittersweet by Lara Proctor Sydney, Australia The world will blossom into her eyes. Morning. Fresh and clean. Sweet and green. New beginnings, and yet the same pretty story. Story of childish wonder, or teenage memories. It isn’t always sunlight that greets her. Sometimes, its the call of a mother; a hasty “wake up!�. Or the too-bright ‘beep’ of an alarm clock. Or maybe it is one of those sweet mornings, when she is simply awoken by herself. She shall lie there for a moment, which will lapses into another. And then smile at the prospect, that she, only she, is in this small moment.

She will carry that moment around, for the rest of the day. Nursing a quiet, humble morning. That was perfect and untouched, by the world that makes her life. O, how bittersweet to have that moment, and not know when it shall come again. and not revise its perfection when most needed. O, how bittersweet.

"As undramatic as this might seem to many, this is was my worst fear. But it happened and I'm OK which only bruises, soreness, and a renewed sense of how lucky I am to be where I am how I am. We are reborn from all our experiences if we allow ourselves to be."


Fusion by Seigar

Fusion represents the victory of art in hard times. This series shows the combination of different artists: the original wooden sculptures of the artisan J. Miguel Granados, the artistic dress of the designer Laura Hernรกndez and her well-established brand Noah, the inventive makeup of Dailos Gonher, the lighting and photography assistance of Hugo Cebriรกn, de Curbelo shop as the setting, and the recreation with the professional model Mabe Hernรกndez of the Plastic People project of the photographer Seigar. The photographs are the result of the melting of these artists' disciplines and ideas to claim the importance and need for art. Fusion is a symbol of the triumph of teamwork.

Keep Moving Forward By Terri Anderson @tinyteri13 - Instagram | @teriandersonartist - Facebook


Amira Alsareinye Instagram: @artist.amiraa

Art by Maria Escoriheula from Dublin, Ireland

sun showers .

i wonder if her back arches like the curling of a cat’s tail in a window’s offering if it falls like cherry blossoms, spells questions like: what did we do to deserve this? and what that perfumed pinkish rain might’ve looked like last springwhen it all fell apart, framed in the flames When god said, “fuck it” and pulled at the stray threads of our shirts with her long, painted, acrylic nails until it all unraveled and we were left to drown, naked and clutching piles of loose fabric and thread we called, “protection” as a joke. But a few weeks ago I learned rain on a bright day is called a, “sun shower” and the world cracked open so wide and beautiful I wanted to climb inside. then meet the person who came up with “sun showers” and climb inside their warmth, too

But I didn’t. And I can’t. But I probably would if I had the chance Written by Ainsley Meyer Seattle, Washington @avalanchewords on Instagram and Etsy

Is love disgusting to me because I actually cringe at t ways I subconsciously lie to myself to protect my ego

Am I unlovable because I'm too “complex” or because tolerable, given that those people have known me my

I feel such a different person from who I was the last unlovable? Maybe because I know myself better and unlikable. Given, I like myself, but I dislike most peopl


I like being alone, a lot. This is great, actually. But the to test how this affects my sociaciability now (and I’m reasons. Before I hated myself so much I couldn’t brin able to have a conversation with anyone without feel

I would rather like myself and not be liked by anyone love from some people.

Do I like myself, my heart, my humor, my quirks, my th can see how I’ve been able to lie to myself so easily if only part of me that’s lovable, only I’ll ever love myse

Even if I know someone thinks of me with every song they don’t really know me. Maybe I feel like my best f with.

Is this why the ‘depressed artist’ trope is so popular? understand art in the context you made it. No one wil your art as you do, no matter how well you learn to e

I’d like to be able to look into people's brains. Not the to be able to open up my brain and look at it. I’d feel

by Lian Perez Cedeño

I want to fall in love (not that I’m rushed by any mean crush on. The reason this makes me so repulsive is bec being with someone else.

I think I know myself more than most people my age, and film. For someone else it might be their love for tr because in reality I feel inferior to everyone else. A se room for mistakes or feeling small, that’s why I take r these things happen to me. My brain has been trying hate myself so much. So complex.

I don’t know myself and no 16-year-old should be exp have. I haven’t seen the world I live in and I haven’t e This makes me feel happy, and it should make you too

I guess what I've learned from this brain dump is tha But I am.

the idea of ‘being in love’ or do I just think I'm completely unlovable? Is my ‘disgust’ toward romance one of the many o?

e I’m too mean and judgemental? People love me--good people, too--so I’m not totally unlovable. Maybe I’m just y entire life. They must be used to me by now.

t time I went to a social gathering. I felt loved, just I didn’t love myself. Why now that I love myself I feel the most d I realized how hard it actually is to love me. Somehow, I feel a worse person now than before. Not morally, just more le now. Actually, I always have, but I guess I couldn’t dislike myself and everyone else.

e more time I spend with myself, the more I know myself and all my complexities and flaws, bad flaws. I can’t go out m not eager to), but if I had to take an estimated guess, I’d say I’m even more reclusive than I was, just for different ng myself to have a meaningful conversation with anyone without feeling inferior, now I don’t think I’m going to be ling superior. Radical, as the Aries I am, I know.

e else--be it because they don’t know me enough or because they do too well--than to not like myself and feel some

houghts or do I just like my talent? Do I just like the worlds I create and the characters I write and how well I do it? I f that's the case, given this takes up about half my brain. I don’t share that with anyone, it’s not me. So, if that’s the elf. That’s scary and sad to think about.

g they hear and every painting they see, I’ll just think it’s platonic and that they just like my face or my ass because friend is the only person to half-fully understand me, (and she does) she’s the only person I’ve shared my creativity

Do we (and I use we loosely) feel lonely because now one understands us? We are our art, and no one can ll fully understand your intent. A message can get across, yes, but it’s impossible anyone feels the same way about explain yourself. That’s art. It’s beautiful but so melancholic and lonely.

eir every thought, it’s not necessary, just how they think, how they see the world and understand why. I’d like people a lot more lovable that way.

ns). I want to think of someone, actually someone not a platonic person with the face of whatever celebrity I have a cause I feel like I’ll be wasting my time because no one is worthy of being with me as much as I am not worthy of

but I don’t. I know a part of myself in depth, as does everyone else. For me it’s my writing and love for storytelling ravel or games or sports. I’m not better than anyone else, and I’ve been subconsciously convincing myself of that elf-hating god complex of sorts. But I’m wrong in every way. Being “better” is an awful burden to carry. There’s no rejection and tiny embarrassments so hard. This just leads me to hate myself even more than the average person when to protect me all this time, but it’s been laughably counterproductive. Or perhaps it is a way I punish myself because I

pected to. That’s why I’m no better or worse. I am nothing, I am but a seed. And that is an awfully peaceful feeling to even touched the surface of all the worlds and characters I’ll create. I have zero pressure and infinite possibilities. o.

at I’m not actually unlovable, I just haven’t learned the million things that make me so.


Cindy Phan is an ice skater, inline skater, and outdoor adventurer. She prides herself in being that one friend you’ll never get bored around, as she's full of ideas, and always tries to get people out of their comfort zone. Photography, horror, heavy metal, wine, and animals are a few of Cindy's interests, which are ever-expanding because she literally aspires to do everything. Cindy's only fears in life are losing the people she loves, and leaving this world without satisfying all her curiosities.

Wind screeches as ice breaks under the moonlit midnight sky by the weight of footsteps on grass. Chest hollow, warmth stolen, mind compressed with neverending questions. A piece of heart gone missing. Time passes and temperature drops as to numb the half-stitched wounds, letting jumbled thoughts find peace. Throat clears with a gust of wind, tears freeze when facts are accepted. Path vivid, though possible to walk. The hurt a reminder, not an abuser. Self-worth suspended, but far from cheapened. Life moves on because no one is defeated.

One Day You'll Wake One day you'll rise, and it won't hurt anymore You'll have the peace you're fighting for You'll smile for your triumph and you'll see then How thankful you are, that you didn't give in - B.Elae Instagram: @b.elae | Facebook: B. Elae


In those times That position me To be alone I fold my legs And press my back Against the cold wall And I breathe And sometimes I feel the butterflies Dancing in my lungs And other times I become the rain From a turbulent storm But I steady either way And I know, that even If I am a l o n e Even if I am unsound and undone Even if I question all that I am I’ve always been who I’ve ever needed And that, with each moment, I’ve room to prove that to myself - B. Elae Instagram: @b.elae | Facebook: B. Elae

Tree of Life


wha and the and I sm and I wa but of th is th you softl as th I aw bran

Collag Beth A Twitte www.e

nd new

at is this place with white walls wallowing water bugs? river frosted over you have nowhere to go mell thunder also your casual thinking ant to go home the feeling he gingerbread walls under my fingernails he softest craving I've had all year sing ly at first then I recognize it he first lullaby that ever sang me to sleep wake in spring nd new

ge and writing by Adan from Washington State, USA er: @edgeofelizabeth | Instagram: @edgeofelizabeth


Amira Alsareinye @artist.amiraa on Instagram

WITH A ROAR Written by Crystal Bowden from Atlanta, Georgia Instagram: @crystal_bowden

the smells of dinner are lingering in the air of our small apartment where dim lighting swaddles me in its soft yellow glow ambient electronic music plays somewhat distantly in my mind sounds I associate with the melding of bodies, like the hot pressing of warmed marshmallows to chocolate, sweet at its center now it carries me through a separation the ultimate act of creation the guttural expansion of the body as it opens up to receive the world a small plastic pool sits in the space between our bed and the wall where I’ve hung birth art and affirmative sayings to support me none of which I will pay any mind to because animals can’t read I no longer exist on the same plain as the two-legged my hands clench, fingers digging into the synthetic fibers cushioning my knees as I rock and sway my body my mouth falls open to release the sounds of the oldest wisdom I have buried inside of me inarticulate moanings pour from these lips chanting as if trying to conjure some old magic to see me through yet the human part of me rears up to declare, this can’t be it I think I may die from the pain I think only crazy people do this without epidurals I think is it too late to go to the hospital I think what the fuck was I thinking my husband says, I think you are pushing he is the thread tying together the fragile space between my intuition and my dwelling brain now, the best parts of me are my unthinking parts

denials tumble from my lips as I grunt through contractions, but oh, there is the pressing of her head I can feel her against the soft folds of my most intimate parts and it's only now, feeling the skin and hair of her head that I can acknowledge that this thing is actually happening I am here I am birthing new life I am elated also, I am shattered no, literally, I think my vagina is going to shatter into a million pieces, as if made from glass that will need to be put back together again my body feels split from the pressure of life moving through it and in that moment I can’t imagine that its anatomically possible for this to succeed that I can open up any more than I’ve already opened that there must be a point of dead-ending but this is a lie this is a reckoning from my humanistic underbelly and I squash her fearfulness down because I am no meer human and I know how to roar I roar to create symmetry of openness forming a line down my expanse a map detailing the route one could take upon exiting my body and I roar, mostly because I am a lioness and I know how to deliver this life with a roar that ushers our daughter into this world

Maria Escoriheula from Dublin, Ireland

Bed. I stand on the precipice. The cold marsh, the sponge moss, which my feet have been buried in. Standing still but growing. The edge will fold away with all the weight of me. Curving off into an unknown. I stand, to take one last breath before I am filled with the impossible. Unseen before today. Growing into space unrecognisable. The wilting bed I have been resting in for too long, now folds with my resistance and sends me to find something new. by Leah Short Nottingham, England IG: @lel_short

Persona Captivated b y the menac les, all aroun I almost drow d, ned myself i nto the cana Afraid of the rd. ir carp,at my back, I kept putting a new perso na; The truth tha t wished to v ent that Me, Found it to b e inert within . They never knew how g rim I was, I entailed on every new d ay. Applause for the charlata n looks, Pushed me m ore to the tu rbid debark The pique w ; ent on in it's p ace. Making me debase all I a cquired, Then came the day of m y last felony Putting the p ; ersona, I dup ed the Self, And devoted her into the h ands of Dem ise. ROY

A Woman I've got the body of a woman, That I can't be the girl, inferior to a man's whip. It's me who can't make a pretty face, And open my mouth for sweet talks. I have my weapons which your mind says " make up", That I can laugh a lifetime with tears down my cheeks. It's all the bad breath you'll get out of my mouth; Cause there's a lot of poison that I imbibed. I have got a heart that beats; No matter how many times you stab it. God, got me in the rotten hands of a man; Who's anything but not a lover. And it's my fate which happens to play, With the devil, to bring the soul of mine to the jaws of death. I've got my feet above the earth, That it's all in vain to pull the rock beneath my feet. I've got my hands full of thorns; And yes I am the pretty rose you desire thoughtlessly. While you smile at the rain, I feel I'm cursed by the heavenly powers; So you call me the storm or a thorn, But it's me a woman; Whom you'll find hard to embrace. ROY Instagram: roypamphleteer / roywritings7

Ash Woodland from South Africa Instagram: @ashwoodland_ YouTube: Ash Woodland Films

I’m lost in a sea of the forgotten, I can hear the thunder in the night. The darkness all wants to creep into me, And I can’t stop it, though I try as I might. Darkness can seep into all of your cracks, Change what you do, how you think, how you see. But I don’t want it here, It’s been here for too long, I won’t let it win that easily. But it feels like I’m lost in an abandoned jungle, Lost in a jungle all alone. And all the lost creatures say that they do not want me, But I don’t know how to find my way home. So the darkness is my only company, It tells me all its thoughts and its words. I try to to let it get to me, But in the end they are all that I heard.But in the end they are all that I heard. Then a fighting light inside of me tries to jump out and defend “It won’t be like this forever,” it says, “Together I can help you to mend. Mend the broken pieces that the darkness has seemed to cause. If we just keep moving forward we can heal all of the sores.” The darkness tries to take control, it wants to put out that light inside, But she whispers, “Don’t you worry about me. I’ll be here for a very long time. I’m not leaving you just yet, you need me, I promise I’ll stick around. All you do is look deep inside you Then a fighting light inside of me tries to jump out and defend “It won’t be like this forever,” it says, “Together I can help you to mend. Mend the broken pieces that the darkness has seemed to cause. If we just

keep moving forward we can heal all of the sores.” The darkness tries to take control, it wants to put out that light inside, But she whispers, “Don’t you worry about me. I’ll be here for a very long time. I’m not leaving you just yet, you need me, I promise I’ll stick around. All you do is look deep inside you And then bam! The fighting light has been found. Darkness can be scary. It can push its way into your brain. Your head can hurt from all the heaviness But in the end you’ll gain.” “Gain?” I want to shout at the light, “What could I possibly gain from this? All I fe hopeless, it’s never been heavier to exist.” As though reading my mind, the light turns and sees right through, “I’ll tell you what you’ll gain from this, if you let me just help you... You see, every evening the sky turns to orange, or a different shade of pink. It glows so bright an vibrant, But then it starts to sink. It sinks into the deep night sky, nothing but darkness left behind. But if you’re patient, looking through the dark, soon you’ll start to find, That you can see a sin star shining down at you. And then after a while another appears, And then another and another, Until all the aching fears Have turned into bright twinkling stars in the night, shining through all the joyl dark, Even though the darkness is still there behind it, the stars make it a little less har The light that they shine outwards helps to brighten up the sky, And even thoug they may seem insignificant at first they grow and grow over time… Until one day a great full moon appears And shines down so much light, That you can see right through the darkness, No longer afraid of the night.


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And then you look up and hear booming thunder, And it begins to rain. And down comes all that empty, all that heartache, all that pain. It rains down deep into the ground And helps a flower start to grow. It’s been turned into a new beginning, The flower grows and grows and grows...


Fr http:// Are we one to be apart, or Are we connected, alike to knots tightened, with our eyes Fixated, to the scroll of stories:

How words can cover the fractures Mended and tended by a new light. How the moist soil roots seeds, Gracefully blossomed by flavour.

And the roars of riots across the sea

Sounds similar to the ear, of the woun The unsung, buried bitter truths.

And through the waves, all that while

Let us not blind ourselves.

From the pain can flame the courage

That could shatter the shadowed silen


by: Yashi Sastrawan rom Stockholm. Sweden /





Sunset inside. by Leah Short from Nottingham Instagram: @lel_short I gasp the last of the day, the gold of sunset. And I let it sit in my ribs. Vibrating over chalky bones. Sending my body into shock with its glowing beauty. It shall sustain me, Through this shadowy night, as the heavy curtain comes down. The halo crisp and amber in my chest, allowing me to feel growth. Developing like an x-ray through the night. Slumber will make me new. Regenerating my body, when the dark sets in. I will take the night and make it my salvation. New, new, new. The day will end and all the history ends with it.

Rebirth and Renewal by Azul @smalldweeb on Instagram



Any work of art can, in my opinion, transcribe much more than words. Th

messages that are understood at first glance and those that are revealed looks at the work or as one changes perspective and perception.

A piece of art, in addition to its message and its aestheticism, contains i value that goes beyond it, and I mean a fragment of our own history. Art where one does not

hesitate to destroy, deconstruct in order to build som

in order to give space to renewal. As a cultural MĂŠtis, it is difficult for m my place either in France or in Madagascar.

The gaze of others has often locked me into restricted affiliations, the

feeling of not belonging to any countries. As Audre Lorde says “if I had

myself, I would have been crushed by fantasies of others and eaten aliv

self-portraits I express this difficulty in overcoming this ""identity patchwo

doubt reign. Multiple representations of me overlap to form only one. In

more concrete delimitations but elements which seem to have difficulty to by little find their place.

Reaching the where one has

being able to d that identi

observe the

nece themselves

From t


become a

i have i don't

Irresolute but not broken

here are as one

in its heart a is a process

mething new

me to feel at

erefore accentuating the

d not defined myself for

ve”. Through this series of

ork"" where confusion and

n the center there are no

o cohabit but which little

e feeling of “unity in multiplicity” is achieved through a long process to go through disorientation, loss of bearings and guidance before

deconstruct this dismantled mindset in order to go beyond the idea ty is an assemblage of parts that are alien to each other. When we

e long process of identity construction, we become aware that it is

essary to deconstruct, to understand all the components that reveal to us, to explore them in order to be able to accept them and thus give existence to this world of ours.

the moment one has realized that it is fundamental to deconstruct,

re, depersonalize and reorganize, one has the ability to rebirth and

a new person in his/her entire complexity and ambiguity that tends towards uniqueness.


Celia Rako based in Paris, Berlin and Nosy Be.

John 3:7

by Madz Pace

@spooky_madz / @madelinepace_



There is a resilience in building shelters in letting myself fall in love with each home caressing the ashes after I burn them down I could build four walls on top of the ocean cut off all my hair and weave myself a roof tear it apart and cast away the bones

feed them to the waves that I slept on I’ve built homes inside each of my bodies breaking them down again and again and again rupture every frame each time I need to be reborn I’ve built homes inside of houses four walls inside four walls lay bricks on top wooden floors and let the rest of the walls crumble around me I’ve built homes inside of other people too, cutting myself into a million tiny fragments shoving each piece into every vacant pocket I find though homes built on such shaky ground aren’t ones I can live in for long not when winter comes and they eat every piece they can find to stay warm leaving behind the small scraps to rot and decay homes found inside of other people are never built to last.

Amadi Greenstein San Carlos, California Instagram: @amadiroseee

Amadi Greenstein from San Carlos, California Instagram: @amadiroseee |

My Way Home Ash Woodland from South Africa Instagram: @ashwoodland_ YouTube: Ash Woodland Films

She stretches her arms out, Up high in the sky, Just wishing and hoping to be able to fly, But still she just stand there She's stuck on the ground, She can’t sore away just yet, And so she takes a look around… She sees the buildings, the skylights, the people rushing by, She just wants to get away from here But doesnt know how to fly, So she keeps wishing and wishing for something to change, Telling herself the feeling of belonging will come someday. And so she takes out her notebook and she takes out her pen, And the scribbling on the page below Helps her mind to stop buzzing and her fears to let go. And so, drawing a paper plane, she hops inside, Turns on the engine and sores into the sky, And she goes… Past the mountains and over the seas, Through all the forests, One with all the trees, Singing, “this is where I belong, this is my home, Up above the clouds where the light is stronger, In the jungle where the spirits roam, I am home. I am home. This is home.” But they say that’ll fade someday soon, And she’ll no longer hear the trees Or the laughing of the moon. But she just smiles and says, “‘Till then, I’ve got my paper and I’ve got my pen, A world to see, And nothing to lose.”

Away from all the standards that she never seemed to meet, Past all the laughing faces, And all the crowded halls, Up high above the emptiness that she had known before. She shouted, “I am never going back! I’ve never felt this free, Down there I’m just a number and up here I feel like me! Oh the clouds, they do not judge me, Oh the trees, they make me smile, Can I just speed through the sky once more, Can I stay here for a while? On the ground they will not miss me, They won’t even notice that I’m gone, Can I climb out of that picture frame, And into one where I belong? Oh I belong with all the rainclouds, I’m no good when I’m not here, I just feel the echo of the shadows And I want to disappear. I’ll just go back down one more time, And pack up all my things, Write a letter telling them where I’ve gone, And when I come back, I’ll be smiling so bright, Knowing my broken pieces have become strong.” So she flies down to the ground and packs up all her belongings, In two boxes, left and right: The one labeled, “It’s time to forget the past,” the other, “Let’s take flight! But right now she feels so tired And her eyes begin to close, Tomorrow she’ll be on her way! Where to? Ask the rainclouds, they’re the only ones that know! But when morning comes she looks in the mirror And sees what she’s leaving behind, Is it really as lonely here as she thought? Was it all just in her mind?” And now her head in spinning, yet again, Heart racing and eyes burning bright, But when she takes out her notebook and pen Her paper plane no longer seems to come to life…

Closing her eyes and crossing her fingers tight, She makes a wish that one day everything she’d known before Will once again, be in sight. So she goes… Down the staircase, And out the front door, She walks down that familiar road but it’s not like how she’d seen it before… She notices the lights from the houses, She sees the birds in the sky, Maybe there’s a place for her in this frame after all, It just took a while to find. As the night starts to get darker, And her fears start to get scared, She shouts to the moon, “see, this is why I’m leaving, I am not prepared!” But as she steps onto her doorstep, She feels the warmth coming from inside, “I may have space and freedom,” The moon says, “But it gets cold up here in the sky.” “At least you’re not alone,” the girl shouts, “You have all the stars, and I’ll be there soon.” “Yes, I have the stars, and it’s fun to see them dancing, But up here, I’m the only moon. I promise that you’ll be okay, Just give yourself time to learn to see, That it’s not one or the other, You don’t have to pick between them and me. And even if you’re on the ground, I’ll always be right here, But it’s YOU who does the shining, it’s YOU who let’s go of the fear. And so the girl looks up and takes a breath, Breathes in, Breathes out, And sighs, But deep down she know that she’ll be alright, Feet on the ground and mind in the skies.

“Holy Fig� (2020), 8x10 acrylic Instagram:

Artist Statement Art and words by Tashana Poblete "…love in its fullest form is a series of deaths and rebirths. We let go of one phase, one aspect of love, and enter another. Passion dies and is brought back. Pain is chased away and surfaces another time. To love means to embrace and at the same time to withstand many endings, and many, many beginnings—all in the same relationship." Clarissa Pinkola Estés In the microcosm that is life itself, we are completely, utterly vulnerable to any unknown impact at any given time. Once we think we’ve been transformed by vulnerability in its rawest form, we get hit by yet another configuration of it and are forced into another phase of intense relearning and regrowing. This humbling cycle of lowering our defenses, getting punctured, and renewing is a recurring theme in my artwork. Recently, I have become enthralled with the transformative nature of intimate relationships. In my paintings, I find myself unconsciously projecting the births and deaths that I have experienced through my closest bonds. We are born when, for the first time, we feel emotions that seem mystical in nature and when we see parts of ourselves that we didn’t know needed tending to. We experience the dissipations and deaths of thought patterns, old perspectives, or maybe even entire relationships, and we mourn what we have lost in our fires. And, throughout this cycle, grief— from any stage of life—seeps out from the crevices onto every birth, death, and in-between. I am still learning how to cope with the constant flux of highs and lows. I am learning how to honour the things that may very well have killed some part of us, but have simultaneously forced our lives into new beginnings. I am learning that, even when a relationship or another ‘tangible’ facet is gone, its effects on our lives do not cease. I think that we learn all of these things because, incredibly, love sustains and never truly leaves us. And so, we go on, continuing to expose our deepest wounds, with both an overlysentimental memory and an infallible hope that our capacities to love will continue to bring us life.


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