KNACK Magazine #11

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KNACK ground control to major tom. ground control to major tom. take your protein pills and put your helmet on. ground control to major tom. commencing countdown, engines on. check ignition and may god’s love be with you. this is ground control to major tom. you’ve really made the grade, and the papers want to know whose shirts you wear. now it’s time to leave the capsule if you dare. this is major tom to ground control. i’m stepping through the door and i’m floating in a most peculiar way, and the stars look very different today for here am i sitting in a tin can far above the world. planet earth is blue and there’s nothing i can do. though i’m past one hundred thousand miles, i’m feeling very still and i think my spaceship knows which way to go. tell my wife i love her very much. she knows. ground control to major tom. your circuit’s dead, there’s something wrong. can you hear me, major tom? can you hear me, major tom? can you hear me, major tom? can you—

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here am i floating ‘round my tin can far above the moon. planet earth is blue and there’s nothing i can do.

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Consider again that Pale Blue Dot we’ve been talking about. Imagine that you take a good, long look at it. Imagine you’re staring at the dot for any length of time, and then try to convince yourself that God created the whole universe for one of the ten million or so species of life that inhabit that speck of dust.

The trapdoor beneath our feet swings open. We find ourselves in bottomless free fall. If it takes a little myth and ritual to get us through a night that seems endless, who among us cannot sympathize and understand? We long to be here for a purpose, even though, despite much selfdeception, none is evident.

Now, take it a step further: imagine that everything was made for just a single shade of that species; or gender; or ethnic or religious subdivision.

The significance of our lives, and our fragile planet, is then determined only by our own wisdom and courage. We are the custodians of life’s meaning. We long for a parent to care for us, to forgive us our errors, to save us from our childish mistakes.

We can recognize here a shortcoming, in some circumstances serious, in our ability to understand the world. Characteristically, we seem compelled to project our own nature onto nature.

“Man, in his arrogance, thinks himself a great work, worthy of the interposition of a deity,” Darwin wrote telegraphically in his notebook. “More humble, and I think truer, to consider him created from animals.”

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We’re Johnny-come-latelies, we live in the cosmic boondocks, we emerged from microbes and muck, apes are our cousins, our thoughts and feelings are not fully under our own control, and on top of all this, we’re making a mess of our planet, and becoming a danger to ourselves.

But knowledge is preferable to ignorance; better by far to embrace the hard truth than a reassuring fable.

Modern science has been a voyage into the unknown, with a lesson in humility waiting at every stop. Our common sense intuitions can be mistaken, our preferences don’t count. We do not live in a privileged reference frame. If we crave some cosmic purpose, then let us find ourselves a worthy goal.

Carl Sagan

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KNACK is dedicated to showcasing the work of new artists of all mediums and to discussing trends and ideas within art communities. KNACK’s ultimate aim is to connect and inspire emerging artists. We strive to create a place for artists, writers, designers, thinkers, and innovators to collaborate and produce a unique, informative, and unprecedented web-based magazine each month.

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WILL SMITH Co-Founder, Photo Editor ANDREA VACA Co-Founder, Art Director, Production Manager ARIANA LOMBARDI Executive Editor ARIANNA SULLIVAN Editor JONATHON DUARTE Creative Director, Design Cover Design by Rebecca Alvarez Spread Design by Jake Goodman

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KNACK ARTMAGA ZINE.COM K N ACK M AGA ZINE1@ GM A IL .C OM

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IS SU E ELE VEN editor’s issue

Artist Biographies . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4-6 Andrea Catalina Vaca . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 Ariana Lombardi. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Will K. Smith. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 Arianna Sullivan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Jonathon Duarte . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 Submission Guidelines . . . . . . . . . . . 56

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ANDREA CATALINA VACA

ARIANA LOMBARDI

Andrea Catalina Vaca is living in Santa Fe, New Mexico making photographs, photo books, and is working at SITE Santa Fe, Santa Fe’s contemporary art museum.

Ariana Lombardi: [adverb] an iridescent apparition that hugs the moon as it rises; [verb] the ping in your gut that asks why, then how; How is it so?; [noun] one half of a two-headed monster whose soul intention is to rework the use of language of the human race

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www.andreavaca.com email@andreavaca.com

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WILL K. SMITH

ARIANNA SULLIVAN

Will Smith—not the musician artist turned actor—is a Los Angles based photographer/artist and a recent graduate from the BFA Photo and Media program at California Institute of the Arts (Cal Arts). His artistic work frequently investigates space and infrastructure as a means to investigate how we interpret our soundings.

Arianna Sullivan is a student of creative writing at the Santa Fe University of Art and Design. She attended UWC Atlantic College in Wales, UK, and studied at The New School in New York, New York.

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JONATHON DUARTE

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Jonathon Duarte is a native of El Paso, Texas. He studied Graphic Design in Santa Fe University of Art and Design in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and is now back in his hometown of El Paso.

His current school is the University of Texas at El Paso, where he studies Graphic Design and Marketing.

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ANDREA CATALINA VACA P H OT O G R A P H Y

It has been especially effective in my growth as a photographer living in New Mexico. The landscape holds so many natural colors that vibrate in the dense sunlight; it’s a playground for a photographer.

As artists we work on an array of projects but what I have started to focus on is that the environment that surrounds you inspires you. ...

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ARIANA LOMBARDI C R E AT I V E W R I T I N G

Questions of the self are what propel me through my experiences.

At the heart of it, life is purely an amalgamation of the self--time, people, place and circumstance. Life is. Humans exist. I believe experience is circular. The choices that these questions of the self carry me on will ultimately place me where I began, and that end point is the beginning of a new series of questions. The journey is what’s important. Each morning when I wake up, I want to write, to flex and strengthen this muscle of language that is my birthright, that can grow as large as a person is willing to work for it. I breathe and I say to myself: I accept myself completely here and now and consciously experience everything I feel, think, say, and do (including my emotion-backed addictions) as a necessary part of my growth into higher consciousness. ...

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BABOOTZ

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I’d like to write something that will germinate—letterforms that sprout roots, words that embed themselves into the soil. A network of fibers—sentences and phrases— that branch underground and drink the saliva from my tongue. A forest of sound amassing in my throat. My vocals chords—birds and bees buzzing—pollinate each plant. Trees. Brown bark and rind. Flowers and fruit, a rainbow of soft petals and pulp. Soon there are gardens, valleys, rainforests, and brush so thick that birds lose sight of the ground and ants the sky.

All of it: words. They amalgamate—season in, season out.

Birth. Death. They become stories and they whisper from root to root, like electricity in water. The leaves become definitive from one another. They gather in groves. They grow together.

They are families.

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Today’s obituary read, Imagination Is Dead. Quiet text, smaller than the

blink of an eye, sandwiched between astrology charts, Sudoku and crossword puzzles. There would be no services, no mass, no memorial. The benefactors of Imagination were unable to determine how to lay the word to rest, completely unaware and unable to comprehend the loss. Cause of death: dehydration; lack of thirst. What did Imagination’s tree sound like when it fell in the forest? Did its bark bellow as it collapsed onto soil and worms and dew soaked foliage? Did it writhe in pain? Or disintegrate?

--Where am I now Now no one knows any more Who is who or where It’s all an ugly dream of dust Can you hear me -Vasko Popa, At The End

Vasko Popa’s poetry haunts me. How can so few lines be so silent and make

so much noise? All the white space—the small stanzas and sharp line breaks. In the only English translation of Popa’s work, Homage to the Lame Wolf, the poet, Charles Simic, considers Popa’s use of language in the book’s introduction. He writes, “What we have here is myth meditating on myth. By uncovering its laws, Popa has made his myth reflexive. They think aloud and we overhear them.”

This particular poem, At The End, is almost completely rhetorical:

“Where am I,” and “Who is who or where.” Popa’s work requires the reader to

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ask something of themselves. His lines have weight. They create a texture which is visible in our mind’s eye. The answers have to be imagined. Before this poetry, myth rarely crossed my mind. There was Ancient Greece and Rome, nursery rhymes and fairy tales, but that was make-believe. How can make-believe service the soul?

Was myth’s substance within its reflexive nature, as Simic notes? And

where does that leave me? If Popa created a scale of all the words that started with the letter A, how far would apparition be from avatar?

--

Trees shrouded the house, their canopy of leaves highlighted sections of

the heavy Long Island sky like portholes on the side of a ship. Rain always announced our arrival. It pooled in the center of the front lawn, ticking from leaf to branch to grass to concrete. This was Grandma and Grandpa’s. This was uncharted territory—the hallways, the dark shadows cast across the white carpet, the books and piano, the wooden chess set, the mothball scent, a part of everything.

Being there was substantial, like it was important, like it was a place to

learn, to root us. They told stories. A word mattered. Grandma cooked with their meaning and Grandpa cut its breast and passed it around the kitchen table, the dining room, the back deck. We listened and ate everything up.

We could be anything—adventurers in the Amazon, performers of the great American musical, or archeologists digging up the bones of our ancestors. We could invent any world we wanted.

Did the house have enough texture to make this story? Can a myth be born

from that house’s walls? Though my memory could have turned it into some-

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thing shapeless, a vagabond traveling across the white space of this page.

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I am sitting at a wooden table in my living room. No one is home and the

only sound other than me sitting is the silence of an empty house. I have unplugged for the night. I am trying to write an essay or something. I am trying to use all these nice words and paint a picture for someone’s eyes. I want to write something that will sink down into the belly and run amuck. Something innocuous and imagined. Something with substance.

And a thought starts to grow, all the words are assembling themselves,

like little soldiers called to duty. I can see them. They have color and they are singing. Quiet house, I want to hear the root chord—a third, at least. But then all these people, people I barely know, and all their words get in the way of my own. New status: Still got dirt under my nails, it is done, I’m not going to have children, it’s just a fact. Nothing can compare to curling up into bed with a good book. blahblahblahyaddaypppeyoblah

I lost it. The idea! All this passivity, false communication. There is no

authenticity. What are we all exchanging? News? Stories? Ideas? Nothing with substance that could take root and grow. Avatars feeding news feed is feeding my brain. It cannot nourish the imagined.

--

From the Earth, meaning could grow, our mythos roaming free, spread-

ing its seeds. What hue, what species of tree does a word like apparition create?

What do its leaves look like? How sheer are its petals? What sound does it make as the wind kisses it? Pick out the root chord and sing it back.

--

“You know a genie lives in there,” Grandma said to my sister, brother and I

in the dark dining room. A blue glass bottle shaped like a raindrop just as it hits

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the ground, fat at the bottom and narrow on top. It was not like Aladdin’s, but sat there on top of a doily, masked by mystery.

“That’s make believe,” I said, “Genies don’t exist.”

“Open it. See what happens,” she said. I looked to my comrades, their

hands gripping the inside of their pockets. All three of us, standing as still and stiff as the glass itself.

“I’m not opening it because genies aren’t real. It’s just a funny looking

bottle, Grandma.”

“Suit yourself,” she said, smiling. She raised her eyebrows then walked

back into the kitchen to finish cooking dinner. We stepped quickly in her wake, threatened by the bottle and the dark room.

--

Popa struck me. The melodies his poems create, the notes that comprise

each line picked up in tempo. They resonated like a church organ, all the sound sneaking up on me until it’s all I could hear. With Popa, an image can be hatched from the white space. The page is a playground, and Popa is the kid who tags you, saying, “You’re it! Catch me if you think you’re fast enough!” Reading Popa is active. It engages. It begs to entertain every question it arouses. But why these seemingly simple poems? And why myth?

The final collection in Homage to a Lame Wolf, is called Raw Flesh where-

in Popa brings the reader into the forest of his own myth. The first poem, Earthbound Constellation,sets a scene, places us inside of a world, and we can trace the birth of his own mythology. He begins: On Guduricka Street in Vrsac

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Three old laborers sip

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Their evening beer from a bottle

This street and these people are what is found in Popa’s forest. His speci-

ficity was inviting me to sit with them. He continues, “The metal caps make/A constellation on a bit of dirt.”

The place of his story—the root of his words, their origin—is given over

visually. I felt it, tasted it, saw it. In the poem’s last stanza I was completely involved in the work’s reflexivity. “I went to buy cigarettes/I need a bottle of beer too/To find a place for my own star.”

Away from the page, where apparition and avatar slide over one anoth-

er with ease, I had no bottle cap to cast out. What was my myth? How could I attach myself to anything or find a place in the stars with no story, no roots to call my own?

--

Fifteen is the number of times I have turned the spigot off. Fifteen times

I have actively stopped stitching a fabric of words and pricked my thumb with the needle. My illocution is bleeding on the page. Distracted. I am doing this to myself. I tuned out and logged on. To the Internet. Opened the browser, checked e-mail, Facebook, CNN and the New York Times. Fifteen times. Five pages.

That’s about three times per page.

Is this a kind of addiction? Like cigarettes? I am comatose, over stimulated,

asphyxiated. How can a world of avatars be our active reality? What is real about people’s pictures posted on a cyber wall? Walls can’t grow like trees. They don’t branch off and populate.

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We deracinate words. Oh, but it was at the tip of my tongue, the top of my

head! We lose understanding. We forget and disconnect. Imagination becomes

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an apparition—victim to our lack of thirst, our inability to allow it its own agency. But words are our roots. Language is our tree. The texture that stories have the power to create is limitless.

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Babootz is the bastardization of the Italian word, puzza, pronounced

POOT-sa, meaning ‘the stench’. No one wants to deal with puzza.

--

After the dishes had been cleared from the table, the crumbs dusted from

the cream-white cloth designated for our weekends at their house, after the pie and ice cream, the espresso with Sambuca, after our stomachs were so full of food that the only thing left to do was sit because we couldn’t move without getting a cramp, the stories began.

My brother, sister and I listening closely as Grandpa told us about his

mother, Rose, as a young girl in Marcellinara, Calabria. The story of when she ran into Mr. So-and-So on her way home. Mr. So-and-So was sitting slumped over, hunting rifle in hand. He picked up his head, asked her what she was doing in the woods.

“This is a shortcut, Mr. So-and-So. I was at the market getting things for

Mother.”

“Go straight home,” he said. “You shouldn’t be here so close to sundown.”

When she finally arrived her mother scolded her for being late.

“It’s okay, Mom. I took the path through the woods. I saw Mr. So-and-So,

he watched me get home.”

“Mr. So-and-So died three days ago in a hunting accident. It could not have

been him. Don’t go through the woods to come home. It’s dangerous.” What

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Rosa had seen must have been an apparition. A cold chill down my back. The

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genie bottle in the corner of my eye.

Uncle Junior’s face—his gummy smile and the space between his teeth

where his canines should have been. Grandma grinning monstrously, so thrilled to be sitting with her mother, husband and son, her daughter-in-law, her grandchildren, her brother, his wife. So much life at one table, so many roots tied to the ground.

“Junya, tell the kids a story. They’ve already heard about Rosa in the or-

chard,” she’d say to her brother.

--

Let’s be real. I have actively disengaged from my own thoughts; let my

voice fall flat every measure that I have intended to belt the root chord of this text. I click instead to the Internet, to my cell phone, to avatars, to electronics.

I plug in and the constant flow of information and input inundates my senses without time to process. They become words without weight. In cyberspace everything floats, stories have no root. I have chosen to passively interact with the world that I am a part of and it is taking over. I am losing my language.

How does one truly know a person if they do not take the time and thought

to know themselves? What happens when you have no myth to call your own, no language to let it grow?

--

Popa would say: Go to the forest, find your tree, climb its branches, use the

leaves to build a house of myth. Let the wind carry it like a song.

--

“Chris,” Uncle Junior says to Grandma, “have you told them about the

babootz?”

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“Babootz?” Grandma asks.

“Yeah, bah-bootz. You know, the things under the deck.”

The adults, still sipping espresso, erupt with laughter. What was so

funny? He hadn’t even told the story. Was it a curse word? We scan their faces and Grandma says, between gasps of air, “Oh, Junya, you must tell them about the Babootz.”

They were animals or creatures—part elf, part dust bunny, part magic.

Their eyes glowed blue and they preferred darkness to light. Our family’s clan of Babootz lived under Uncle Junior’s deck in Holbrook. He had brought them there from Queens, where other clans of Babootz still inhabited the local movie theaters. They ate the buttons from the theater seat-cushions. The adults were keeling over, adding this and that to his story, building the myth of the Babootz as they went along. They were gripping the table, saying, “Junior! Oh Junior!”

Maybe I was a kid, but I wasn’t stupid.

“I don’t know if I believe you,” I say and cross my arms.

“Hey, you gotta watch saying stuff like that. If you don’t believe me

you’ll never see them. You can only see them if you believe it.” There was a particular Babootz whose name could not be uttered, should never for any reason be spoken. ‘The-one-we-do-not name’ is what Uncle Junior kept saying. “What’s his name, what’s his name?” We pressed him. “Just tell us. We won’t say his name, we promise.” Uncle Junior lowered his head.

“Now you have to promise. This one’s not a good guy. If you say his name

too often he’ll come tickle your feet while you are sleeping.” We promise, Uncle Junior, we promise. Just tell us! We were standing now, leaning over the table, pulling with all our might to know more.

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“Stetchy. His name is Stetchy.”

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“Stetchy, what kind of name is that?” my brother said.

“Ah, be careful Jason,” Grandma chimed in. You had to trust the story.

You had to feel his evil ways. You had to keep your mind filtered and clean of the stench.

“Stetchy, Stetchy, Stetchy, Stetchy, Stetchy,” my brother said. Uncle Ju-

nior’s eyes darted to him. “You better keep your door closed tonight, Jason, and watch those feet,” he said.

--My great grandfather found two wolf cubs And brought them back to the farm Since earliest childhood I’ve been waiting For my years to equal My great grandfathers Just to ask him Which of those wolf-cubs I was -Wolf Ancestry, Vasko Popa

The final poem in, Raw Flesh, entitled, Wolf-Ancestry, reveals Popa’s

place within the myth of his ancestry. By recognizing that he is one of the two wolves, Popa allows his imagination to service his soul. He is able to find his footing as he scales his tree, higher and higher. It is easier to envision where

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you are going when you know where you came from, of what species of tree you were born. There is a place for all of us in myth and we are a part of it when we tell our stories.

--

That night I awoke in Grandpa’s study and let my eyes adjust to the dark.

There were tall shadows stretching from the bust of Virgil on Grandpa’s desk to the wall adjacent to where I lay. My hands were my eyes as I walked to the bathroom through the hallway. The door to the room which my brother was sleeping was slightly ajar. I heard him shift his feet under his covers. He began to laugh, lightly at first, then heavy and hysterical. His feet twitched through the crack in the door. Could it be? He-who-cannot-be-named.

I ran through the hall, back into my room and closed my eyes. I hadn’t even

gone to the bathroom. Don’t think of his name, don’t think it, don’t think it.

In the morning as our car pulled away from the house, Grandma and

Grandpa standing arms together, waving us off, I saw a pair of blue glowing eyes from the corner of the car’s window. I blinked and they were gone.

---

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Plant a seed. Let it be from your family. Water it with Imagination. It will take root. Watch language grow. Climb its trees and eat the fruit.

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Babootz is the bastardization of the Italian word, puzza, pronounced POOT-sa, meaning ‘the stench’. No one wants to deal with puzza.

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WILL K. SMITH P H OT O G R A P H Y

Conventions typically bring out a wide variety of people. Of course, the diehard fanatics come out in support of their favorite brands or genres but the casual enthusiasts come out as well--even those looking for a way to spend the day or afternoon come join the crowd. Automotive conventions are no exception to this, in fact one could argue it is the most welcoming convention. Almost everyone interacts with cars everyday. This commonality gives everyone an opportunity to go and enjoy these mechanical beasts tamed in a world that allowed us to more easily examine them. Off the road we are less interested in the function of the car and more interested in the aesthetic and the features and the all-important cup holders. Through the visitors stay, their idea of these cars shifts--the stop thinking of the cars as practical items and begin to think of them no differently than they would a watch. Kids start to play in and on the cars they once just wanted to ride in, while the adults pose for pictures. Still, many go to such conventions as a way to look at which car they might buy. Some go to the show purely as window shoppers, while others go with an intent to buy themselves a new car. Either way, these conventions are no longer just about the cars. ...

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IT'S NOT ABOUT THE CARS

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ARIANNA SULLIVAN C R E AT I V E W R I T I N G

I write because I have to. Words are always processing—piling and clutching and sifting—in my head, and I am a better person when I give them mind and try to work them out on a page. Only once I’ve done that can I begin to try to mold them into something shapely. ...

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MY LAST YEAR OF COLLEGE I found myself driving a highway commute:

forty-five minutes southbound on I-25 in the morning, forty-five north at the end of the day. Every day, white knuckles on the steering wheel, cramp in my heel to hold down an obedient seventy-five.

I’d spent the last three years living in the dorms and feeling guilty for every time I ran out of tooth-paste and stole some from the girls’ bathroom.

I would find myself staring in the mirror at my own penitent face wondering why the nice boy who I was dating at the time said he loved me. Would shrug my bony shoulders in the mirror, decide it must be because I was good most of the time, only stole toothpaste sometimes, and at least I was skinny.

I would find myself staring myself down in those wide dormitory bathroom mirrors, always wondering, wondering what it would be like to drive my own highway of decision making.

By the time I was free from the guilt of stealing toothpaste and the wide highway was my route to school I’d shrugged off the nice boyfriend without hurting any feelings. I was just learning to pass other cars without feeling mean. The same face that used to look hungrily at me from the girls’ bathroom glanced at me nervously in the rear-view mirror back-dropped by too-big too-blue sky, wondering if this was what it was like to be free.

One day I had company for the commute. A boy, who’d dropped out the year before he graduated, and moved as easily as the jokes that slipped from his tongue. He needed a ride to a party.

Jackson he said, sliding into the passenger’s side. He looked me in the eyes as I tried a thin-lipped smile that skated over my, Sallie. Enjoy the ride.

I sucked my stomach in and took the whole drive going eighty. Every once

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in a while it would start to feel like we were sailing so I’d tap my foot on the break and glance in the mirror to see the glow of that reassuring red light reflecting on my cautious face.

When we arrived I was tired and told him that it’s a drive that takes forever sometimes.

Yeah, he said, perfectly snarky, it does if you drive the speed limit.

I gave him a fine-boned shrug of the shoulder, and the next time I gave him a ride I drove eighty-five. After that we drove together more and more until one night we stopped the car on an exit ramp just long enough to look at each other and say, I like this drive. Hell, I might even love this drive.

But promise me one thing: if this ever gets old, we won’t drive this road together anymore.

And that night I found out what it was like to drive a hundred miles an hour for the first time in my life—hankering to get home with more than the driving as an excuse for his company.

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He noticed the change in my driving before I did. Not a criticism, just a commentary. He said the speed with which I took to the road scared the shit out of him, I said it was his effect on me, both of us laughed. After all, he was the reckless one. Funny that he noticed my driving but he didn’t see the hunger in me—that hunger I felt fiercely, hunger that at least kept me skinny, hunger that fueled my speed; the hunger that was the reason I loved to let him drive with me. The hunger, that kept carrying me towards something more, a greater space, the hungry wondering of what it was like to be free.

The huger that kept carrying me, even when he wasn’t with me.

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I drove home alone one weekend night, and the hunger found me screeching into somebody else’s driveway. I was famished for something beyond Jackson and me, thirsty for a responsibility that wouldn’t extend beyond myself in all of that speed. I slept with somebody else—hunkered down with a foreign body—looking for a way to sustain the hankering inside of me. He was thin, this other person, and when I told him so he said, Well I don’t really eat. It energizes me—always being hungry.

After that I looked at him more closely.

I was almost surprised at the way college-drop-out joking Jackson shattered when I told him what I’d done. Jackson was the boy from the drive.

The boy who caught my eye one day with a snarky smile in the rear-view mirror on the way to a party. The boy who I’d allowed into my commute, my search for freedom on the freeway. The boy who’d told me, if this ever gets old… I had broken his swaggering sway, and I was astonished. I thought his own recklessness would understand me, understand that I hadn’t ever wanted to hurt anybody. I couldn’t even steal toothpaste. But I had been practicing passing cars on the highway for a while by then, hadn’t I? He cried and I cried and he called me the word cheat instead of Sallie and told me he could never look at me again and I got in my car to drive away alone. No more looking in the rear-view mirror. No more wondering in the mirror of the dormitory what it would be like to make myself free.

Just me running away from the aloneness of the mirror mirror mirror eating nothing but salt salt salt from my driving eyes. Just me disappearing into the red of taillights, egging egging egging each other on, the carnival of white headlights, piling up to clutter the rearview mirror as I passed them by.

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JONATHON DUARTE GRAPHIC DESIGN

I make an effort to be mindful on an hourly basis. I was taught to approach graphic design as a contemplative art. To see and appreciate everyday “things� and occurrences in terms of the formal elements of graphic design has immensely altered my view of existence, and has made me conscious of the beauty that can be found in literally anything. ...

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PHOTOGRAPHERS, GRAPHIC DESIGNERS & STUDIO ARTISTS Up to 10 high resolution images of your work. All must include pertinent caption information (name, date, medium, year). If there are specifications or preferences concerning the way in which an image is displayed please include them.

WRITERS K NAC K se e ks writing of all kinds . We will eve n conside r re cipes , reviews , and essays (although we do not prefe r any thing that is ac ade mic). We se e k write rs whose work has a distinc t voice , is charac te r drive n , and is subve rsive b ut tastef ul .

We are not inte reste d in fantasy or ge nre f ic tion . Yo u may submit up to 2 5 ,0 0 0 words and as lit tle as on e . We acce pt simultan e ous submissions . N o cove r let te r n e cessar y. All submissions must be 12pt, Tim es N ew Roman , do uble -space d with page numbe rs and include your nam e , e - mail , phon e numbe r, and ge nre .

ALL SUBMISSIONS: KNACK encourages all submitters to include an artist statement with their submission. We believe that your perspective of your work and process is as lucrative as the work itself. This may range from your upbringing and/or education as an artist, what type of work you produce, inspirations, etc. If there are specifications or preferences concerning the way in which an image is displayed please include them. A brief biography including your name, age, current location, and portrait of the artist is also encouraged (no more than 700 words).

*Please title f iles for submission with the name of the piece.

This applies for both writing and visual submissions.

ACCEPTABLE FORMATS IMAGES: PDF, TIFF, or JPEG WRITTEN WORKS: .doc, .docx, and RTF

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EMAIL: knackmagazine1@gmail.com SUBJECT: SUBMISSION (PHOTOGRAPHY, STUDIO ART, CREATIVE WRITING, GRAPHIC DESIGN)

knack magazine / issue eleven

Missed a submission deadline? Do not fear!

K N ACK oper ates on a rolling submission s ystem. This means that we w ill consider wor k from any ar tist at any time. Our “ deadlines� merely ser ve as a cutof f for each issue of the magazine. A ny and all wor k sent to knackmagazine1@ gmail.com w ill be considered for submission as long as it follow s submission guidelines. The day wor k is sent merely reflec t s the issue it w ill be considered for.

Have questions or suggestions? E-mail us. We w ant to hear your thought s, comment s, and concer ns.

Sincerely, A r iana Lombardi, Editor

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ISSUE 13 SUNDAY, September 15th, 2013 ISSUE 14 SUNDAY, October 13th, 2013 ISSUE 15 SUNDAY, November 17th, 2013

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ISSUE 16 SUNDAY, December 15th, 2013

knack magazine / issue eleven

KNACK is requesting material to be reviewed. Reviews extend to any culture-related event that may be happening in the community in which you live. Do you know of an exciting show or exhibition opening? Is there an art collective in your city that deserves some press? Are you a musician, have a band, or are a filmmaker? Send us your CD, movie, or titles of upcoming releases which you’d like to see reviewed in KNACK. We believe that reviews are essential to creating a dialogue about the arts.

If something thrills you, we want to know about it and share it with the KNACK community—no matter if you live in the New York or Los Angeles, Montreal or Mexico.

All review material can be sent to knackmagazine1@gmail. com. Please send a copy of CDs and films to 321 Tesuque Dr., Unit A, Santa Fe, NM 87505. If you would like review material returned to you include return postage and packaging. Entries should contain pertinent details such as name, year, release date, websites and links (if applicable). For community events we ask that information be sent up to two months in advance to allow proper time for assignment and review.

We look forward to seeing and hearing your work.

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would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone wh be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would nev would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone wh be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would nev would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone wh be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would nev would have me as a 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would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyo never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I wou who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyo never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I wou who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyo never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I wou who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyo never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I wou who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyo never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I wou who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyo never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I wou who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyo never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I wou who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyo never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I wou who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyone who would have me as a boyfriend • I would never be in a relationship with anyo

My eyes adored you.

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KNACK