KNACK Magazine #40

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KNACK’S ULTIMATE AIM IS TO CONNECT &

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we are 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 &ARTISTS INSPIRE & INSPIRE EMERGING EMERGING ARTISTS we strive to create a place for artists, writers, designers, thinkers, + innovators to collaborate and produce a unique, informative, and unprecedented web-based magazine each month

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10-12 high resolution images of your work. All should 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.

acceptable formats PDF TIFF JPG

writers You may submit up to 5,000 words and as little as one.

We accept simultaneous submissions. No cover letter necessary. All submissions must be 12pt, Times New Roman, single or double-spaced with page numbers and include your name, e-mail, phone number, and genre.

.doc .docx RTF

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

photographers, graphic designers & studio artists

KNACK seeks writing of all kinds. We will even consider recipes, reviews, and essays. We seek writers whose work has a distinct voice, is character driven, and is subversive but tasteful. all submissions KNACK encourages all submitters to include a portrait, a brief biography including name, age, current location, and portrait of the artist is also encouraged (no more than 250 words). As well as an artist statement with their submission (no more than 500 words).

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 your work is to be displayed please include them.

Please title files for submission with the name of the piece. This applies for both writing and visual submissions.

KNACKMAGAZINE1 @ GMAIL.COM subject: Submission Photography / Studio Art Creative Writing / Graphic Design

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KNACK is requesting material to be

@ = at

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 4319 North Greenview Ave, Chicago, IL 60613. 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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andrea catalina vaca co-founder, director, photo editor, marketing, digital operations jonathon duarte co-founder, design director ariana lombardi co-founder, executive editor, writer fernando gaverd designer, digital operations, marketing chelsey alden editor, writer jake goodman designer jacob bewley editor miljen aljinovic editor bFrank designer

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submission guidelines

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f e at u r e d a r t is t s 12

brooks fletcher

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annie lynch

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wom e n of t he wor l d

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spreads a.c. vaca

smith smith

covers jake goodman

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smith smith Frédéric Drouin, aka Smith Smith, is a 34 year old Nantais poly-artiste.

He founded the Twin Daisies Records label in 2009, and BRAIN, a brand of screen-printed t-shirts, in 2010 before returning to his first love: the paper collage. Smith Smith is identified with the Maecene Arts Collective that put up his first exhibitions. His most popular work to date remains his collection of portraits, rebuilt as a cluster of pixels that would have nothing to do together, but collectively offer a more or less similar but still notable portrait result. smithsmith.art@gmail.com http://smithartsmith.webs.com http://www.maecenearts.com/smithsmith

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brooks fletcher I was born and raised in Oakland, California, in 1981. I graduated from California State University, Sacramento, earning a Bachelor of Arts in Communication Studies. Shortly after graduating, in August of 2005, I joined the U.S. Army as a photojournalist.

During my 11 years of active-duty service, I have been granted the unique opportunity to live, train, and work in Texas, Alaska, Germany, the Baltic States, the Middle East, and more than 20 other locations worldwide.

While these opportunities allowed me a means to hone the technical aspect of my photographic skills, I found I had reached a ceiling in my own artistic and professional development. As a means to advance further, in January of 2013, I began pursuing a Master of Fine Arts in photography from the Academy of Art University in San Francisco, California.

In doing so, I have nurtured a mental model — the conditions and insight gathered from my own instinctive life — that is grounded by a desire to change the way I think about the ideas and ‘social traditions’ found throughout today’s photographic culture. While my work is neither military nor journalistic in nature, it is a reflection of my desire to break away from the photography I had come accustomed to in the Army.

Brooks Fletcher currently resides in Sacramento, California.

Awards 3rd Place, Nikon Photo Contest 2014 - 2015,

Category D: Open Theme Photo Story, “Reflective State of Mind”

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annie lynch Annie Lynch is a 20-something trying not to refer to herself as a millennial. She grew up in Chicago and received her Bachelors in film from the University of Toronto. She currently writes, acts, and performs comedy. Her need to make people laugh derives from a constant need for attention.

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KNACK an acquired or natural skill at performing a task an adroit way of doing something a clever trick or stratagem

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SMITH SMITH _

The first bits of paper that I collected and glued together were pictures of my idols, Kurt Cobain, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix. I was 14 and I absolutely did not want to lose those pictures of them so I started to assemble them religiously... 20 years later I continue! It became a means of expression in itself, a playground for my life. I love the beauty of the absurd, humor, surrealism and provocation. I love working on the construction as well as the deconstruction of an image... When I approach the creation of a collage I have no specific technique, sometimes I know what I want, sometimes I listen to what the images say, sometimes I cut hundreds of bits of paper and other times of the sets. But at the end of the story, I wish for one thing; I want both form and content... Collage = Freedom of Thought.

Les Mondes Parallèles available here: http://litteraturemineure.bigcartel.com/product/sm-i-t-h-s-m-i-t-h

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LES MONDES PARALLÈLES

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BROOKS FLETCHER

Planes & Perceptions is a fine art, social landscape series where various objects found throughout ordinary street scenes are methodically organized to disrupt the viewer’s perception.

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The spatial relationship between these objects— pedestrians, structures, vehicles, signs, shadows —are now in turmoil, creating a juxtaposition of elements and form, turning three-dimensional scenes into surreal, two-dimensional renditions of reality.

Each image serves as a crucible, intended to challenge the viewer and have them question their own truths and standards about photography.

While unsettling at first, each image becomes a harmonious reunion of disparate forces, helping the viewer nurture a broader aptitude for medium.

Images in this series are presented as 8” by 12” archival matte prints placed behind black mat with a 7.5” by 11.5” viewing area with a 1” border, backed by 1/8” foam board, and placed in a black 12” by 16” frame.

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1. Beirut Express, London, England, United Kingdom, November 14, 2015 (Digital) 2. Circle K, El Paso, Texas, United States, December 13, 2016 (Digital) 3. 501 Bar & Bistro, El Paso, Texas, United States, March 1, 2016 (Film) 4. Chase Bank, El Paso, Texas, United States, March 29, 2016 (Film ) 5. Reel Cinema, Dubai Marina, Dubai, United Arab Emirates, December 27, 2015 (Digital) 6. McDonald’s, El Paso, Texas, United States, February 11, 2016 (Digital)

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7. Paisano Beverage, El Paso, Texas, United States, March 29, 2016 (Film) 8. Lady’s Youth Center, El Paso, Texas, United States, November 5, 2015 (Digital) 9. The Outlets, Canutillo, Texas, United States, December 6, 2015 (Digital) 10. Laima Clock, Old Town, Riga, Latvia, September 26, 2015 (Digital) 11. UTEP Centennial Plaza, El Paso, Texas, United States, March 30, 2016 (Film) 12. REWE, Moabit, Berlin, Germany, November 5, 2016 (Digital)

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ANNIE LY N C H _

I find that honesty is the most compelling part of writing. I mean, there is always room for a little embellishment here or there, and maybe a few added things to keep the story going. But at the heart of it the truth is the most important…unless you’re a really good liar like the “A Million Little Pieces” guy… Who am I kidding, the truth is subjective! Everything is a lie! Life is a lie!

But all my stories are true.

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eulogy for steffon i t h o u g h t m y f i r s t c a r w o u l d b e m y o n ly c a r .

I bought a 2003 Subaru Forester with the help of a young man on the Internet. I had been looking at cars for a while, but had no idea what I was doing. So I hired someone to look at a few with me. We wound up buying my car. The guy I hired haggled the dealer down $800, so I named my car after him: Steffon.

I told Steffon (the person) I was naming the car the Bat Mobile.

But as he drove away and my appreciation for him and my love for Bill Hader (Saturday Night Live’s character Steffon) continued, I realized it was the perfect name for my car. I never referred to Steffon (the car) as anything but his name. There was often a confused look when I said, “I got Steffon parked outside” or “Steffon will take us!” Did I do this on purpose to be a “quirky” girl?

Maybe. But as soon as I named him, he was my other half.

He was perfect. Reliable, not too many miles, spacious. He had on-board computer with Bluetooth (crazy for a car made in 2003, the same year as the height of the flip phone) and a sunroof that pulled back the whole length of the car.

It felt open. It felt as though you were connected with the landscape and the never-ending road.

I drove him from Chicago to Montana; I had bought him with that exact intention. I was having one of what I assume will be many life crises. I had decided after living in cities all of my life I wanted to live in a place where beauty and stars abound. He drove me across the country (not necessarily quietly) with the best view a girl could ask for.

We had so many adventures. He got me to my first national park, to my second and third. He sat on top of mountains and braced me against the wind as I watched sunsets. He took me to where I lost my virginity. He was the reason the guy talked to me. God damn it, he was my wingman.

He gave me a sense of freedom. That I could jump in, and just go somewhere new and discover something about me.

After I decided to move back to Chicago, for no reason I can remember right now, being in my car was the only thing that gave me a sense of happiness. I was living with my mom and I felt so

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stuck, like I was regressing from all the joy I had in Montana. But he was there to serve as a reminder that “I did that, and I can do it again.” He could take me anywhere if I decided, “fuck it, my life needs to change.” He gave me possibilities; hope and adventure.

Two months after being back in the city a guy slammed into the side of Steffon.

The insurance debacle destroyed me. The effort to prove I was in the right, and shouldn’t have to pay for someone else fucking up my baby, took a toll. But, when they finally agreed to pay, I thought I would get my baby back after a little time. It might have sucked for a month to be without him but at least I’d be getting him back.

The insurance decided it was totaled.

“It” like he wasn’t a part of me that I loved.

It felt like this common cold had turned into full-blown leukemia.

The body shop guy agreed with that analogy.

I couldn’t afford to fix him.

It feels senseless, that I loved something so much, and a small traffic violation from someone in a rush that morning took my last hope and love away.

Now, you could say there are a million other hunks of metal that can give you this feeling of freedom, and that may be true. But he was like a first love: there will be others, and I will care for them all…but you never really get over your first love…even if it is a car.

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i ’v e a l w a y s wanted to be jewish N ow

y o u m ay h av e r e a d t h i s t i t l e a n d a r e t h i n k i n g ,

“This is probably some crazy religious gal trying to convert me.”

Or you’re thinking, “That is not a politically correct title for a lady of Irish descent to have.” Hey, good on you for being so thoughtful of other people’s cultures!

But the truth is, I’ve always wanted to be Jewish.

Perhaps it is because in my childhood, my friends growing up were all Jewish. I felt left out of the cool things they did at Temple. “Church” was such a succinct and factual sounding word, and often held in a basement or rec center of some kind.

Whereas “Temple” was regal sounding, as though the building had to have giant marble columns to be a temple. My family was often invited over to the home of my parent’s friends, the Lazars, for Rosh Hashanah and Hanukkah. Lena Lazar was my childhood best friend, and I was always jealous she got to light the menorah and open gifts. Instead, I sat and ate the chocolate coins I refused to gamble at dreidel with, for fear of losing what little chocolate I had.

I always wanted a Bat Mitzvah like my friends; I envied that they got money and a party. Junior high is an awkward time, as we all know, and for a chubby girl like me, being hoisted up in a chair sounded like the most unbelievable thing that someone would be willing to do. If people could lift me, that must mean I wasn’t that fat. I also wanted checks from my family so I could put it all into my savings account with my babysitting money, like a good little Jewish girl. There was a moment in the 5th grade when Shana Silver purposely didn’t invite me to her Bat Mitzvah, even though we had all of the same friends. She knew I would find out. She was a bit of a B-I-T-C-H. She also once told a mutual friend “Annie’s mom is the best mom. Annie doesn’t deserve her.” A god-damn bitch.

In 8th grade I made a Xanga, which were early stages of blogs from the good ol’ AIM days. (Ah! Remember the times before Facebook? Me neither.) I made a post about how Adam Sandler’s “Hanukkah Song” was a revelation to Jewish music during the holiday season. I sang it constantly. The only person I remember reading the post was my friend Zack (Jewish), but he never commented on it.

My parents didn’t raise me in a religious household. For the longest time I had thought my mom was a Buddhist, because she did a lot of yoga. My largest influence of Christianity was from my babysitters, as the pious caretakers seemed to be the most

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trustworthy in Chicago.

I am still mystified by my one-day experience in Sunday school when I was 7 years old. One Sunday when my parents both had to work, I was taken to church by a babysitting teen named Rachel. I sat in a basement-turned-Sunday school with the other little kids, colored pictures of Noah’s Ark, and rolled my eyes at most of what the minister said. At one point he pulled out a sheet of paper and with a paintbrush and some water wrote “I love you Jesus.” He then held it up to the light and after a few seconds it read “I love you too.” I was flabbergasted and was totally convinced this minister was a magician. (Definitely writing a sketch called “Marty the Magic Minister”). To this day I have not figured out how he did it.

On another occasion, my younger brother’s Polish nanny, Gloria, took my brother, Lena (Jewish), and me to her Catholic church. Afraid for our heathen souls she had all three of us baptized. Needless to say Gloria wasn’t around much after that.

Overall though, Church was ridiculously boring to me. In my opinion, if a person goes up in front of an audience they should at least open with a joke. People don’t do that in churches. But I feel like I’ve yet to meet a Jew who can’t tell at least one joke.

It’s possible I’ve wanted to be Jewish because I tend to be attracted to Jewish men. Traditionally speaking, Jewish men are hilarious. Funny people are attractive, and honestly, I’ve just always wanted to be funny. Maybe the title of this should have been “I’ve Always Wanted to be Funny.” But that seems redundant. Everyone wants to be funny, no one wants to be Jewish.

Comics and actors whom I aspire to be like or have crushes on happen to be Jewish most of the time: Jason Segel, Billy Crystal, Paul Rudd, Jon Stewart, Seth Rogen, and Rick Moranis, to name a few. Harrison Ford, the hottest man alive, is half Jewish FYI (I learned that from Sandler’s masterpiece, “the Hanukkah Song”).

An unrequited love of mine was a Jewish man who looked like a husky Chris Pratt. I fell hard for this guy because he was kind, and thoughtful, and funny. He also, coincidentally, happened to be very Jewish. Not wearing a yarmulke (known as a kippa to the real Jews) all the time Jewish, but his major was Jewish studies and film. I had heard from a mutual friend that my crush would probably not date someone who wasn’t Jewish, because his community was such an important part of his life. i wo u l d h av e c o n v e rt e d a n d h a d yo u r j e w i s h b a b i e s i f yo u o n ly asked.

He left school to be a part of peace programs in Israel, because he was a better person than most people. His girlfriend (Jewish) went with him. They had met a Jewish summer camp.

(Insert inappropriate Jew “camp” joke here.)

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One Hanukkah in college, my friend and roommate Liza (Jewish) and I got into a debate about what as known in North America as the Hanukkah menorah. Liza, originally from Russia, called the nine-holed candle holder a “chanukiah” and she expected I do the same because it was her culture. In the most politically correct way possible I tried to explain it was my culture to call it the menorah, and that was what I was going to call it.

Our other friend Catherine (Jewish) joined in the debate, saying it was also her Jewish American* culture to call it the menorah.

But it was determined that because I wasn’t Jewish, I should adhere to what Liza wanted, since she was more connected to it.

But I felt as involved as a real Jew. I knew the prayers you sing at Passover, I knew to call a yarmulke a kippa, and I unbelievably really liked plain matzah. I was indignant that I wasn’t considered—at least—Jew-ish. All I wanted in that moment was to be Jewish…but mostly so I would win the argument. * Catherine is actually Jewish Canadian, not American. Her mom converted to Judaism for Catherine’s father. You go Donna!

Other reasons I’ve wanted to be Jewish: –I am very easily guilt tripped.

–Latkes are my favorite form of potato.

–Christmas has always overshadowed my birthday, so I preferred Hanukkah (plus 8 presents).

–I am very good at hacking and phlegm-like noises.

–Being Jewish means you get to be a minority, and being white makes me feel guilty all the time (see first reason).

–Bagels and lox are a Lynch family Sunday staple.

–I don’t have any tattoos or piercings, and could be buried in a Jewish cemetery.

–I like making terrible jokes about challah bread. Ex: I ain’t no challah back girl!

–I’d feel even closer to Steven Spielberg.

–The first time I got my period was on the 8th grade field trip to Washington DC, at the Holocaust Museum.

After all this moaning and groaning about wanting to be Jewish, I should probably convert. At least to be able to tell Liza to shove it and call it a menorah. But that seems like a lot of effort; you have to take classes and stuff. I think I just like Jewish culture. I’m like those white kids that appropriate black culture, except, not as bad somehow…or at least I hope so. Undoubtedly politically incorrect as I am, at least when I try to appropriate Jewish culture, people laugh with me, not at me.

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louis ck I was in Manhattan a few years ago, wandering along a pier on the west side. As I was walking I saw a young girl sitting on some grass as her dad was pacing and talking on the phone. She looked bored and impatient, but seemed like it was nothing new.

My heart immediately went out to her. I know what it’s like to have a relationship with your dad whose work takes up most of his time. OK, all of his time--and sometimes you get a bonding moment in there.

As I passed her I made eye contact and gave her a small smile, as if to say “At least he’s trying to spend time with you, my dad doesn’t make that effort more than a call a week.” Because I thought 9-year-olds understood telepathy. She looked back me with a distrusting look on her face as if to say, “Why the fuck are you smiling at me?”

I looked at her dad talking on the phone and realized it was Louis C.K. I pretend all the time that I don’t care about celebrities, but as a wannabe comedian--there was the epitome of comedic genius who happened to be hanging out on a pier at the same time as me. I totally freaked out. I waved at him from 50 feet away. I made a Facebook post.

I instantly forgot about the girl sitting there waiting, and became focused on the man not paying too much attention to either of us.

I could go into a psychological analysis about Louis C.K., and how his drive to make his living makes him less of an attentive father. But I don’t even have a psych undergrad degree. Nor is that my place at all to judge someone for just talking on the phone while hanging out with his kid. He is open about his parenting to the entire world. Literally, the entire world. And we, the world, love him for it.

But I can’t help think of his daughter all of the time. I think about this girl, chilling on the grass waiting for him to finish getting off the phone. Waiting for him to spend time with her.

Waiting to be the focus of his attention. I knew exactly what she was feeling.

And she must have thought I was the most annoying fucking person.

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W E, T H E W O R L D, LOVE HIM FOR IT

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WOMEN OF THE WORLD TRAVEL SERIES

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This world is wild and mighty, and for those brave souls who chose to pack a bag, sling it on their back and explore alone - now that takes ferocity of heart.

Traveling is akin to a catapult. You prep and you pack, you purge and you plan and when you are ready for take-off you nestle yourself into that little cradle. All that tension has been building and you sit still and breathe - it’s all about to begin.

Then just like that, flight. You land. Where do you find yourself?

To travel alone is to take a plunge into revelry and unknown. One must trust themselves. One must listen to that chord playing loudly in their heart. To do it alone, to dance with it, to create newness and art as a result of it - this is one of life’s treasures.

Traveling is the physical manifestation of self-exploration, and it takes courage.

Here at KNACK, we wanted to know how travel has invited and ignited the creation of art for a handful of female artists. This series aims to highlight the experiences, thoughts, recollections of such women.

“OUR

MINDS TRAVEL WHEN

OUR

BODIES ARE

FORCED TO STAY AT HOME. WE IMITATE; AND WHAT IS IMITATION BUT THE TRAVELING OF THE MIND?…

THE SOUL CREATED THE ARTS WHEREVER THEY HAVE FLOURISHED. IT WAS IN HIS OWN MIND THAT THE ARTIST SOUGHT HIS MODEL. IT WAS AN APPLIC ATION OF HIS OWN THOUGHT TO THE THING TO BE DONE AND THE CONDITIONS TO BE OBSERVED…BEAUTY, CONVENIENCE,

GRANDEUR

OF THOUGHT, AND

QUAINT EXPRESSION ARE AS NEAR TO US AS TO ANY, AND IF THE AMERIC AN ARTIST WILL STUDY WITH HOPE AND LOVE THE PRECISE THING TO BE DONE

BY HIM, CONSIDERING THE CLIMATE, THE SOIL, THE

LENGTH OF THE DAY, THE WANTS OF THE PEOPLE, THE HABIT AND FORM OF THE GOVERNMENT, HE WILL CREATE A HOUSE IN WHICH ALL THESE WILL FIND THEMSELVES FITTED, AND TASTE AND SENTIMENT WILL BE SATISFIED ALSO. INSIST ON YOURSELF; NEVER IMITATE.” –RALPH WALDO EMERSON, ESSAY II, SELF-RELIANCE

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A L LY S O N LUPOVICH _

To eat fresh juicy passion fruits in the Dominican Republic – except they’re suffocating under plastic wrap on a bleached hotel sheet and watching American Spongebob on a flat screen television in the middle of December, and home is actually frozen, and my white skin is sizzling like a hot strip of bacon, and then complaining about fine lines and how the water is giving me diarrhea.

Understanding the tension between wealth and love became a bigger question to me when I started to truly address the culture that I know and where I come from. That my parent’s love is so burdened by the overabundance of money that legally signing papers in order to terminate their relationship is, in fact, a gift, but also leaving me uncomfortable with the idea of domestic space and belonging.

The aspect of travel connects with the need to search for familiarity in foreign places – a comfort. To travel to a foreign place only to find (and want) the same cold, beige walls, or blankets of a similar fleece. When all that is habitual is confined in the same socio-economic, all inclusive, white North American aristocracy. To crave this exoticism, but yet to fall into a repetitive state of appropriation & need for materiality.

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Allyson Lupovich, (b.1989, Montreal, Canada) is a photographer & writer based out of New York City. Her series The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows is predicated on the tension between love and wealth. allysonlupovich.tumblr.com

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{dominican republic} RepĂşblica Dominicana

map B FR ANK

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