__MAIN_TEXT__
feature-image

Page 1


58

Editors & Staff Andrea Catalina Vaca

Co-Founder, Publisher, Director, Photo Editor, Subscriptions, Artist Coordinator, Marketing, Advertising, Digital Operations

Jonathon Duarte

Co-Founder, Creative Director

Ariana Lombardi

Co-Founder, Executive Editor, Writer, Artist Coordinator

Jake Goodman Design Director

Chelsey Alden Editor, Writer

Fernando Gaverd

Designer, Digital Operations

BFrank

Designer

KNACK Magazine is dedicated to showcasing the work of artists of all mediums, and to discuss trends and ideas of art communities. KNACK Magazine’s ultimate aim is to connect and inspire emerging artists, working artists, and establishes 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 art magazine each month.

Cover Andrea Catalina Vaca front cover photography Jake Goodman cover design Spreads Andrea Catalina Vaca spread photography Jake Goodman spread design Magazine Design Jake Goodman


Submission Guidelines

58

Photographers, Graphic Designers & Studio Artists 10–12 high resolution images of your work. All should include pertinent caption information (name, date, medium, year).

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 12-pt Times New Roman, single or double-spaced, with page numbers and include your name, e-mail, phone number, and genre. 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, which can include; your name, age, current location, awards, contact information, etc. (no more than 250 words). And an artist statement (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.

Formats Images

pdf, tiff, or jpeg

Written Works

doc, docx, or rtf

Knack Needs Your Help!

Email

knackmagazine1@gmail.com

Subject

Submission [Photography, Studio Art, Creative Writing, Graphic Design]

KNACK Magazine is requesting material to be reviewed. Reviews extend to any culture related event that may be happening in your community. 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 Magazine. 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 Magazine 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 N. 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.


58


Contents Shem Bulaon

7

Gianluca Ceccarini

13

Daniel Gonzalez

27

Sutapa Roy

39

Philipp Zechner

53

Quick Look Shihab Anwar

65

Adjmeel Burthen

66

Abila Kurd

68

Plus “Ad Astra”, an excerpt from Sanguine Jake Goodman

71


58

Shem Bulaon is a 23-year-old queer Filipino writer and artist. Bulaon is inspired by Bildungsroman films and the idiosyncratic cinematography of Thai filmmakers. She loves nondescript coffee shops and hedgehogs. She currently resides in her ancestral home in Tondo, Manila. i: @shmthnme

Featured Artists

Gianluca Ceccarini studied Cultural Anthropology and always used a camera for his field research. Fascinated by the ethnographic photographs of the great anthropologists who documented ethnic minorities and tribal societies, Ceccarini became interested in documentary photography. Ceccarini believes that images are mere containers and that photographs are dense structures of meaning. He discovered the art of photography and a passion which has never left him. In 2018, Ceccarini co-founded the SARAB Collective with Nahid Rezashateri, an Iranian photographer and producer. SARAB focuses on themes of identity, memory, and landscape.

sarabcollective.com

Daniel Gonzalez was born in 1987 in Bogotรก, Colombia. He first studied photography in Bogotรก and began working at a modeling agency taking portraits, then working concerts and weddings. After months of traveling and visiting countries such as Mexico, the United States, Costa Rica, Nicaragua, and his native Colombia, he currently lives in Guadalajara, Jalisco, Mexico working in wedding photography and, in his spare time, on an unfinished documentary project. i: @danifotograf

4


Featured Artists Sutapa Roy was born in Kolkata, India, in 1982 and has been practicing photography since 2015. A self-described storytelling photographer, Roy loves to tell a narrative through a series of photographs. She uses photography as a medium to explore herself and her relationship with the outer world. She has been featured in Vogue Italia, Street Photography Magazine, F-Stop Magazine, PRIVATE Photo Review, and National Geographic Your Shot. Roy won first prize in the Nikon India Through Her Lens Women’s Photography Contest in 2018 and was a finalist in the Indian Photography Festival’s portrait category in 2018 and 2019.

sutaparoy.com e: sutapa.1182@gmail.com

Philipp Zechner was born in Ludwigshafen, Germany, in 1977. After years spent in France and in Japan, Zechner currently resides in Germany.

philipp-zechner.com 5


58


58

Shem Bulaon

I love coming-of-age. Orphaned at a young age, I can’t help but feel that I didn’t have a reckless teenager phase, with the rightful excuse to be gross and ungraceful. As queers, we will always question ourselves; we will always be different. Some are taunted or bullied, and some are still inside the closet. So, I write these disgusting love-stricken queer poems for them and for me. There isn’t a perfect moment to have your adolescence—it is right now.


58 The Sunny Side-Up Weather Forecast i blink and look to the horizon brightened by sun rays, or is it her fading orange hair? she stands there with the whole world knowing she’s beautiful but she can’t be found. with her pretty smile, she can make the sun retreat to its rightful place. and now that it’s cloudy with the perfect amount of shade, we can see her lighting up like a treasure chest at the end of the rainbow. her dainty nose can boop daffodils: a scenario that can beat cute hedgehog youtube videos. with her cute-ass outfits and perfect ig pics (and to be honest, even without the clothes, she’s still sleek) later she’ll light up everyone with her shy love for the world. oh! but don’t be mistaken! her summer demeanor is as innocent as can be. god’s unfair i utter to myself. how can a person be full of sparks and shimmers love someone with the purest desire that everyone is craving? but i am just a mere observer, you see. starting with her adorable habits, to her annoying quirks. just like buried treasures in the deep blue sea, she owned her whole self like summer fireworks. the bluest night sky for her own taking. and here, i still observe and keep it inside my dainty heart, so that one day it will serve as a reminder. not only for her and for the people with her presence, but also for me, who decided to watch her until the end. she is a person i’ll hold on to for the rest of my life.

8


Shem Bulaon

Summer, Why Do You Hate the Sunny Weather?

milkshakes, summer dresses, and trickling sweats, pink lipsticks, and 20s summer tracks sitting silently on red plaid. i stare at you as you complain about sun rays and faraway beaches, with your straw hat lying clumsily on your head and bashful red adorning your cheeks, summer, why do you hate the sunny weather?

pink earphones intertwining our shy gap; you suddenly change the topic and tell me about the boy you like. i laugh and tease you about it; ignoring the hot sensation piercing inside-out. you look cute while talking about him, so i only gaze. summer, sunny weather is making you feel things you better leave as be.

pearly-white teeth flashing—a contrast from your tattooed arm. with a sepia-toned background, you suddenly look like a wong kar-wai imagination. slow motion, pink-graded glasses, suddenly the tip of my tongue is filled with vivid dedications of love. summer, sunny weather makes you more beautiful than you imagine. can i be your person? can i be the cause of your choking emotions? yet the moment i decide to risk everything and be yours, you reiterate how you hate summer and that made me disappear. summer, why do you hate yourself when you’re all i want?

you sigh and a blow of air passes, melting ice cream on your hands, you look at me: you hate ice cream, you said with a smile. my eyes widen and i realize that you hate everything except one... summer, please kiss me under this sunny weather.

9


58 delete me; it’s okay i already came to that conclusion. don’t worry, baby, my existence is mere digital imaginary. the kisses we promised each other, they’re nothing but wishful thinking. do our unfulfilled dates and wishes even exist? how funny that i am more concerned it didn’t matter to you than those written promises. the sweet lullabies you’ve given me were heard only with full-volume earphones to compensate for your absence. those loving memories of us crying over small stuff and big fights are now nothing but dusty unopened messages. the fear of our own worlds as it became as huge as the sea between us. we have no choice but to break apart before we break each other. it’s okay, babe, delete me. delete the promises, the kisses, and the confessions of love. i am not afraid anymore. you see, i am filled with hope that we’ll see each other again. and if this is just a wishful thought, i’ll not regret wishing for the impossible. go on and delete me, so that we could restart and fall in love once more.

10


Shem Bulaon

Dear Mom, Who Art In Heaven, Hallowed Be My Name

mom, i can already see your tear-stricken face as i try to imagine saying this to you. i decided to strip myself bare just like the first time you saw me, with insecurities from my adolescent age adorning my body; the culture i learned from you stripped off and deconstructed into an unholy version, giving back to you the full glory of the person you formed crumbled into a vague apparition. i’m done praising the name of the lord, your god, knees buckling from intensity and longing —they only buckle for someone of this world now and they’re far from your holy god. don’t worry mom i am getting what i deserve: mental illness choking me and my own sexuality shaming me. god loves you so much, he punished your begotten daughter by taking you away from me; and so, in front of my enemies i was slaughtered.

i will never be your ideal daughter who was once a child; who prayed every night and day for a god-fearing husband to love me dearly. men and prayers are the same entity. they make me hate myself completely. without you, mom, this world seems crueller than it used to be. mom, i can see your face, tear-stricken, looking at me, telling me how proud you are and asking for forgiveness for leaving me early. telling me that you never cared that i changed, and i am finally the bullshit daughter you always thought you’d have. i am going to make my own way, truth, and life; no one can come unto me but by my own volition.

—your pansexual, manic-depressive, currently unemployed, undergraduate daughter

11


58


58

Gianluca Ceccarini

After Meaning is an ongoing, autobiographical, fragmented, imaginative photo-diary inspired by the interpretative theories of memory by Frederic Bartlett. Bartlett suggests memory is not an ability to store past data but rather a process of reconstruction. “Only after knowing the surface of things can we go in search of what is underneath. But the surface of things is inexhaustible.�  Italo Calvino, Mr. Palomar


58

14

After Meaning


Gianluca Ceccarini

15


58

16


Gianluca Ceccarini

17


58

18


Gianluca Ceccarini

19


58

20


Gianluca Ceccarini

21


58

22


Gianluca Ceccarini

23


58

24


Gianluca Ceccarini

25


58


58

Daniel Gonzalez

The Huacas Festivities are held near the North Pacific Coast in Costa Rica in a small rural community called Huacas, near Tamarindo beach. Some of the festivities include bull shows, with bulls from local ranches, bull riding competitions, feasts, and more. With laughter and adrenaline, people come from all over to experience this wild festival. A few may leave with some scratches, others with some prize money; the bulls return to their ranches. But, what one feels most is the joy and excitement for another party.


58

28

Huacas Festivities


Daniel Gonzalez

29


58

30


31


58

32


Daniel Gonzalez

33


58

34


Daniel Gonzalez

35


58

36


37


58


58

Sutapa Roy

Primarily this work is based on the subjugated women and children of the brick making industry in India, their fragile life, and surviving catastrophe. I didn’t have a plan for this story when I first visited the factory with a friend to see how the bricks are made. He would visit the brick making factory to see every step of the brick making process and I would accompany him with my camera to document the process. We became familiar with the workers there; these women and children became familiar with me. Slowly and unknowingly, I started getting access to their personal life and little happenings that revealed a whole new world. In the end, I realized that I had also made a journey with them—from an observer to a participant of sorts. Perhaps my fight is against a different society or a different idea, but the questions have always been the same: who are we as individuals, and who are we as human beings?


58

In Search of a Better Life West Bengal, India

Nov. 29, 2018—Kishori Devi, who is suffering from severe health issues, has been working her entire life in brick-making factories. Now she has lost her strength and considered a useless entity in her family by her abusive alcoholic husband. Her only concern now is her granddaughters, who surely have no future here and will probably face the same destiny.

40


Sutapa Roy

Chattisgarh, India

Apr. 11, 2019—A busy working day at the brick factory.

41


58

West Bengal, India

Oct. 24, 2017—Women workers are returning home after a day’s work.

42


Sutapa Roy

West Bengal, India

Jan. 15, 2019—In between life and death.

43


58

West Bengal, India

Mar. 12, 2019—Seema is lost in thought; perhaps she is realizing stability in life is something impossible for her.

44


Sutapa Roy

Chattisgarh, India

Jan. 15, 2019—Grasping to life, even with the possibility of falling apart any moment.

45


58

West Bengal, India

Jan. 15, 2019—To evolve or disappear?

46


West Bengal, India

Mar. 29, 2019—Given the chance, I wish to be as independent as a tree.

47


58

Chattisgarh, India Apr. 11, 2019.

48


Sutapa Roy

West Bengal, India

Mar. 29, 2019—Deprived of her identity, Sapna often searches for herself in her dreams.

49


58 West Bengal, India

Apr. 11, 2019—Women observing prayer to the Almighty.

50


Sutapa Roy

West Bengal, India

Dec. 16, 2017—Life does not end here. There is nothing like a beautiful sunset. The blurry future will be clear with the first light of dawn. Although we as people often tend to quit when things do not work well, I will continue my fight to defeat such tendency and to give hope to those for whom I fight.

51


58


58

Philipp Zechner

Stretching over multiple years and places, the Urban Objects series is ongoing and is yet another attempt to capture the accidental beauty of the urban organism. In the city, many aspects of human activity come together and blend into something random and uncontrollable. Urban Objects is about finding the awe behind the seemingly ordinary. Serendipitous in their nature, the individual photographs are neither staged nor planned. But, while developing the idea of this series, I have come to know for what I look. I believe there are moments that transcend the daily, ordinary life and it becomes something magical.


58

54

Urban Objects


Philipp Zechner

55


58

56


Philipp Zechner

57


58

58


Philipp Zechner

59


58

60


Philipp Zechner

61


58

62


Philipp Zechner

63


58


Quick Look

Shihab Anwar

Growing up, I never knew how to say what I feel, how to paint that which I dream, how to connect this world of materialism with the idealistic image in my mind. I remained silent. When I turned 22, out of the blue, I sat down in the middle of the night and started writing. Words traveled to me to rejuvenate my being from the drought of that silence. Words have given my voice a shape; words have shown my emotions a place to reside. I have lived all my life in Dhaka, Bangladesh: born and raised. But like my words, I want to experience freedom in the openness of the world, in the peak of the mountains, and in the depths of the blue oceans.

Who You Are You are The speckle of life in my darkest canopy of abyss; You are The surge of zephyr in my blazing infernal-hiss. You are The drips of love in my athirst droughted soul; You are The warmth of the sun in my twilight winter strolls. You are The melody of elation in my sharp notes of grief; You are The ray of hope for my fallen winter leaf. You are The reverberation of new in my distorted pebbles of the past; You are The rejuvenation of life in my decaying memories of rust. You are The beacon of strength in my hours of need; You are The grant of my prayers against sin, lust, and greed. You are Who you are, My Beloved Jan You are The soul I have chosen to believe.

65


58

66


Quick Look

Adjmeel Burthen

Art is my oxygen, and visual art fascinates me with all its textures and colors, peoples and places. My style is colorful and contains digital elements such as vector designs. I am from the Republic of Mauritius, an island nation located in the Indian Ocean. Much of my inspiration comes from my island, through its breathtaking views, the local environment, our colorful lifestyle, and the peace that emanates through it all. I am proud to be Mauritian, a pure islander. Through my drawings and illustrations I hope to enrich the unique culture of my island. i: @adj_meel

67


58

Abila Kurd I have never been trained as a photographer, nor do I own a camera. But I do not let that stop me; I capture all of my photos with my cell phone. I am from Lyari Town, Karachi, Pakistan; and my photography consists mostly of nature, buildings, and historical places. I have completed one year in fashion design at a low budget institute in Pakistan and I have worked with Nosach Films, a Balochi film production company from Karachi, on a feature film Doda. Now, I am studying textile design at the Arts Council of Pakistan Karachi.

68


Quick Look

Above and below left

Center

Above right

Below right

Happiness of Separation

Endless Wait

Sad Buildings

Proud Ancestors

Malir Eye Hospital, Karachi, Pakistan April 2017

Sukkur Railway Station, Sindh, Pakistan September 2017

Karachi, Pakistan April 2018

Kot Diji, Khairpur, Sindh, Pakistan September 2017

69


58


An excerpt from

SANGUINE Jake Goodman


58 Ad Astra 896.070kh

Aleca gasped for breath between sputtering coughs, wincing at the flaring pain each spasm brought. Her eyes beginning to water, she blinked rapidly to clear the tears away before they could obstruct her vision. No matter how many times she jumped she could never get used to the shocks. She wasn’t expected to. Eleven-hundred watts pumped directly into her heart was a sensation beyond acclimation. The first jolt almost made the second easier to tolerate, her brain already in the process of shutting itself off from the screams of the affected nerves. Or at least that’s what she kept telling herself, hoping to believe it true. They say it takes a special kind of crazy to fly a warship, she mused with a grimace. Already the sharp pain was quickly fading into the tingling sensation that would linger on within her chest and leave her in a state of extremes—her brain pumping with adrenaline, her body lethargic with exhaustion. Her eyes darted across the technicolored dreamscape rendered within her flight visor, psychedelic clouds of cosmic dust perforated by the luminous glitter of thousands upon thousands of stars. She called up her instrumentation overlay and gave it a quick scan before dismissing it back out of sight. The geometric array of lines and numbers provided her with an abundance of information when required, but presently all it was good for was obstructing her view. All was quiet in this corner of the universe—the crew, the ship, the stars. For the time being, she was alone within her own little cosmos. Home. Aleca Keening was a child of the stars. As with the gods and goddesses of ancient myth, she hailed from a world high above Earth, the citystation of Gagarin-Shepard which trailed Luna in her orbit. Gazing through the massive glass skylights upon the blue-and-white planet, so easily covered by an outstretched palm as it floated within a sea of black, she would mentally adjust her perspective to alternate between looking up or down at it. Earth, Luna, Sol, the planets, and the stars—they were her fond companions in the otherwise empty darkness, and so she had endeavored to make it her home out among them, gliding

72


through the void from one system to the next. Aleca belonged to the night sky, and the night sky belonged to Aleca. This particular sky was new to her, though. Familiar, yet new. The surrounding stars were all the same but their arrangements were not. For the majority, the changes were subtle—perhaps a few degrees—yet still enough to distort the constellations and asterisms. A select handful of them, however, were now found opposite where they’d once lain. Aleca began forming new constellations from them, wondering if the locals had already done the same. There’s always tradeoffs. Jump interstellar and get two mule-kicks in the chest for the privilege. Almost makes you wish for the backup. No. Almost; that’s a rabbithole I’d rather not fall into. A violent shake of the head helped sober her thoughts from the prospect. Songbird’s probably feeling pretty fantastic right about now, though. Again she popped open her Hud, this time to check the chronometer display. Eight minutes had passed since their arrival. Aleca’s brain was just beginning to regain proper function, turning over the information her senses were feeding it. She belatedly noticed that her arms were covered in goosebumps—a familiar part of life aboard the cold warship. Her body subtly contracted, seemingly in the involuntary pursuit of warmth, as her cheeks and thighs and back went numb as the blood drained from them. She was consumed in an instant by the fear; primal, existential fear.

and tightening. She opened her eyes into an unfocused stare. The image in her visor was unchanged yet no longer offered any semblance of comfort. It had turned cold. Alienating. Deadly. Engulfed by a galaxy of stars, immediately present yet unfathomably distant, she was alone. Finally exhaling, a pleading utterance escaped with her breath, almost too quiet for herself to hear. “I want to go home.” Immediately her mind snapped back into her skull. You want to go home!? Where’s home? Silently, Aleca lifted her visor and massaged her eyes with her fingertips before craning her neck to survey the combat information center. Unlike the rest of the chairs facing the assortment of terminals scattered throughout the compartment, her flight seat was tipped over on the deck, her supine body cocooned within it. A handful of her shipmates, the rest of Roaring Forties’ on-duty crew, were at their stations, visors obscuring their faces. Their huddled forms threw long shadows in the macabre glow of the crimson darksafe lighting. Buried beneath the mechanical hum of ventilation fans, she could faintly distinguish whispers of rustling jumpsuits and the occasional muted tapping of keys. No one was playing her any mind—they were oblivious to her gaze. She slid her visor back down into place. This is home.

Her subconscious mutinied in a fit of panic, shattering her moment of peace and heaving her back into the cosmos in a desperate hunt for shelter. Her eyelids squeezed shut as she descended into terror, her mind tearing and twisting at the memory of the outside sky she’d been lost in seconds prior. Forcing it aside, she struggled to compose herself by focusing on the darkness, filling her lungs with a last gasp of tranquil air. Her fingers throbbed numbly with each passing heartbeat, her joints contracting

73


Profile for KNACK Magazine

KNACK Magazine #58  

KNACK Magazine is dedicated to showcasing the work of artists of all mediums, and to discuss trends and ideas of art communities. KNACK's ul...

KNACK Magazine #58  

KNACK Magazine is dedicated to showcasing the work of artists of all mediums, and to discuss trends and ideas of art communities. KNACK's ul...

Recommendations could not be loaded

Recommendations could not be loaded

Recommendations could not be loaded

Recommendations could not be loaded