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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 e m e r g i n g a r t i s t s , w o r k i n g a r tists and established 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.

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES 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 2,500 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. 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 125 words). And an artist statement (no more than 250 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. *PLEASE TITLE FILES FOR SUBMISSION WITH THE NAME OF THE PIECE. THIS APPLIES FOR BOTH WRITING AND VISUAL SUBMISSIONS.

EMAIL: KNACKMAGAZINE1@GMAIL.COM SUBJECT: SUBMISSION [PHOTOGRAPHY, STUDIO ART, CREATIVE WRITING, GRAPHIC DESIGN] ACCEPTABLE FORMATS: IMAGES: .PDF, .TIFF, OR .JPEG WRITTEN WORKS: .DOC, .DOCX, AND .RTF

REVIEWS

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.

EDITORS & STAFF Andrea Catalina Vaca Co-Founder, Publisher, Editor-In-Chief, Artist Coordinator, Digital Operations, Photographer, Designer, Circulation Director, Production Manager, Business Manager Jonathon Duarte Co-Founder, Creative Director Ariana Lombardi Co-Founder, Executive Editor, Artist Coordinator, Writer Chelsey Alden Editor, Writer Fernando Gaverd Digital Operations, Designer Benjamin Smith Designer Curtis Mueller Editor

Front Cover: Andrea Catalina Vaca First & Last Spread Photography: A.C. Vaca Photography Magazine Design: Andrea Catalina Vaca

CONTENTS 10

Artist Biographies

FEATURED ARTISTS 20 28 16

Barbora Vaclavova

Michael K. Paxton

Catalina Aranguren

Bianca Clark

Susan Mcclellan

Larry Yoke

QUICK LOOK ARTIST 64

Christine Henninger

KNACK Magazine, Issue #71

ARTIST BIOGRAPH Barbora Vaclavova was raised in Slovakia, but the south coast of England has recently become her second home. She is a self-proclaimed wild child and a traveller. Vaclavova studied journalism & English in Portsmouth and moved to Brighton after university, where she is currently based. Email: barb.vaclavova@gmail.com Website: www.babsabout.wordpress.com Instagram: babs.vaclavova

HIES Michael K. Paxton is a sixth-generation West Virginian using his artwork to push hard against outside expectations and boundaries. By constantly looking for the exact point where his bone-deep Appalachian heritage smashes up against the academics of contemporary art, his work alludes feelings of otherness. Paxton’s professional achievements include numerous solo exhibitions, international fellowships, major grants and a long list of publications and critical support. He has had residencies and visiting artist awards with universities which included workshops and lectures. A documentary film titled Work At Hand, Michael K. Paxton focuses on his unique career and personal history, and has been screened at The Peninsula Fine Arts Center in Newport News, VA, and at the College Art Association Annual Conference in Chicago, and more. Currently, Paxton is living and working in Chicago. Email: wvapaxton@gmail.com Website: www.michaelkpaxton.com

Catalina Aranguren (pronouns: she/her) was born in Colombia. From the age of five she was raised in Venezuela. Her childhood was a constant shifting between languages, cultures, and third & first worlds. Catalina began her studies at the Instituto de Diseño de Caracas, Venezuela. She then moved to Chicago to study photography and design at the School of the Art Institute, Chicago. Before she graduated, she did a semester in Europe at Spéos in Paris, France. Catalina Aranguren is a Latinx woman, immigrant, artist, curator, community organizer, and social justice warrior based in Jersey City, NJ, for the past 20 years. She is actively involved in enhancing and promoting Jersey City’s vibrant arts culture. Her work is in private collections across the United States, Australia, Italy, Colombia, and Chile, among others. She is currently raising three bilingual, bicultural, biracial, bustling boys with her husband and their giant dog. Website: www.argia.photos Instagram: caranguren, our_casona

Bianca Clark is a self taught oil painter who uses her practice as a time of self-reflection. She utilizes vibrant colors and the portrayal of light against the female form to emphasize the importance of vulnerability, for it is within these moments of exposure that our individuality is discovered. Clark graduated from Montclair State University in 2017 with a BFA in drawing. Clark is originally from New Jersey but is currently based in New York City. Website: www.biancaclarkart.com Instagram: biancaaclark

Susan Mcclellan enjoys writing poetry and photography. Her poetry has been featured in the blog Popular Pittsburgh and at Mindscapes PGH, a nonprofit art exhibition held each year in Pittsburgh. Mcclellan has a master’s degree in library science and a bachelor’s degree in communications. She is seeking additional opportunities to publish her poetry. Mcclellan currently resides in Pittsburgh, PA.

Larry Yoke has been writing short stories and poems since he was a child. Now his writing entertains and contains current social messages taken from news headlines. His poetry and books have won national awards in 2018 and 2019, and his writings have found their way into several anthologies. Yoke has published multiple books, which can be found online, as well as on his social media and author sites.

Barbora VACLAVOVA Reading and writing have been my way of making sense of the world since I learned how. Growing up in post-communist Slovakia, raised by my parents who were the last generation to experience the regime, attitude towards life was very pragmatic. Everyday-life left little space for daydreaming, but before bed my Dad liked to tell stories. Sometimes they were real, sometimes imagined, but they always brought a feeling of comfort & sparked curiosity. This was a source of great inspiration for me and I started typing my own stories on an old computer. I left Slovakia at 19, hungry for experiences and ready to take in the world. I lived in many different countries and came home from time to time, but home seemed to be an elusive concept. I decided to explore this theme in a piece of experimental fiction. Home, Family, and Belonging are themes that often come back in my writing. My inspiration also comes from snippets of conversations, stories I have been told, and other fragments that contribute to the complex mosaic of human experience.

HOME

Home: four letters; a simple word for an intricate feeling. But also the meaning of which we were pushed to redefine within ourselves. In the past year of lockdown, being at home has become the essence of our lives. In some, it may have prompted the question whether they really feel at home and what exactly does that mean. Home has meant different places, different feelings, and different smells. On occasion, the meanings have contradicted each other. During my time at university, “home” was somewhere else each year, if only a few streets away from each other. Sanctuary—thankfully, that it was. But home? In the months that have felt like I shut the door on myself in my mind, it was near impossible to find an external reflection of a feeling that was missing from within. There was another home, the place my thoughts ran to for the comfort of memories softened with time and distance. The place where I grew from the roots only to run away at first chance, into the arms of the unknown in a world waiting to be explored. The town of green hills, concrete blocks of flats and an industrial past. The one that feels so familiar yet more foreign upon every return. The place itself does provide the outline. The connection and feeling fill it with warmth, just like colouring in a stencil. A memory of four scorching days in July a couple of summers ago comes to me as I type. A heat wave had swept over Europe, and each breath of air felt hot in a city. Leipzig. It is neither your nor my home, you moved here for a short time, and I took the night bus from Amsterdam to see you. I still experience a strange familiarity. The reminders of eastern Germany’s communist past bring back images of the same regime’s remainders in Slovakia, where I grew up. Even the outline of your flat seems like a forgotten memory—they used to build them all the same in the fast-rising concrete buildings that sprung up like mushrooms after rain in the 70s. We take a nap in your bed in the early morning. My bus arrives at 6am and neither of us are early birds. The pink curtains dance in the breeze from the open window. “This is not my home,” you say, “but it seems like that feeling has arrived with you.” “I feel at home like I haven’t in a while,” I reply and it’s true. Your presence is comforting, like that of a loving sister. The late afternoon sunlight comes through the window of our Brighton flat as I wash its wooden floors. Music plays in the background, filling the room up to its high ceilings. Along with the dust from the floors, I clear away the dust from my thoughts. Home is

tender care, the energy invested in cultivation. It is consistency and little rituals that bring your mind peace and contentment. Sensations. The sound of the coffee boiling in the morning and seagulls shrieking. The first sip of a beer with a creamy head of foam. The sweet smell of incense from a corner coffee shop and the rhythm of Balkan melodies from your room. It’s not a great area, there are bars on our windows and the building door’s creak is another element to the city centre cacophony. None of this matters though, as wine leaves the bottle in the evenings as smoothly as words leave our lips. This place is ours, and again, you brought that feeling.

Reimagine We hug on the pavement between a skatepark and a children’s playground. It’s halfway for both of us. You are going to go right, up the hill leading to your house in a family-friendly neighbourhood and smoke a fat joint as I know you. Then again, I thought I knew more until now, so I might be wrong. I am going to go left, up the stairs to my flat at the back of one of the main roads, above a little park where I’ve seen many drug deals happen from my window. I found a companion in you at a time when the world was on pause, but as it is waking up again, it only becomes more apparent that our perspectives are as different as the parts of Brighton we live in. Before that last hug we squeezed each other in, you were the one with tears running down your cheeks and I felt tender towards you. I let you cry in my arms as I squinted my eyes against the setting sun, looking at the hanging wisteria, which you pointed out over your shoulder just before we sat down in the grass. The unapologetic picturesqueness of that moment surprises me almost as much as the fact that you knew the name of the blossoming plant. Like a sulking child, I almost don’t want to see the beauty in the world around me when I’m feeling so sad so I close my eyes. “I still love you,” I say to you as the early summer breeze brings to us the faint melody of 93 Till Infinity and the smell of a freshly sparked joint. “I love you too,” you say back, yet we know this is it. My eyes start welling up only when we turn

away from each other at last to go our separate ways. I don’t look back so I don’t know if you did. By the time I unlock the front door to my building, the waterfalls have started already and my sobs echo in the hallway. I climb the stairs to the top floor and find the flat empty, ready to be filled with my self-pity. Now that you’re not here, suddenly everywhere I look I see a trace of you—the armchair you found in front of a house on your street that you brought here when there was almost no furniture; the plant you gave me for my birthday; even the music I’m listening to is coming out of a speaker you left. By the time she comes back, my eyes are puffy and the pillow is soaked. “I know it’s sad,” she says as she sits on the bed next to me and strokes my hair, “but you know it was the right decision.” I’ve known for a while. The protective wall we both built was too high to climb over with a ladder of compromise. I touch the ring on my right hand and turn it around my finger. Tree branches hang high above my head, the green leaves whispering in the breeze. It’s a beautiful sunny day and I watch the little bubbles rise to the top of my beer glass. Sun high and the sky blue, the coffee shop on the beach was extremely busy that day. The sounds of the coffee grinding, the whiz of the milk steaming wand, and the thud of jugs against the counter. The calming repetitiveness of the tamp, the swirl of silky milk, pouring coffee after coffee. No time to think about you until I run my fingers through my hair at the end of my shift. On my way back the images of you start flooding back with every corner I turn. I need to reimagine the city without you. I take a sip of my beer and start rolling a cigarette.

Opposite Page:

Interpolate #3, Chalk, Charcoal, Gesso, Acrylic on Canvas, 96” x 72”, 2020

Michael K. PAXTON I N T E R P O L A T I O N S Ultrasounds are an incredible medical tool used to show internal occurrences through sound. Initially, I was intrigued by the various types of sonograms produced by ultrasounds. The sonograms gave me an opportunity to investigate observed reality and abstraction simultaneously. With these images, I am bringing into view something below the surface, and because I have created these during the current pandemic, the silent nature of the virus is interpolated into each sketch. The isolation period of the pandemic has felt constant and unrelenting. It has had a strange effect on my focus and thinking, and in the way I approached this work, as days turned into months turned into a new year.

Interpolate Big Drawing #1, Charcoal on Paper, 72” x 50”, 2020

Clockwise: Interpolate #7 Chalk, Charcoal, Gesso, Acrylic on Canvas 96” x 72” 2020 Interpolate Big Drawing #5 Charcoal on Paper 72” x 50” 2020 Interpolate Big Drawing #3 Charcoal on Paper 72” x 50” 2020 23

Interpolate #11, Chalk, Charcoal, Gesso, Acrylic on Canvas, 96” x 72”, 2021

Interpolate Big Drawing #2, Charcoal on Paper, 72” x 50”, 2020

Interpolate #6, Chalk, Charcoal, Gesso, Acrylic on Canvas, 96” x 72”, 2020

Interpolate #9 Chalk, Charcoal, Gesso, Acrylic on Canvas 96” x 72” 2020

Interpolate Big Drawing #4 Charcoal on Paper 72” x 50” 2020

Catalina ARANGUREN My work is a dialogue about the modern world and our place in it. Light is the foundation and sets the tone of the conversation. My work explores relationships between the learned and the subconscious. Because of the diversity of cultures in which I grew up, and perhaps in spite of them, my work explores the relationship between perception and cognition. The idea of that which is “perceived” and that which is “actual” is rapidly shifting cultural concepts, though the ability to elicit reactions of fondness and fear remains constant. Look at my work like you are looking at a yearbook. Get up close, and you will recall memories of times gone by. Some images are approximately 4x4 inches, forcing the viewer to come very close and explore the image for as much detail as possible. Others are 36x36 inches, forcing the viewer to step back to truly understand what is in front of them.

Train, 2016

Neighbor’s Roof, 2020

Orchid, 2015

Marina, 2021

Flying Koi, 2021

City Reflection, 2015 30

Fireworks, 2015

Remains, 2020

Mannequin, 2015

Bathroom Window, 2020

Asylum Hallway, 2021

Broken Window, 2021

Bianca CLARK My work focuses on individuality and the importance of self-reflection. The women I paint are extensions of myself as I use the creation of these paintings as a time to find clarity in my own life. In this way each piece has a bit of myself. Bathed in color, each subject defies convention, asserting their own individuality.

Meet Me At Our Spot, Oil on Canvas, 30 x 24 in., 2021

Haven, Oil on Canvas, 36 x 28 in., 2020

She is Obliged to No One Oil on Canvas 20 x 16 in. 2021

Mother May I Oil on Canvas 20 x 16 in. 2021

Blooms in the Midnight Hour Oil on Canvas 20 x 16 in. 2020

Opposite Page: Lovefool Oil on Canvas 28 x 22 in. 2019

Everglow Oil on Canvas 20 x 16 in. 2021

Susan MCCLELLAN My work is a method of constant creative exploration, expressionism, and discovery. A poem is an ongoing practice of exploring my thoughts and dreams & visually bringing them to written form. I write poems based on my life and aspects of society. My goal is for my poems to resonate with the reader.

Starting Over Starting over/ from experience/ not from scratch/ not from the same place/ not from the same story Rebuild/ re-route/ reinvent/ renew yourself

Take chances/ take opportunities/ take time.

Hope

Other

Hope is the one thing that can never be lost. It is one thing with no cost.

Hold my hand Hold onto life Hold each other.

Hope helps us through dark times. Hope makes the world shine. Hope is seeing the light Hope is what makes our future bright. Choose Hope. Keep believing. Keep succeeding. Keep dreaming.

We need courage We need strength We need each other. Be kind Be patient Be there for each other. Go motivate Go inspire Go love each other.

Do you believe? Do you believe in dreams In all that you can be Like a bird That you are free. Do you believe you have power And strength to achieve great things. Raise your voice And spread your wings. Do you believe you just need Faith to try Go forth and Fly.

One of a Kind You are one of a kind, Beautifully flawed with imperfections in your mind. You are your thoughts, actions, and words, A great voice to be heard. You are an original and not like anyone else. Always be your unique self. You are all the pieces of everything that make you whole. You are the essence of a beautiful soul.

Larry YOKE I write because it is who I am. Since the very young age of nine, I have not been able to stop the ebb and flow. I write poetry, short stories, and multi genre novels. I often find myself at the mercy and behest of my characters who dictate what I pen on the page. I love to bend and shape words for expression, to teach, to entertain, and to support one’s ideals. It is who I am.

Bright Flash It was the first day of our Hawaii vacation. To shut out the world we came from, our phones were left in the car. We were busy on the beach making a sand mermaid when we noticed people running around and acting very oddly, almost in a panic. I looked at my wife and we rolled our eyes. Whatever the panic was, we would go back to the car to head to the hotel for a well-earned nap. We’d been in the front seats for only a second when our phones started buzzing, flashing, quickly turning to a loud ear piercing alarm, very much like a missing child Amber Alert, only more intense. The read-out came into focus: “Incoming Missile Alert! This Is Not A Drill!” I managed to speak after taking a deep breath. “This has got to be some sort of mistake or a practical joke.” The phones kept flashing “Incoming Missile Alert! This Is Not A Drill!” I quickly turned on a radio station for news. The radio voice confirmed, “The national alert system has sent out an incoming missile alert.” Adding, “This is not a drill. We’re being told in the newsroom that if the military cannot shoot down the missile, we have no more than twenty minutes before impact.” The air seemed to be sucked out of the car and we both tipped over into each other’s arms breathing heavily, not sure of what to do or even if there was anything we could do to protect ourselves. We were out in the open with no place to hide. The calm of the island turned chaotic before our eyes, people started running about without a purpose. We could see the terror etched deeply into their faces. On an island, there is no place to hide from a huge menace like a nuclear explosion. A man was lifting off a street manhole cover, pushing his young daughter down into it, and placing the cover back in position. Others were simply falling on their knees covering their faces or lifting their hands as if in prayer. Vehicles were moving slowly, trying to get somewhere—but where? The one highway around the island was in total gridlock as far as I could see. My wife started to panic. She began to shake uncontrollably, waves of sobbing escaped her tight lips. How could such an evil thing like this happen? I thought. I held her tightly, whispering, “If this is all true, then we have only a few minutes left to live. We can sit here in the front seat of this car like cowering dogs or meet it head on.” “What are you suggesting?” Her voice was quivering.

“We should face our destiny head on. Look the evilness right in the eye and accept our fate.” Her response was barely audible: “We can go sit on the beach and wait for the final curtain to be lowered over us.” “That’s the spirit! Let’s head back to the beach where we can take our last breaths of fresh ocean air—feel the warm sand on our feet. Let’s go out in style!” We ran to the beach, finding our mermaid still intact. Together, we sat next to her, staring out to sea. “Do you think we’ll feel pain?” she asked solemnly. “I have no earthly idea, but I can tell you this: everything I’ve read about the effects of radiation and atomic weapons attacks has taught me one thing—it happens extremely fast. The explosion is so powerful and covers such a vast area in a matter of a few seconds, I doubt we’ll have time to think about it. Let’s just hold onto each other until the end.” Our phones continued to rant the same diabolical message until it suddenly stopped squawking. A new message came over the tiny screen: “Two missiles are on a direct path toward Kauai and Maui. The impact will affect the entire chain of islands because of the expected enormity of the fireballs and subsequent blowout force. All we can do, fellow islanders, is pray.” We threw our arms about each other and from the corner of my eye I saw a flash appear in the distance towards the island center, drawing my direct attention. The light was so intensely bright, I was blinded immediately. Holding my wife’s face deeply into my shoulder so she would not see death racing toward us in fire and fury. We began to weep, not only for us, but the countless people on these islands who were innocent victims. I wanted my last spoken words to matter. “Dear, I know there will be a counter-missile strike on the country responsible for this vicious attack. I hope the world will learn from this and put aside all hatred and strive for peace before this lovely planet we’ve come to know and love is...” 52

The Turning During an interview by the Times Newspaper, the reporter asked a very simple question to get things started, “Mr. O’Conner, can you please help my readers understand how you received all those scars?” “I’ll take a deep breath and begin this tale of woe that happened twenty years ago, after I divorced my wife of 17 years for running off with another man. We had no kids because she claimed she could not bear children. I believed her because I was in love with her, and not having kids was okay as long as I had her. Anyways, I don’t want to bore you with all that mucky muck sad sack stuff. So, I found myself alone not wanting to get into another relationship leading to marriage and so on and so forth. “I had a friend who raised purebred dogs for show and would sell to whoever wanted such fine animals. I came from meager beginnings, some would consider just shy of being destitute, but up to that point in my life I’ve always dreamt of having nothing but the best my hard earned money could buy—the best car, nicest clothes, and why not, a purebred show dog? Well, it just so happened he raised two breeds, one was a pitbull, and the other was an English mastiff. Both animals were liked or disliked for various reasons, but as long as people treated them well, they got along famously with the human population—they were beautiful and powerful looking animals. “Well, one day a female pitbull accidentally mixed with a male mastiff and sure enough, a mixed breed of puppies was born into this world. The breeder had no idea what temperament this new breed was going to have, so customers shied away from buying. He had no choice but to sell them very cheap or give them away. I actually liked the pit mastiff pups. Sure I was brave and probably a little stupid for accepting an untried breed, but I got one just the same. I raised that pup and loved him dearly. He was gentle, housebroken, and extremely obedient. He came when I called, heck he even slept in the same bed with me until he got so large, he wound up kicking me out from under the warm covers during the cold winter months, and I’d wind up on the cold hard floor.” The reporter interjected, “Take your time Mr. O’Conner, I can tell, this is very difficult for you to relive. Do your best and we can stop anytime.” “Now, here comes the hard part for me to speak about because it was a life changing event for me and my dog, Chopper. I was in the navy during the Second World War.

Alas, Fate was trying to tell me something back then, but I was too stubborn and bullheaded to listen.. There I learned to ride a motorcycle. My job, off the ship at dock, was to be a courier. They gave me a motorcycle to ride so I could get around quicker once we were on shore. When I got out of the service, I bought a motorcycle, a Harley Davidson and had it chopped down for long rides and comfort in the saddle. Then I got Chopper. I built a sidecar for my dog to ride in—together we turned a lot of heads when people saw us coming! Chopper the dog was the same chocolate brown as the bike and was about the same height. “Alas, Fate was trying to tell me something back then, but I was too stubborn and bullheaded to listen. I never had any issues with Chopper getting mean or wanting to stray away or turn against me or anybody else. For all intents and purposes, he was a well-mannered furry friend. One day all that changed. “When people see me, the first thing they notice is all the scarring. Some ask about it, others try to talk around the obvious. My arms, legs, back, chest and face were all disfigured. This happened the same day my sister, Wanda, and I returned from our hunting trip. We field dressed the deer at the kill site and brought home the meat to mom and dad’s house for them to put onto ice and to dry some for hard tack and some of mom’s famous venison meatballs or to put into chili served with cornbread. She was a good cook. “Chopper was at mom’s house. He was as gentle as a dog could be, and Mom loved having him around. I never had an ounce of trouble with him until that day. I don’t know what happened, just that it happened the way it did. Much later, I approached the dog breeder and told him of my adventure, and he merely shook his head in disbelief and said a quiet, “I’m so sorry that happened.” “As Wanda and I hugged goodbye at Mom’s house, she said, ‘See you later alligator’ and I replied, ‘After while crocodile.’” We laughed and promised to meet again tomorrow to go fishing down at the Levee. We’ve always loved the view across the river while watching the boats and barges chugging up and down the river. “I took Chopper home, and we settled in like it was any other ordinary day. We laid around and watched a bit of TV, and I took a well-deserved nap. When I woke up, Chopper was not lying next to me as he usually does. So I got up, made some coffee, and grabbed a smoke. I sat on the couch waiting for the coffee pot to finish perking on the stove and got up when I heard it give its whistle. I got up to hurry into the kitchen and wasn’t watching what I was doing so the tip of the cigarette

dropped on the floor. When I bent over to pick it up, I heard a loud snarl and gnashing of teeth. I turned my head just in time to see Chopper charging full bore at me.” Taking a deep breath, I cleared my throat and spit out a huge wad of phlegm wiping my mouth on the nearest sleeve. “I still have difficulty in reliving that day. I get pretty emotional recalling what happened, but here goes. “At first, I was under the impression he wanted to play since I was bent down at his level. I still don’t know what I did to set Chopper off like a mad dog, but that was exactly what he was at that time. We believe that since he was a cross breed of two large dogs with a minimal history of violent tendencies, mating them together was a crap shoot of what their wild side may produce. I found out the hard way. “It all happened so fast. Chopper jumped on me with his 120 pounds of solid muscle forcing me down onto the floor with a heavy, loud thud knocking the wind completely out of me! I didn’t weigh but 160 at the time so he had me at his mercy. I panicked and reached out to give him a good smack on the jowls, but that proved to be the mistake of a lifetime. No sooner had I reached out to hit him he grabbed my arm in his mouth and started tearing my flesh down to the bone. I screamed at him, but he wouldn’t stop and tried in vain to fight him off, first with one arm then the other, and soon both arms from the elbows down to my hands were nothing but a mangled mass of skin, tendons and muscle loosely hanging from the bones. I was in total shock screaming like a madman for him to stop. He continued tearing and shredding my arms. For some reason, he stopped for a short period, and I thought the attack was over and he would settle down to be the playful, loving animal I had raised from a pup. “The attack wasn’t over. He started biting and tearing my pants, ripping them from my body, he turned me onto my stomach—now everything was exposed for his indulgence. When he tore into my left hamstring above the knee joint, I have never felt such excruciating pain in my entire life. I must have blacked out. I woke at some point and I heard a loud cracking noise. Then I saw from the corner of my eye, my leg separated at the knee and tossed aside like a piece of loose timber. I knew if I didn’t do something quick, I would be dead. I managed to slide out from underneath him because of the amount of blood around me—trying to stand was futile, so I tried to crawl away, but he grabbed onto my other leg, dragging me back.

I said a silent prayer—God make my death quick and painless—then closed my eyes. “I lay there knowing that I was a goner for sure. I swear an angel appeared over Chopper exclaiming, “Chopper, look what you’ve done!” “You know what? That dang old dog stopped just like that, sat on his haunches wagging his tail as if we were just playing. Somewhere in my fuzzy darkness, I heard a loud report of thunder and saw a flash. I had no recollection of those last few moments until three days later when I woke up in the hospital. There by my side was my best friend and sister, Wanda. She welcomed me like I was gone for a long time with tears flowing and her kind face beaming like all was well in the world. “The angel turned out to be none other than her! She had brought my rifle back and came in the front door in time seeing Chopper had turned on me. She filled me in on what actually happened. She reacted quickly, pulling the .410 double shot hunting rifle up to a firing position and fired point blank into the dog’s blood smeared face. He didn’t know what hit him as he fell dead. She pushed him aside and called the ambulance and told them to hurry or they’ll have a dead man on their hands. I passed out again from shock and the loss of so much blood and did not wake up until three days later at the intensive care wing at the general hospital. They removed parts of my left leg and tried to use what skin I had left for skin grafts, but there was only so much they could do. They put so much blood in me and eventually got me stable enough to survive. “I am able to get around okay on my own with the help of a left prosthetic leg and a cane. It took quite the rehab effort to get me this far along. If it weren’t for the intervention of my guardian angel, I would not be here to share my story.”

Music Across the Waters My name is Zeke. I live in the bayous outside of New Orleans. I am proud to be part of the Cajun Navy, as we have been dubbed by the news media. Hurricane Harvey slammed into the Texas coastline with the ferocity of an attacking army. The category four winds and rain were devastating to anything that stood in their deadly path. I’d had a similar experience with Katrina in August of 2005. The memory of that awful time is forever burned into my soul. That’s why I volunteered to take my air boat and try to do some good for those poor folks in dire need. The U.S. government is slow to respond to a crisis of this magnitude. My partner, Bovary, and I talked about making the trip as a team. He’s been my closest friend as long as I can remember; we’ve shared most of our major life experiences together. We consider ourselves rough-and-tough, battle-hardened men after three tours in Iraq and Afghanistan and living through Katrina and its aftermath. Helping others in need was in our blood. We’d want them to do the same for us. A while back, we’d chipped in together and bought a used airboat to hunt alligators and boa constrictors. We also earned a meager living by taking tourists out into swamps and bayous to show them the wildlife. We felt we had already experienced everything negative we could endure in our lifetime—until we volunteered to help in the rescue effort during Hurricane Harvey. We packed up the truck hauling the airboat and drove hard for ten hours. The closer we got to the eye of the storm, the fiercer the wind and rain grew. At times we could barely see out of our windshield. We drove on into the storm, braving its worst. We slowly pulled up to I-45 near downtown Houston to find a large segment of the highway already underwater. The rain was relentless and unforgiving. But Bovary and I had been through many violent storms. We knew they made lives miserable and wreaked widespread destruction. We stopped at the water’s edge, unloaded our boat into the rising waters, and headed toward the towering buildings of the inner city. I looked up ahead and saw something amazing—water crafts of all kinds and sizes scattered along a two-mile stretch of liquid highway. I peered through the grey, misty vision before me and was transported back to Venice, Italy, where there are no streets, only waterways and boats, the only means of transportation in their water world. But this was no vacation.

People were dying. We drifted to the nearest boat carrying first responders. They were easily identified by their bright yellow life vests and fireman’s helmets. “Ahoy, there!” I yelled. “What can we do to help? We’re with the Louisiana Cajun Navy effort.” One of the men in the other boat smiled and asked, “Are you on Facebook or Twitter?” “Yes, I am. Why do you ask?” “We’re getting inundated with distress messages from people needing to be rescued. They’re giving their names, addresses, and situation. If you go online, you can respond to any of them that you care. There are thousands of people begging for help.” “Thousands?” I asked, incredulous. “I only see about twenty boats out here. How are we gonna help that many people? Where’s the rest of the country? In fact, where is the Goddamn government?” The man only shrugged as he loaded supplies into an adjoining boat. I continued through the biting wind-driven rain, “I don’t understand. We had plenty of warning about this storm! They sure ‘nuff messed us around during Katrina and many died needlessly. You think they would have learned.” The other boatman flatly stated, “My crazy Cajun friend, you’re preaching to the choir. Unfortunately, this is all we have, so we must do whatever we can to achieve the highest level of good. The longer we chat about this, the less people we can help. This storm is here to destroy lives. We need to go, now!” I was stunned by his words, but they made sense in the dire situation we were wrestling. The rain came in sideways, stinging our faces like a high-pressure jet. “Where can we grab a bite to eat? We rushed down here and forgot to eat.” The man in the other boat reached behind him into a cooler, grabbed a cloth bag,

I turned on my phone and found the Facebook app. There were countless people begging for help.. and tossed it into our boat. “Here are some provisions of water and food that should tide you over for a while. Remember to go onto Facebook and Twitter for updates, and God bless you two for coming. I’m glad to see you’ve brought your foul weather gear!” We said our goodbyes and drifted away in the movement of the rushing waters. We turned the craft to the right and ventured away from the other boats. The wind and driving rain suddenly dissipated as if a faucet had turned off. “We must be in the eye of the monster, Bovary. It will pick up soon,” I said sternly. It became eerily quiet except for the sound of the water lapping against the concrete walls of submerged buildings. I turned on my phone and found the Facebook app. There were countless people begging for help. A lady from Florida had uploaded a picture of a room full of elderly people with water up to their chests. One lady was holding onto a walker, one was in a wheelchair, another stood with a sorrowful, pleading expression. I showed it to Bovary. A recorded voice accompanying the photo stated, “The residents at the Gladys Hutchings Elderly Center on Ballard Street are in desperate need of rescuing. Someone, please help them before they all die!” I played the recording again for Bovary and said, “This is where we need to be, old friend.” We fired up the boat fan and tried to get directions on the GPS, but electronics weren’t working so well with all the moisture. We finally got directions but not to the exact spot as it normally would. There was no sign of the elderly center when we reached our destination, so I turned off the motor and we slowed down to a drift. The neighborhood was completely flooded, with cars barely sticking through the surface of the rising floodwaters. Then I saw something protruding out of the water. It was a street sign . . . Ballard! We were on the right street, but we didn’t know where the elderly home was, and time was quickly ticking away for those folks in the photo!

“Bovary, do you hear what I’m hearing?” “Sure do. It sounds like some mighty fine piano playing to me!” I wasn’t sure when that shot was taken or how much further the water had risen since. My heart began to race as we drifted along through the houses and buildings. Bovary must have felt the same pang of fear because he began to yell, “Hello! Can you hear my voice? We’re here to help!” He yelled the same message over and over but no answer came, only ominous silence. The water was so high, it was covering the names of the businesses on the street, including the one we were seeking. We could have passed it without even realizing it was there. “Where the hell can they be, Zeke?” Bovary pleaded. I turned on the fan, moving to the right between two brownstone buildings. Panic grasped my chest, squeezing the breath out of me. I had no clue what to do, so I turned off the engine once again to listen. Two minutes seemed like hours. Panic traveled to my throat, making me sick with fear that we’d got there too late. Then I heard it. It was faint at first. Then the volume of musical notes coming toward us across the water began to grow. “Bovary, do you hear what I’m hearing?” “Sure do. It sounds like some mighty fine piano playing to me!” “Yeah! Some good ‘ol gospel music. It’s coming from that direction.” I steered the airboat toward the music and bumped into the front of the elderly home. “Zeke, can you believe this? That is the sweetest music I’ve ever heard.” I yelled this time, “People inside, we’re here to help you! Stay calm and we’ll be right there!” I steered the boat to a window that had been broken by the pressure of the water. Bovary and I cleared the jagged shards clinging to the frame and crawled inside. The front door, more than half submerged, would have been impossible to open. We found the room the music was coming from. There we were greeted by one of the most beautiful and surreal sights either of us had ever seen—an old man sitting on a piano bench—water up to his waist, plunking away at ivory keys. The residents

were taking it all in just like this was a normal day and this fine man was there to entertain them on a quiet Sunday afternoon. Truth was, his playing seemed to have kept them all calm so they wouldn’t be afraid. He had a captive audience! Those lovely people were saved, along with many others. We lost count of the people we rescued over the days and nights traversing the waterways of Houston. Later, we had the privilege of speaking with the piano man. His name was Dexter Brown, and he was a long-time resident at the home. He wanted to personally thank us but assured us jokingly, “I had the situation well in hand.” I laughed and replied, “In hand is an understatement!” As he extended his right hand to me, I noticed that his left hand, partially covered by a black brace, appeared to be mangled. I had to ask, “What happened to your hand? Were you injured during the storm?” Mr. Brown told us this story. “I was a classically trained pianist living in the slums of New York. I was a natural and had high hopes of getting my mother and me out of the ghetto by becoming a professional performer. I was on that very course when the unthinkable happened. Some of the local boys didn’t like the idea of me being so “uppity” in that lowlife neighborhood. They decided to take the thing that made me different from them— what I loved the most—my ability to play piano. I was walking home one afternoon after practice for an upcoming performance. A few agent scouts would be attending to hear me play. I was well on my way out, but the local thugs had other plans for me. I rounded a corner close to our apartment when the boys jumped me from behind, put a sack over my head and knocked me to the ground. One of the boys yelled, ‘Hold him down and lay out his left hand!’

At least three sets of hands forced me, face down, onto the concrete. It was dead quiet for a few moments, until I felt the first hammer strike on my opened left hand, then another, then more rained down upon the muscle, tendons and bones. I heard myself screaming. Just as quickly as it started, it ended, along with my hopes of ever playing the piano professionally. The boys ran off into the night, howling like wolves after a slaughter. After that, I never played publicly again until I moved to Texas and was reborn, so to speak by a very understanding cowboy and night club owner, named Willy.” Bovary and I were almost speechless. But I asked, “That was a long time ago. Why didn’t you pursue your dream of becoming a world class player?” Dexter Brown, grinning from ear to ear, quietly stated, “I knew my glory days were behind me until that storm. Something came over me. I played like I was giving that lost performance, the one I was scheduled to give so long ago. I’m glad I did. I’m happy you two enjoyed the concert.” Bovary and I are back home now, happy and sad to have taken part in history. We set out to find people in trouble, and we did! But we also found beauty in tragedy, courage in chaos. Maybe God gave Mr. Brown that ability just for that moment, so he could calm the fear in all the dear old hearts who attended his long-overdue recital that day.

We set out to find people in trouble, and we did! But we also found beauty in tragedy, courage in chaos..

Quick Look Christine Henninger In my work I seek to reveal the beauty in our everyday environment—beauty is all around us. A slant of light or tilt of the head can transform mundane to magical. I manipulate my photos digitally using color, texture, line, and light to create something delightful and surprising. I have exhibited my work in solo and group shows in the Northeast. I also have individual and corporate collectors in Vermont, NYC, and Woodstock, NY. I was born, raised, and schooled in NYC, and currently live in Vermont.