LONER
1
LONER Magazine is a publication that strives to showcase the raw, unfiltered and saturated life we experience on a daily basis. We stand to be bolder than life has often allowed us. Our mission; to showcase the beauty around us, and build a community of creators that who share a similar vision of seeing beauty in the world around us. Through this we are also dedicated to being a safe community for LGBTQ, POC and, those who have a desire to change the world with their work. Over the past few years LONER (Previously known as ANTI-SOCIAL) has created subcultures, artistic communities, clothing brands, talk shows, online radio platforms and small print editorials all with the intention of spreading the work of artists in our communities, and giving LONERS a place where they can feel safe while being as free and expressive as they can. After a nearly four years of exploring and creating, we [LONER] decided that the next step in our journey of creative freedom is to wrap everything we’ve been doing so far, into one, neat little package. Thus LONER Magazine was created. Our goals are to: 1) Cultivate a worldwide creative experience that spreads the work of local artists to global audiences. 2) Spread to a point where we can pay artists for being a part of our community 3) Show those who are unsure about their future in art, music, film etc. that they can live their life how they want to live it, not how others have dictated it. By supporting LONER Magazine, you help us provide a platform for disenfranchised artists all around the world and for that, we thank you. - LONER Team
To subscribe to Future Issues find us on Patreon at: www.patreon.com/Lonermagazine Or find us at Lonerskate.squarespace.com /www.lonerskate.com For daily updates, artist features amd information on whats next for LONER, follow us on instagram: @LONER_skateboarding and Twitter: @Loner_Skate LONER
1
LONER Magazine 2019
Photographer: Clarence Welch Artist: Marcel Mensah
ŠLONER Magazine 2019 Issue 1 December 2018 -January 2019
Contributors 1, 5, Marcel Mensah 18-21 Cover, Illustrations, Photography
19-20, Jacob Alcott 38-39 Philosophical Essays
@Eat_More_Spiders
6-9
Louise Perez Photography
22-23 Andrew Truhan Contribution
@pnwlouise
8
Orly Isreal Essay on Loners
@uncle_andee
24
@kloned_
@OrlyStory
10
Cassie Lee Photography and Modeling
25-31 Walker Mettling Artist Interview & Artwork @Katrillioneyes radparty.storenvy.com
@CassleeMusic
11
KyoKill Illustrations and Artwork
26
@kyokill
12-13 Egle Simkute Illustrations, Biography
Julia Gualtieri Photography www.JuliaGualtieri.com
32-33 Brittany Marino Illustrations and Artwork
@Eglusha www.eglusha.com
14-15 Marvin Smith Photography
Will Crutchfield Contribution
@brit.marino
35
Tracy Donsereaux Photography
36
Nasir Young Illustrations and Artwork
@kurothehomie
15,35 Paul Griffin Essays and poetry
@NasirYoungArt nasiryounghasstuff.weebly.com
@Paulalangriffin
16-17 Summer Benton Illustrations and Artwork @sumbenton
17
Nathaniel Turbyfill Philosophical Essays @tinymilkjug / @minimilkjug
www.LonerSkate.com
37
Bryan West Illustrations and Artwork @bryanwestart www. bryanwestart.com
40-41 Nathan Galbraith Illustration & Artwork
@Loner_Skateboarding
LONER
3
This “Magazine” is full of “Things” and we hope you enjoy “experiencing” them. *If you’re into that sort of thing*
- LONER Team 2019
Editor’s Note And Special Thanks
There is not much more that we can say to you other than thank you for all of the support and trust you’ve put into LONER thusfar. This goes to anyone who has ever liked an Instagram post, bought an article clothing, told a friend, subscribed to the magazine or simply kept us in mind. You mean the world to us. None of our creative ventures would have seen the light of day had it not been for all of the individuals who have donated their love and acknowledgement to what we do. If for nothing and noone else, this Magazine is for you (yea, YOU). In the coming months we will continue to give you our absolute best through this publication, because of this, please feel free to leave us feedback whenever possible! Thankyou for everything, and enjoy Issue 1! -Marcel Mensah Owner and Creative Director, LONER Magazine
LONER
5
LOUISE PEREZ
LONER
7
Issue 1 December 2018 -January 2019
LONER Magazine 2019
To Be A Lone(r) By: Orly Isreal
Do you ever think about what it means to be alone? In the strictest sense of the word, being without another—being by yourself— is the definition of alone. Simultaneously, loneliness is circumstantial, it’s fickle by nature, subjective by interpretation, yet universal. Alone is indiscriminate, it’s pure, it’s welcoming, it’s free and available to all— loneliness is an immutable characteristic of any individual. Just tune out the world and you’re there. (One can be alone—in mindset, circumstance or opinion—even when surrounded by other people!) The abstract truth boils down to an obvious ‘We’re all alone in our heads.’ At a certain point, everyone struggles with internal loneliness, and many of us are at constant odds with the difference between ourselves and everyone else, but loneliness is both more nuanced and intense than most of us give it credit for.
it’s subtle, intangible, confusing, and yet so easy to sense. There’s a popular thought that one can’t love what they fear. The ability to enjoy loneliness is a powerful tool. At the same time one is alone, they’re really with themselves. There’s an under-appreciated ability to focus inward and have important, personal moments. In that, there’s a bravery in choice (to be alone) to love one’s own presence. One need not run from themselves, otherwise they must accept their
internal fear—a topic for another essay. Here, however, we celebrate those fearless enough to love themselves enough to follow their path. And so we find ourselves at the unraveling of our paradox—the (formerly unwritten) loner creed: Alone, together.
Being alone is more of a condition than a state of mind. Being alone is a particular flavor of life with a specific constant: You’re by yourself, in some respect. But, there are too many types of alone for anyone to try and define it as any one bad or specific state, circumstance, or attitude. There’s a subtle difference between a lonely person and a person who is alone. (Per example, I’m by myself as I write this sentence; however, I’m the opposite of alone in circumstance. As you read this, this essay, once alone, is now surrounded by work of other loners who sought to withdraw to a place where they could focus on their art enough to complete their projects.) What follows is the argument that being a loner—one who appreciates certain facets of their lives enough to prefer to enjoy them fully—is a good thing. Being alone is important, nay, vital, as it invites us to be true to ourselves. Alone, only you can contest your perspective. It’s within this solitude that most, if not all of our life’s decisions are made. So, why is it that feeling alone can be so difficult? Herein lies an inevitable paradox: The more connected we are, the lonelier we feel. We find ourselves unconsciously rationalizing our time alone, as if the amount of people that witness our being qualifies us for something…unfathomable. Social approval plays into insecurity—
8 LONER
Literature by: Orly Isreal @OrlyStory
Photography by: Louise Perez @pnwlouise
LONER
9
Cass Lee is a 16 Year old Music Student and Aspiring Model. She is passionate about singing and fashion and, has been spending most of her time colaborating with local photographers. Most of her portfolio consists of Fashion photography and modeling. Her current goal is to release a series of original music in 2019 to accompany her modeling carreer. Her work can be found in instagram @CassLeeMusic Photos taken by ‘Eliza’ @edgeshoot
Artist: Kyokill “[Creating] a pastel lit world rich in concept supercars, white collar crime and dangerous women.� - @Kyokill
LONER 11
Egle Simkute Lithuanian Artist and Entrepreneur
(Translated from French)
Egle Simkute, Eglusha (born February 26, 1990 in Kelmė) is a Lithuanian artist. She grew up in Lithuania and soon developed a great curiosity and an overwhelming imagination. His family left Lithuania to settle in Toulouse, France in 1999. She is oriented towards hairstyle and at 23 years old opens her own living room in the heart of the city, which quickly becomes very popular. A dazzling entrepreneurial success. In parallel, Eglusha decides to meet other challenges, that of his passion, the illustration The illustrations of Eglusha, resemble different portraits, different singular figures. They reveal various artistic influences, strongly question the place of the body, the place “of the character” in the narrative, as well as the relationship of the protagonist anchored in an eclectic space. Sour colors, velvety solids, grid, black line assured, the Memphis key is obvious: the artistic current of the 80 ‘s is prevalent in the work of Eglusha. There is a great taste for the Nathalie du Palacio, the emblematic character of Memphis, by the palette, the motifs, the borrowing of the pictorial codes of decorative art. The solids of gaudy, vivid, vivid, boisterous colors. The unexpected choice of energy colours marks a legacy for the Memphis art movement. Eglusha offers a unique pictorial identity and interpreta-
tion. The figures, the bodies are placed in an area, bounded by the opacity of the color and/or delimited by an organized space. This organized space can be surrounded by accompanying elements, “decorators”. The protagonists seem to be lost or on the contrary to be one with this space The bodies are stylized, fragmented, brutalized, dehumanized, they come close to the fantastic creatures, monstrous creatures... Eglusha establishes the territory of the “deformed” bodies mingle, bodies are disproportionate, hypertrophied, atrophied. They are hybrid, half man half animal, half egg half face, “mi cat mi blonde”.. Heroic, anti-heroic hybrids, allegories of thoughts, pieces of life, pieces of Eglusha. These recurrent mutants are likely to refer to creatures of the artist’s personal mythology. It seems to be a sort of continuity through the illustrations. A certain logic which belongs only to the artist and who holds their own truth. The redundant image of the feminine figure is striking, does it refer to the femininity of Eglusha and/or an absolute search for feminine femininity? Feminine, masculine too... Eglusha plays with the controversial concept of the genre. It is almost obvious that it invites the concept to be exceeded. The presence of the figures is radical, they are legitimate and free of stereotypical affiliations aimed at “a genre”. The sequence of illustrations marks a willingness to register a perpetuity, a constant continuity aimed possibly at the narration. A story carved, mingled, enigmatic with angular twists and thrilling intrigue. Do the characters gather, assemble or, isolate themselves? Do they really resonate with each other? The illustrations echo the Tarot game, a popular and mystical game. The Tarot cards represent a true codified iconography that can, in short, recall the pictorial treatment of the illustrations. The purpose of the interpretation of the cards was not to read the future but to guide the consultant and reveal his interiority in a present and near future, would these illustrations not be the cards of the Eglusha? Is that what she lives, how she feels? Is this a new form of what is commonly called
“diary”? So the intimate would be it at the heart of the object of his work? Hairstyles of all kinds, multiple eyes, characteristic elements of the body that accumulate. We could almost find some fetishism with the “Tom Wesselmaan” who lives these illustrations. Returning to the theme of the genre, Eglusha seems to establish a boundary between the glorification of the so-called “feminine elements” and the use of the object woman, her object body, not necessarily slave but always dominating. Eglusha does not slice with the subjects, it subtly evokes different themes such as danger, lightness, boredom, love, loneliness... highlighted by sometimes equivocal titles. She sprinkles, with balance, her illustrations of humour and trash. The original impulse that emerges from the work of Eglusha is irrevocably pop, kitsch, pure, confusing serious, enigmatic and hypnotic. The unconscious is raw material for the artist she makes her ally, her favorite tool. Eglusha reveals a very personal practice that tends to impose his own graphic language, with musical tones post punk, to taste skilfully tart pink. She is the modern woman who must look like an ideal but who fights against the codes (alcohol, shoes of dragqueen, Big car...). It is an ambiguous social satire between the ideal of feminine beauty and the rejection of conformism.
LONER 13
Photos: Marvin Smith (2018) @ Kurothehomie
Photos: Marvin Smith (2018)
A Covenent In The Night
Small
Paul Griffin
Thief of the night, I know your transgressions. You who force the weak and wounded to eternally dream. I fear not your drowsiness, but your dispossession. A terror you inflict that makes me scream. You will destroy our memories, the things that are truly ours. This, I cannot forgive, for they make us who we are. Though, our recollections do fade with the passing hours. I will not let you take them so unnaturally, or my soul be damned. Take our lives, but leave our memories intact. Do not scatter them like you would a skittish dove. Let me bargain with you, we will make a pact. I will surrender my life, and you’ll allow me to remember the ones I love.
Marcel Mensah
Another body. A tiny heart beating softly against my own. Soft hands curled against each other in the dark. Reminding me that I am not the only small thing in the world. Less insignificant in the “bigger picture”. Not speaking. Not alone. Afraid still, but unmoving. Hair bristling in a world too large to care. Comforted. Together. Small.
LONER 15
“My work is autobiography reinterpreted as myth. I am interested in depicting real people and events in my life using coded images with symbols that the viewer can assign their own meanings to. I am also interested in captivity and contortion, both themes in much of my work.�
- Summer Benton
@SumBenton
www.SumBenton.com
“Zebra Lady”
“Stop Sign Lady”
“White Walls”
A philosophical essay by Nathaniel James Turbyfill
White walls line the classroom and the halls, the famous monuments, the strong, sturdy structures lived in and looked at in awe. An artform, a true handiwork. A canvas for the aspiring graffiti artist, or the studious teacher, passing his or her knowledge upon the youth of the present generation or anarchist revolutionaries. These white walls have seen, these white walls have felt. Tape, paint, the weight of another child, and the seclusion of one another. These white walls have been torn down, they have been built up. They have spent their lives together, bound by calk and the power of man. Cast from clay and shale, thrown in the burning fires, hell before life to some, a glorified birth to the bricks. The almighty creator is unknown to them, and to those who gaze on their rough, hard surfaces. Only those who take time to think about these things, the lives of these walls, what they have experienced. From war, to tragedy, love, hate, happiness, passerby old and young, fading by the decades. They are silent guardians to our species, overlooked, but nonetheless appreciated. They come in different shapes and sizes, heights and widths, pieces missing, sometimes shattered,
but always watching, always there… when nobody else was there. We cry against them, we hit them, we break ourselves against them… but the force is nothing to be reckoned with, for it will always come back, it will never stop, they will always be here for us in our times of need, used in metaphors, talked to literally… we make them out to be different things sometimes when we’re lonely… family members, pets, friends, famous people… we revise our scripts, present our essays to a “class” of children, to our mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers. Fellow humans alike, brought together by these walls, these bricks, for dinner, for recreation, they encase our feelings, our love, our passions… they can be our best friend, and our worst enemy. We tear the walls of our mind down at times, we tear the walls of limit down, we tear the walls of sadness down, and we tear the walls of humanity down. Unlike some humans, these walls stand tall, all around the world, in the faces of peril and suffrage, and the cruelties of mankind. White walls, white walls… a feasible force that shapes us all, white walls, white walls, shining bright in the dark, they have always made their mark. Always persistent in our hearts.
LONER 17
18 LONER
Jake Alcott
C’est La Vie I woke up to a ray of light crashing through the window onto my eyes. The morning felt heavy, raw. I rose to my feet with my mind off kilter and walked to the sink to fill up a glass of water. I rummaged through my cabinets to find some ibuprofen; to my surprise I found none, in fact I found nothing at all. I swiveled my stiff neck while my eyes slowly focused on the room around me, nothing looked familiar. I turned to the sink and cup water into my hands and splash it on my face. The cold water on my face felt like a layer of film being striped from my mind. I felt better oriented. I turn my body toward the foreign room to see if I have any belongings with me. The room looked perfect. Like a plastic doll it had absolutely no flaws. “Looks like a show room.” I thought to myself. I must have still been wearing the clothes from the day before, a grey denim jacket, a forest green tee-shirt, a pair of blue jeans and a pair of white Chuck Taylor High-tops with some marker scribbled on the side. I checked my pockets to find they were empty apart from a five dollar bill, four ones and a handful of change. I opened the window above the sink to get some fresh air and realized I was many stories up in what must have been an apartment complex. Looking at the buildings around me I found that I was completely lost. Not lost in the sense that I was just somewhere I had never been, but in the sense that nothing, not even my state of being, felt regular. While this might have shocked me on a different day, today I just took a breath and headed for the door. I made my way down to the street. The sounds of the city, the cars passing and people talking, created a blanket of white noise that isolated my thoughts. I was very hungry; across the street I saw one of those newer looking cafés so I walked over and ordered a blueberry muffin and a black coffee. The barista was very lovely; she asked me a name for the order and I was flustered looking for one. My mind found nothing in my brief but frantic search so I blurted out the first name I could think of. “Gus, my name is Gus.” I said after too long of a pause. She smiled and laughed a little, probably thinking I was just nervous. In reality I really couldn’t think of a name. I must have one, who doesn’t? But without a wallet or a phone, or any personal belonging, I had no
With Illustrations by: Marcel Mensah
reference of self. Again, it would have been normal for me to worry but today I felt a sort of translucent tranquility that washed the mornings events of their gravity.
I stood by the counter and waited for my order. The cup said “Gus” with a smile drawn next to it, I looked up to see her smiling at me and left smiling just the same. “I guess I’m Gus now.” I walked out onto the street and noticed by the sun that it was around noon. I walked with no purpose which felt nice, but as I moved I started to convince myself that I should be more worried. I approached a nearby park and sat in a chair by a tree. I racked my brain for any shred of identity. No memories of the night before, no memories of anything before today. My face started feeling warm and I began to sweat. I slid off my jacket which fell to the back of the wooden seat I was sitting in. This still doesn’t help. I lift a hand to my bare forehead and panic sets in as I realize that I don’t know what I look like. I rush towards a nearby pond and practically dive to my knees to look at my reflection. It was hard to see but I could just make out a little less than shoulder length of curly hair, a beard, and blue eyes. I stare for a long time at these eyes looking back at me waiting for them to tell me something. Of course they don’t and still I continued to stare. About a minute goes by of this staring until I catch my breath and relax. I stand back up and make my way back to my seat by the tree. I reached down to pick up my jacket but realize that it was gone. I look around to see if anyone is walking off with it but it’s nowhere in sight. I start walking. I started to wonder where it is that I am. My first thought is to turn and ask someone walking on the street but stop myself as to not seem completely insane. Instead I went to a news stand and read the heading of some of the papers. “NOTSOB NEWS” crowns the top of the largest stack and looking around in the stand I saw Notsob sweatshirts and athletic shirts hanging. I’d never heard of a City called Notsob. This
LONER 19
concerned me even more but I rationalized it with the thought that there are many places I’ve never heard of. It was a foolish thought but comforted me either way. I turned to continue down the street when I saw her again. The barista from the café strode down the sidewalk in my direction, I was so shocked to see something familiar that I almost just watched her pass. Instead I jolted to the middle of the sidewalk at the last possible moment. She was startled, understandably, but smiled and said “Gus?” Her eyes caught mine like a harpoon in a whales hide. “Who?... I mean hi” The words escape me before I have a chance to recognize I’m speaking. “I’m Gus.” I state as if it wasn’t common knowledge and stick out my hand. She pauses then shakes my hand, still not breaking eye contact. “Calliope.” I intended on asking her a million questions, or simply taking solace in a pseudonormal moment. But as soon as I entered this dialogue it was all swept away with a flood of mental occupation. “Would you like to get a drink with me?” I asked as if on autopilot. “It’s only half past twelve” she laughed as she spoke. “I’m on my break, I’m going to get food.” She started walking again. I stood there for a moment then caught up with her. “Can I join you?” I asked. “Sure” She says as we continue to walk. *
*
*
Our conversation stays light and enjoyable as we sit in a diner lit with edison bulbs, we talk and I focus on these with my peripherals. Towards the end of her thirty minute break I grab the check and pay the tip with the last of my petty cash. Calliope looks at me and says she enjoyed her time but that it was time for her to go. She walks down the street toward the café and I turn and walk the other way. I’d never see her again and that was okay. I was starting to understand the free flowing-nature of my time here. I decided then to just walk and see where I was taken. It wasn’t long until I was given what I was asking for. As I continued to walk I saw a symphony of opportunities. The world moved in a harmony that to question or try and control it would disrupt it all together. Woman and men with faces buried in their phones pirouetting over obstacles and weaving through traffic, I saw a man bend down to tie his shoe to obliviously, narrowly avoid half a hot dog thrown by another mindless patron of Notsob. It was beautiful, like it leaves and twigs flowing down a small stream. I turned my mind off and walked. As I found a dock on a lake and moved forward, the clouds grew dim. I took a step under an awning on the dock and as I did it started to pour. I sat for hours in a grateful haze. As the night came I let it come, I had never been this weightless. A car pulls up on the curb on the street behind me and the window opens. I can tell it’s for me so I stand and turn towards it. The driver beckons silently. As I start to move nearer my hand brushes what feels like denim. I close my hand around it and drape it over my head as I walk. Not until it was above me did I realize that it was the jacket I woke up in. I’ve approached the car and driver leans to the open passenger window to tell me he was going to take me home. For a split second I question this offer but the repetitive nature of serendipity I’ve learned this day told me otherwise. I climb into the car, sit down and put on my seat belt. The driver says my name, not Gus but something new. As I lean in to hear what he has to say I grow hazy and my eyes go dark. I woke up to a ray of light crashing through the window onto my eyes.
20 LONER
LONER 21
@uncle_andee
ww.andrewtruhan.com LONER 23
Will Crutchfield Will Crutchfield Will Crutchfield Will Crutchfield Will Crutchfield Will Crutchfield Will Crutchfield Will Crutchfield Will Crutchfield Will Crutchfield Will Crutchfield
24 LONER
Will Crutchfield Will Crutchfield Will Crutchfield Will Crutchfield Will Crutchfield
d d d d d
WALKER METTLING
Interviews with the artist
Interviews With The Artist Featuring
Walker Mettling
Artist, Teacher, Comic Artist, Explorer, and Cultivator of Local Artist Communities
Who are you? I’m a 38 year old artist//teacher called Walker Mettling. I screenprint, draw comics, host story nights (rarely now) and I’m starting to play with wood and ceramics in Providence, Rhode Island. And since 2010, I have run the Providence Comics Consortium (PCC), a micro-publishing project that started as comics workshops at libraries and the publishing of Providence kids’s work along with adult artists from all over. Lately I’ve been running the PCC Sunday Morning Sketchbook Church in Ada Books where I also have a little risograph printing studio. At Sketchbook Church I get to try out new sketchbook games and have a more intergenerational group of people than I can usually do in a library after school setting. Personally I think the improv-y sketchbook games are the secret sauce for the workshops.
Where are you from and how has that affected your being an artist? That’s a huge question with a long answer. I am from California. My parents are from Kansas mostly. So I’m a mix of escaped midwesterner and Pacific Coast. I’ve lived in Benicia, Vallejo, Arroyo Grande, Oakland, San Francisco, New York City, Arkansas, New Orleans, Vermont and Providence, Rhode Island. When I was tiny there was always weird magical animal stuff happening to me. When I was almost a year old there was an incident where my parents were taking a picture of me in a parking lot and a vulture that was my same size came over and struggled to untie my shoes. When I was five, my mom took me to the fair grounds to play and we stumbled into a baby orangutan named Ollie and his trainer. And I played with Ollie a number of times after that. He’d pull off my shoes and smell my feet and carry me in to the tree with his feet hands. A peacock took off from a local park and started living on our front porch for a few years. I just asked my mom how she thought my childhood affected my later life and she said “we used to finger paint with pudding. Maybe that was it.” But I think they fostered my weirdness as a pendulum swing reaction against the oppressive Kansas macho straightness that they had left behind. They were and are both really cool people and it was awesome growing up with them. I mean, the Santa Claus I knew always buried a gift or two in the yard. I remember being the only people in a Chuck E Cheese on Thanksgiving. As a small kid I dressed up like Tom Sawyer a lot, once to go to the renaissance fair. For my 10th birthday, my dad made a map for me and a couple of my friends, with stuff buried in the Pismo Beach Sand Dunes and talked some random drunk beach dudes into wearing cloaks and giving us mystic hints of where to dig.
Pictured: Artist Walker Mettling holding a large, live bat. Photographer- Julia Gualtieri
As a teenager in Arroyo Grande, my friends and I got into diy punk music. I set up a few shows and was in a few bands, made a few zines. And we built up a network of couches (and sometimes rooftops) we could crash on up and down the coast. After I graduated from High School, I went to San Francisco State University and got a bachelors in Labor Studies, while heavily volunteering at a books to prisoners project. I hitchhiked across the country a few times. Worked at the Brooklyn and Little Rock ACORN offices. I lived in New Orleans for a couple years, a place where it seems like everybody is an artist. I ended up programming a few shows in a gallery upstairs from where I worked. When I moved back to the Bay Area, I lead communal story book making field trips at 826 Valencia in SF, at the same time I helped with art classes at Alameda County juvenile detention, and during the summer was a camp counselor at a working farm summer camp in Vermont. After camp in 2008, I road my bike down to Providence to visit a few friends when the funding for the art job in juvie ran out, so I just stayed in Providence. I hadn’t screenprinted since high school so hanging around Providence was a reintroduction to screenprinting and bookmaking just because it wasso embedded the poster and comics-heavy art community here. Because jobs are hard to come by in Providence, living here has meant I’ve had to make a living creatively and it has kind of forced me to support myself through my artistic efforts more than the other places I’ve lived. But all of the previous zones, people and projects kind of keep snowballing together into the larger gangly life project.
LONER 27
What’s the wierdest project you’ve worked on? Did you enjoy it?
process. I also made a nice black and white cheap-o version of the book with a fold out poster (Available at Ada Books in Prov, RI).
It might not be there weirdest, but the most complicated multi-tentacled project from my perspective is the RISD Museum Fellowship that I got to do in 2017. They gave me a few chunks of money through out the year, I could take grad classes at the RI School of Design, and I could hang out in the education department office and scroll through their object data base. I wanted to take full advantage of that opportunity so I met with nearly all of the curators, took tours of the museum’s different nooks, I took a wood shop class and made a big bat shelf. Towards the end, I hosted a night market in the museum lobby and paid eight peers and younger artists to make new stuff and sell it on the 3rd Thursday when the Museum was free.
But obviously it was a complicated enjoyment. I had the privilege to go behind the scenes at the RISD Museum and with their blessings (mostly) I churned up objects with very poor provenance, no curator or department attached to them, touchy sacred objects that were removed during the colonial and post-colonial period. I’m a strong proponent for a ‘Collections History Gallery.’ There is a lot of buzz at the RISD Museum right now over a Bronze Head (object number 39.054) that was stolen by the British from the Kingdom of Benin in 1897. The museum has been quietly communicating with folks in Nigeria to repatriate it and, due to a recent protest by a Brown University grad class that process has become a bit more transparent.
That was a fun night, Paris Paris Paris was doing screen printing and we had a big coloring mural and a bunch of 3D geometric shapes that folks could Sharpie over. I lobbied pretty hard for the use of multi-colored Sharpies in the gallery! And all the while I was using the RISD Museum database to look at objects that fell under the search categories of “mask” and “ethnographic art.” During a tour of the Decorative Arts department’s storage area, I noticed some large masks hanging on the wall behind rows of tarped chairs under tarps. Later I found those masks in the database, they were Baining Fire Dance Masks from the island of New Britain in Papua New Guinea (object numbers 81.059.23 and 81.059.24). And from there I researched the other objects that came into the museum with those masks. That turned into a series of trading cards of my pictures in storage that I used to have conversations about storage and these objects and their journey.
I would love love love to see a gallery in the museum representing stolen art and cultural objects that were given back, odd objects (like the old mattresses) that are trapped maybe because of bureaucratic rules, weird trends in museum collecting, fake paintings, damaged art, stolen art, etc. etc. There is all of this interesting inside baseball that is happening in that museum (and probably most forward thinking museums) that the public would eat up and be psyched to collaborate on.
Eventually I made a hardcover screen printed artist book called “On Display in a Gallery That No Longer Exists” documenting the objects, where some of them live in storage and my research
---Oh yeah, Did I enjoy it? Yeah.
And for the readers in Rhode Island, just for identifying as an artist you get a free RISD Museum membership that gives you access to the museum. You do not need to prove that you are an artist, or a painter or a fancy pianist - - - people who cook are artists, people who work on engines, and run cash registers and take care of kids are artists. Get a free RI Artist Membership. Museum’s should be part of the social wage, what you get for just being alive. And it’s great for date night! Also one last note. The registrars who took me into storage to
see the masks asked me not to use my photos of storage - - - so instead I drew versions of my photos and that led me to realize that through tracing you can find other objects and details that looking with your eye doesn’t catch. There are all these weird lessons that just happen serendipitously.
How do you deal with an art block or artists anxiety? Block and anxiety aren’t my main demons, my issue is distraction. If I’m doing mechanical work like inking a comic that I’ve already pencilled, using wood cutting tools, screen printing, I’m fine. I can focus in and troubleshoot any issues that come up. Teaching too, falls into the category of mechanical work - - - make a game plan for class, execute that plan, print the book, done. But if I am writing a comic, writing a story, drawing panels or grant writing, if I’m using the whole creative chunk of my brain, A.D.D. constantly pulls me out of my chair every 3 minutes. Without realizing it I am up to get myself a drink of water, to research something, to go to the bathroom, to grab a guitar, to make a snack, to work on something less intimidating. So I use timers a lot. And I’ll set the timer, and I’ll draw or write whatever I’m working on until it beeps and then I’ll give myself a break. And then set the timer again. And that bleeds over into PCC classes too. I use timers for comics workshops all the time. It’s a good way of imposing time discipline. Also deadlines. Deadlines are great. I have the PCC and a number of other collaborators who keep me flush in deadlines. For example Julia Gualtieri coordinates PCC Tours and Workshops that happen out of state and Caitlin Cali & I do a kid’s comic called Splork! and an annual calendar. But before projects were one after another for me, I used to run mail art exchanges and field recording exchanges where each participant had to make a package for every other participant. And the whole point was to force myself to make stuff and to create a community that expected to receive a story or a cassette tape in the mail from me. I didn’t want to rip off anybody who was putting work into making a thing and putting it in the mail - - - so that accountability overtook the distraction or intimidation. I guess the mail exchanges weren’t all deadline fear either, if you made a cool field recording mixtape and mailed out 15 packages, the pay off was getting 15 mixtapes in your mailbox.
What is the Povidence Comics Consortium? Why do you think it’s important to local youth? I started the Providence Comics Consortium with Andrew Oesch in 2010 as a series of comics workshops at the Providence Community Library locations, with a special emphasis on publishing diy books that would be available for check out through the library system. Since then the PCC’s horde of adult and kid artists have created countless workshops, comic books, magazines, a novel, a book of short stories, and have even manifested experimental parades and pneumatic tube fueled advice booths and a book of our time-tested drawing games: The Giant Book of Visionary Sketchbook Games. I think the PCC is an example of how you can utilize a neighborhood library as a chaotic creative zone that is free to access. Kids who have maybe never made a book or a comic before, get published and on top of that the comic can be checked out of the library. So it changes kid library patrons into creators and authors and hopefully that process makes it clear that books (and culture
and everything around us) is just made by people that wanted to make it and that the means of production aren’t very far away. Also, because the PCC gets adult cartoonists involved, it builds a bridge between kids in neighborhood library branches and the genius weirdo Providence cartoonists that they might not even know are here.
What work do you most enjoy doing? Why? On a mechanical level, I really like pulling ink through a screen. Julia Gualtieri and I have a tiny new screen printing studio in an old factory and in December I was going over there in the mornings and screen printing and listening to the radio - - -toggling between slow jams, christmas music, hiphop, npr, and some old mixtapes. It’s totally frustrating sometimes, but I think screen printing rules. On the communal creative brain level, I think the PCC Sketchbook games are probably my favorite. We do the sketchbook games in class as a way to get loose and get through any drawing anxiety so kids can focus on making character sheets and panel pages. But over time I’ve started to regard the sketchbook games as the most creative part of the PCC. For example at sketchbook church we played a game called ‘Food//Children’ (a variation of a game called Monster/Job). We started with strips of paper and two empty cups. On the first slip of paper everyone wrote an example of “stereotypical type of kid” and deposited it into the first cup, then on the second slip everyone wrote a type of food and put it in the second cup. Then the cups were shaken up. And each person would get a turn to pull a slip from each cup, and we would all have 1 minute to draw a child made out of that food acting in that stereotypical behavior. That particular round produced an indoor kid made of bone marrow, a jelly fish kid that’s too happy and friendly, a little princess made out of tuna, a drooling argumentative rice pilaf child and on and on. I’m such a fan of tapping into the magic of the improvised hive mind now.
LONER 29
30 LONER
Are there any memorable responses people have had to your work that have stuck with you? I regularly run into grown men who corner me in Price Rite. And I don’t totally recognize them and they are like, “Mr. Walker?” And I’m like, “Yeah?” And they’ll say, “I remember you from comics at the library.” And I’ll have to try and picture them shorter without their beard. And that’s cool. That makes the long game feel pretty cool. And there are the kids that stay in contact through high school as they start comics and screen print clothes and make skateboarding brands and seamlessly become my peers as part of the Providence art community. But there are two objects that I’ve come across that are pretty neat. One is a copy of the PCC Rhode Island Tour Book that is the circulation copy at Washington Park Library. It has been checked out a lot and it has cheetos stains and it’s puffed out like it’s been wet and dried . And I think that’s what a kid’s library book looks like when it’s been used properly. The second object is the transcript of an exit interview from a kid named Mark, who was in a Fox Point Comics workshop with his brother in 2011. I found it recently and the words he uses to describe what was going on in class blows my mind. Emmy Bright recorded the interview on the last day of class after the kids got their books. This is what he said:
It feels like you don’t know what the imagination in their mind is like. Like I didn’t know what my brother’s imagine mind was until I saw the real imaginative side of him. And I didn’t know half of the people in this class, but once i got to know them, and their imagination. I started thinking! They have a really cool imagination!!!”
How do you measure growth in your work? ’m not sure I’m doing a good job of measuring growth. I’m just trying to keep on chugging. Every new opportunity opens up a few more opportunities. I try to pull along my peers and the younger artists when I can. But at this point it kinda feels like a long distance race. I’m just trying not to fall over.
What’s a dream project of yours? It would be super fun to go to a bat sanctuary and draw bats and make toys for them to play with. I used to have a weekly radio show that I loved and I’ve been thinking I need to start a podcast. Also I’ve been talking forever about writing a weird choose your own adventure book. And it’d be fun to have a general store and shoot a weird kid’s tv program in it.
Best piece of advice for people afraid to pursue a career/life in art? Keep your expenses as low as possible. Avoid debt. Find cheap rent. Grow your veggies. And be part of an art community! Invite other people to be part of your projects and they’ll invite you to theirs. And just ask people for help when you need it.
What’s next? In March I’ve got a show of prints and plywood figures at Sutton Street Gallery in Providence. And I’m working on an art book about Knight Memorial Library that I’m going to try to finish before May. Also I need to schedule some PCC classes for the spring. Fun!
What is an artistic outlook on life? Well, I think my dad indoctrinated me pretty early into the “art of everyday life” idea. That you can drag fun, newness, and creativity (magic even?) into every realm of life. And I think it mirrors the original protestant idea that everybody should have access to the good stuff and not have to get permission from the authorities. Before the PCC, I wasn’t finding it easy to make money in Providence, so I started a secret restaurant with my roommate and we turned that into a job for a couple years. We’d have big dinners on Friday nights and for a time we did breakfast Monday through Friday from 8am to Noon. It was all word of mouth. And on the big nights 80 people would come through. We didn’t think of it as an art project. But it was. The kids from New Urban Arts came over with mentors and made decor one time. And after a couple of years we burnt out on it.
LONER 31
LONER 32
HELLRAISERS Cunning, fashionable, and absolutely bonkers, these are The Hell-Raiser Girls. Set in a dystopian land controlled by a totalitarian government, these girls “go against the grain” and do exactly what they are good at, which is raising hell! The piece brings the viewer directly into the unfolding encounter. A giant smoke cloud rises in
the distance, as the remaining “baddies” pursue the girl-gang in full force. The piece was entirely created in digital format. My choice of spot colors to accent the monochromatic muted oranges implies a divide between the oppressive armed forces and “the Hell-Raiser Girls”, who are accessorized in small pieces of blue inflections. Tight line work accompanies more gestural ink blotting, as the vehicles speed toward the viewer creating a sense of space and emergence.
Artwork by:
Brittany Marino
@Brit.Marino
Britmarino.wixsite.com/portfolio
I aspired to provide an entertaining dynamic between the girls, their friendships and bonds, to create meaningful female characters in such a small expanse of one panel whilst highlighting their story and their drives within this world. This sisterhood of characters evokes the notion that rebellion is not only empowering but also exhilarating.
DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T PAUL GRIFFIN THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK 2 0 1 8 THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK DON’T THINK
December 2018 -January 2019
©LONER Magazine 2019
“Don’t think” - Paul Griffin Don’t think about the memories The laughter and smiles, the late nights holding each other. Don’t think about the first time she said I love you “Don’t think and hold your breath” Don’t think about that Christmas Photo The one with her arms wrapped around your side Her head pressed firmly into your chest And how she had a big incandescent smile like there’s nothing else she could want. Don’t think about how she’ll never look at you that way again. “Don’t think, hold your breath, and count to ten.” Don’t think about the last car ride together The way you felt your chest heave and shatter Every neuron firing at full capacity There must be a way you think A revelation from God that will save us from oblivion There was none All hope of reconciliation eviscerated By those ugly and disgusting words Don’t think about the words, “I don’t love you anymore.” Don’t think? Surely it is a paradox? I think therefore I am As the saying goes To stop thinking would to cease existing evermore. If I think then I exist But if I exist then I will remember If I Remember then I will realize My horrible reality; my lost love. It isn’t a paradox: to not think, but a choice. A choice where I will cease to exist And so will my pain. “Don’t think, hold your breath, count to ten, and pull the trigger.”
Photo: Tracy Donsereaux
LONER 35
“My interests hide in the human form. When you look a the human body it shouldn’t be able to bend move or fold the way it does...”
-NASIR YOUNG
NasirYoungHasStuff.weebly.com/animation
@NasirYoungArt
BRYAN WEST @BryanWestArt - Instagram, Twitter, Dribble, Ello www.BryanWestArt.com
Bryan E. West is a Freelance Illustrator and Designer living in Seaside, California. Bryan creates candy-colored transgressions, contradictions, and venial sins. Bryan survives on a diet of Film Noir, 70’s Cinema, Superman Comics, and Yakuza Flicks.
Illustration for the film ‘First Reformed’ (017)
Illustration for the film ‘White Dog’ (1981)
Illustration for the film ‘Cops VS Thugs’ (1975) December 2018 -January 2019
LONER 37
- Jacob Alcott -
The Watching Tree “Why does he get angry at that now?”
“It surprises me that you don’t see these things.” Again, It gave no answer.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure exactly when.” It continued no matter. “When the two first started coming here they looked different, they held hands and laughed together. They seemed lighter.”
“I’ve been watching them come to this park for years now, he used to shrug and laugh when she dropped her phone, now he acts as if it’s his phone she’s dropping.” “Maybe he’s just having a bad day?”
“And now they’ve become heavy?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s been getting worse and worse like this for a while now.” There’s no response so he just keeps watching. No one notices when they watch, it’s all they’ve been doing for over a hundred years without so much as a sway in the wind. When something stays doing what it’s been doing for that long, or even much shorter than that, the world tends to forget it’s there; forget and treat it as if it don’t care about anything. When they first arrived at the park people were always delighted to see them, a new fixture for pictures and “an added ambiance; it’ll help block the view of the streets.” But now they barely bat an eye as they pass, as if they just should be there. They’d only really care to notice on hot sunny days when they need the shade. The one didn’t mind but it bothered the other. They were never given names; no one thought to distinguish the two past where they were located, and even then it didn’t really matter to them. They were both equally as tall but one was curved towards the top. It was the straight one that cared. It cared because It didn’t have anything else to do but care, it was in it’s nature. It used to love to watch the people come and go. When they first got there it was a simpler time, or maybe It just didn’t seem to notice the smaller twinges of negativity. But when there’s nothing to do but stand tall and watch the world go by, eventually nothing can hide from you. The curved one didn’t mind much about anything. It’s base was thick and rough, It was sturdy. Because of the large curvature of it’s stature, It swayed less than the other. It too saw the people come and go, but to It they were just things; no different than the grass that swayed in the breeze or the squirrels that crawled on their bodies. The straighter one thought of It as unobservant or maybe even boring and a bit dull; but the one with the curve didn’t mind because It knew this wasn’t the case, It just couldn’t find it within itself to care. And even though It didn’t care, It still made the effort to entertain the straighter one. “How long has it been since he’s been happy?” “Who?” Time had passed and the couple had left now. “The man from earlier, the one with the woman who dropped her phone.”
“Yes, but not in a physical sense, more like their being.” “Now you’ve lost me.” “It’s like the things they care about now weigh them down, its harder for them to act and to think and to be with all of these cares and frustrations. They hold one to them, letting them pile up over time until they get to be like those two from earlier: heavy and angry or sad. If only they could realize this, then they could shake these cares from themselves and be happy again, I’d like to see them happy again.” At this the one with the curve felt a little disgusted and wanted the conversation to end. The one with no curve could sense this and tried to rest its thoughts. Though the two didn’t seem to be touching above the ground, their roots were deeply intertwined. Because of this they were connected. They could hear each other’s thoughts, feel each others feelings, they could even tell when each other were hungry. The prospect of knowing these types of things and to this extent may sound horrifying. This reactions stems from human’s need to be accepted. We hide things from the people around us because of this fear. People knowing our deepest thoughts and desires, our prejudices and motive, is a terrifying prospect because it would jeopardize our chances of being accepted. This leads to a much shallower standard for relationships but we, as a whole, don’t seem to mind too much. These two, and many other like them (beings with roots), have this ability from the onset. There’s no possibility of hiding at any point in their existence so the concept of lying has never even been conceived. *
*
*
It was evening, the sun had no yet set but was low enough to the horizon to where it cast an angled stream of light which illuminated not only the tops of the two but their bodies, throughout their arms into their leaves, and even the ground they burrowed into. This was a popular time for people to come to the park during this season. The air was thick with moisture and warm; it created a blanket that drew people to parks like these. This was an especially favorite time for one no bend because it displayed people at a time of ease. They relax and so they are less worried about their actions. It saw
this as much more authentic and thus more enjoyable. It had been days since they last discussed the people in the park. The idea was conjured from time to time but was never dwelled on by the one with on curve out of courtesy of the other. Eventually though, sense experiences culminate as observations which inevitably bring forth ideas that just can’t be suppressed. The one with no bend would have the thought to which It would try and revert. In response the bent one would notice both things and react and finally say: “Please speak your mind. It’s worse to have to feel your wanting self-conflict.” “I’m sorry, I just can’t help seeing all of these things.” “I know” The bent one said with a begrudging sympathy. With this the unbent let his thoughts flow freely for the bent one to hear: “I think I understand why they change. I think they get comfortable in themselves. Not comfortable in the way that you and I get comfortable. I am comfortable with never moving from this spot. I am comfortable with having you and, to a lesser extent, the others whose roots touch ours. I am comfortable with the way in which I grew and will stay. And I am comfortable in the thought that I storm may come, or a person might come with a tool and that I may be cut down with no protest of my own. But the people who come to visit and sit in our park grow comfortable with what they have because they have it, only to remember that they could have other things. This is frustrating to them and they grow unsettled and scornful. They lose sight of why they were happy and what it was that made them that way. They wish they had something that they don’t have.” After a long pause the one who wavers spoke. “Why would it matter if they remembered the things they didn’t have? Wouldn’t they then just pursue it like they did the things they have now?” This line of questions surprised the level one, and feeling this surprise the other felt embarrassed and so the conversation ended. Hours passed and night came. This was a favorite time for the bent one; not because of the lack of people but of the lack of commotion. No cars on the streets, no people walking back and forth through the park, even the animals and insects that crawl and climb over the two are quiet at some point in the night. This lack of stimuli is important it It. Beings with roots are never not connected. To the one next to It who It shares the most with, and to all the blades of grass who’s roots reach for the nutrients in the same places as It’s roots do. In this connection, also, there is no pause. The connection is always on going and fluid. Because of this, there is always a to and fro of knowledge, of ideas, opinions, and concepts without end. This was only understood to be as arduous at times like these when there was much less going on. While not It’s favorite time, even the unbent one can appreciate this serenity.
Happens with all the things that they have, sometimes even the things the do. Sometimes I see people exercise, they’ll be so passionate about it even if it was a fairly new habit and once they stop, they act as if it never happened in the first place. It’s the worst when it happens with other people, like the girl who drops her phone and the boy who stopped laughing. He forgot that she made him happy. He must want other things, better things, things more in quality or quantity. He’ll never find it. They never do.” To this the unbent anticipated disgust but was met with calm. This calm was not a deliberate response It’s answer but the calm one would feel before a storm. The bent mulled over these ideas for a long time. The thoughts were thick and churned slowly, ruminating until finally It spoke. “You’re wrong.” “What do you mean?” The straight one was shocked. Shocked at what the response was, and shocked at that It cared enough to respond. In all the decades that they had been there, the bent one had never cared. “I mean, they’re not bored, they’re not comfortable. They’re scared.” “What are they scared of?” “They just want to feel safe. They consistently move forward to the next things because they’re so scared of unfulfillment that they can’t possibly settle and be happy. That guy hates the girl because he’s scared of her. They create expectations and are so obsessive about them that it’s all they care about, so much so that they’re willing to actively resent anything in order to feel a sense of control.” The one with no curve was silent. It was so taken aback that there was almost nothing left to say. The one with no curve let the silence grow until it became it’s own entity. Night continued and ended eventually with nothing being spoken between them. The sun rose and the bent one took it as a chance to speak. It spoke about the night, spoke about how It felt and how It had changed. Time has a way of influencing all things. From the physical migration of living beings to their mental migrations as well. As long as a being has agency and the ability to think then it will undergo these changes.
Because of this quiet, the bent found room to remember his question and this time without fear. To that the unbent replied: “Because they attach themselves to what they have and what they do. They love what they have and what they do. Maybe not the specific things that they have, but the having of the things. They usually forget about what they had when they get new things, like they never had the older things to begin with.
LONER 39
Assorted Works By
NATHAN GALBRAITH
40 LONER
LONER 41
END. LONER Magazine Issue One January 2019
See you next month!
Editorial Staff: Marcel Mensah Editor in Chief Creative Director Designer
Alyjah Adams
Music Director LONER Media Proofing and Printing
Paul Tavarez Creative Direction
Jacob Alcott
Editor Proofing
LONER 43