Visions Libres Urban Poetry

Page 1


The Art and Culture Magazine |



Urban Poetry


Cover: Loϊc Guston / Back-Cover: Wesley Bloquert ©Kerjeen on Insta

Visions Libres is an independent Contemporary Art- and Photography Magazine. e Magazine involves any kind of Art regardless of technique or period such as Illustration, Painting, Digital Art, Photography, Music and Literature. All Images and Text published in Visions Libres Magazine are the sole property of the published Authors and the subject copyright. No image or text can be reproduced, edited, copied or distributed without the express written permission of its legal owner. 2014 – 2016 ©Visions Libres Magazine / All rights reserved

LETTER from Yann Cielat »Bitumen. Concrete. Buildings. Cars. Subways. Shopping Malls. Noise. People. People. People …« Is there poetry in the city? Yes. Definitely yes. Because beyond this accumulation of things, there is a soul in the city. Souls. And emotions. People laughing, smiling, crying, looks that cross, hands that stretch. In the city, everything gives way to imagination. A shadow can be a threat or a hope. Architecture becomes work of art. e unknown becomes the reflection of his soul, his spirit. e interpretation of the city is unique to each. One can dream it, transform it, pampering, hate it. It is a character in itself that transcends emotions. In »Dark City« by Alex Proyas, it is a danger and mystery. In »Manhattan« by Woody Allen, it is instead a cocoon. Everything is a matter of feeling and introspection. So yes, there is poetry in the city. Urban poetry. A theme that can not better fit to Visions Libres. In a way a special number, in fact 360 pages. Almost an encyclopedia, in order to discover all the exceptional artists who make up the universe and the diversity of Visions Libres. A special issue also, because it is on the verge of a break of a few months. e time Visions Libres breathes and reinvents itself. Because this magazine is a reflection of the artists. Free, quirky, independent, true, underground and borderline. And it will come back even stronger. ank you to all the artists for your participation in this issue, thank you to Louisa for her outstanding work and for giving me this edito, thank you to Visions Libres for giving art space of expression, and many thanks to you, dear readers .

Keep your eyes open. Yann Cielat

CONTENT FEATURES Willem Wernsen / »Behind the great Wall«


Louisa Dawn meets Kazuyuki Shimokawa /


Bill Bernstein / »Homeless in NYC«


Jenny Papalexandris / Book-Presentation »Five Bells« Being LGBT in Australia


Vincent Minor / »Anything in Life can be Art …«


Laurent Hette / »SAINTé«


Ellen McDermott / »Never let me go«


Pedro Antonio Heinrich / »Asphalt Jungle«


Chris Tuff / »Symphonic Sky«


SOUND CORNER DONE / Rock »Nothing more«


POETRY DISTRICT Mike Lee / »rough the Forest Passage«



Martin Deeley / Violin Building Project


Gallery Rastoll / Exhibition Dates


MonoPix / DigitalArt – Call for Submission


Gallery Heitsch Munich / Exhibition »New Masters« With Danielle van Zadelhoff and Bas Meeuws


PARTICIPATING ARTISTS Alan Thexton: / Alexandra J. Braun:, / Alessandro Galantucci: / Analua Zoé / / Angie Stergio / / Anuschka Wenzlawski:, / Arek Rataj: / Armano Jericevic: / Art Khai: / Bárbara Traver:, / Bas Meeuws: / Batsceba Hardy: / Beata-Katarzyna Przybylo: / Bill Bernstein: / Bill Millett: / Chantal Viellard / images2marquephotography: / Chih-Chieh Wang / / CCW Fashion photographer / Chris Tuff: / Christine Gabler: / Claudia Griebl: / Claudia Pomowski: / Claudio Lorenzoni: / Cyril Jayant: / Dai Ito:, / Damon Amb: / Damon Jah: / Danielle van Zadelhoff:, / Daša Ščuka: / Davide Capponi: / Dieter Kempiak: / Didier Mignon: / Do Hong Nhien: / Dominic Brecken: / DONE: / Dorota Hoffmann: / Edwige K. : / Ellen McDermott: / Egon Hungerbühler: / Eri Nakajima: / Erich Reichel: / Erwin Schwaiger: / Federica Corbelli: / François Ferry: / Frank Lassak: / Gallery Rastoll: / Gilles Lange: / Gino Riego Esmeria: / Giorgio Sitta:, / Graham Barker: / Hakkan Lye: / Ijeoma MI: / Ivan Fei: / Jack Savage:, / Jann Holzapfel: / / Jean-Louis Castaño: / Jenny Papalexandris:, / Joe Josephs:, / Johan Lindell: / Jonathan Eden-Drummond: / Jos Tontlinger: / Joshua Sarinana: / Juan Blanco: / Jean-louis Castaño: / Kai Hirai: / Kátia Lima: / Kazuyuki Shimokawa: / Kureiji Jeyro: / Laurence Allegre: / Laurent Hette:, / Lieve De Bleeckere: / Loïc Guston:, / Lola Gomez: / Louisa Dawn: / Mai Saki: / Marie-Pierre Lambelin: / Martin Deeley: / Martin Janssen: / Michel Senguyen: / Mike Lee: / Milad Safabakhsh: / Mukti Echwantono: / Myriam Hofer: / Nath Mounie: / Nath Nathalie: / Nicole Spielmann: / Olga Karlovac: / Paulo Couri: / Pedro Antonio Heinrich: / Peder Aresvik: / Peter Willemse: / Phil Mckay: / Philippe Mougin: / Régis Delacote: / Remi Martin: / Remis Scerbauskas: / Rick Tardiff: / Sammy Sharon: / Sandra Sachsenhauser:, / Simon P. Laurent: / Tarik Daria: / Tetsuya Fukui: / Theo Jennissen: / Thierry Konarzewski: / Thorsten Kirsch: / Valerie Simonnet: / Valery Levacher: / Vassiliki Kontaxi: / Vesna Stojkovic: / Vincent Minor: / Viola Ursu: / Ankica Vuletin: / Wesley Bloquert: / Willem Wernsen:, / Yann Cielat: / Yasuo Furue: / Yolanda Girón Gutiérrez: /

Willem Wernsen

Monk, Shanghai, China, 1999


Willem Wernsen (1954) is an autonomous photographer, born and living in Amersfoort, the Netherlands.

it’s an honour to introduce this book by Willem Wernsen about street photography. i came to know Willem initially as a people photographer; his ability to get so close to people created work that seemed to be a portrait of the soul and empathy for that particular life rather than a portrait of the outer person. is is what attracted me so strongly in his work. On an almost-daily basis over the past four years, i have also seen him at work as a photographer – particularly on the street – and his approach continues to amaze and inspire me. When i was putting together an exhibition of his work in April 2014 and began to inventory his archive, i discovered one surprise aer another. A lot of work from 20-30 years back emerged from the archive folders in perfect shape and together with recent work i held a beautiful story in my hands: his great passion for people. For 35 years, Willem has predominantly photographed people. His black and white photographs bear witness to his warm involvement and honest approach

Photography by Roel van Noord

As an autodidact he developed himself to a professional photographer. His work is mainly social-documentary and common people are his most important subjects. His aim is to make the essence and the life story of the people he photographs palpable for the viewer. His interest in capturing people and the simple things in life is the main drive throughout 35 years of passionated photography. Behind the Great Wall is his 3rd book. Together with Beautiful People (2003) and Timeless (2011) it forms a trilogy of his photography work. His work was exhibited on photofestivals such as Naarden Fotofestival (e Netherlands), BruggeFoto 2014 (Belgium), Photoville (New York) and the Jinan internationnal Photo Biennial 2014 (Jinan, China). Futhermore he had solo exhibions and participated in group exhibitions in his home country and abroad and publications in magazines. Recently his eBook On Street Photography in which he shares his personal vision on that subject is published by Cra & Vision. Willem Wernsen gives lectures and workshops.

to his fellow man. A respectful meeting with people is at the heart of things. is is very evident in his street photography, where the immediacy and openness to its topics are characteristic of his entire oeuvre and thus, his work is easily recognizable. A sensitive communication with his subjects – directly and without pomposity – is palpable in his images; both the most deprived and the most flamboyant humans are documented with the same respectful openness and empathy. All of these unique encounters are graphically depicted in his intimate portraits, in his reports, and in his street photography, which is oen laced with a touch of warm-hearted humour. e timeless black and white also strengthens this direct experience of title with the observer. is is not a book with a mere enumeration of ready-made rules how on to produce a good street photograph; rather, this is the compelling story of Willem and his quest through cities and villages, streets and alleys, in markets and pubs, looking, again and again, for living people and engaging stories. in this book he happily tells about his photographic passion, and what drives him and how he works. People call him a street photographer, but above all, he is a people photographer. Luckily for Willem, the public space of the street is the ideal place to meet people. Sometimes he just knocks on a door and people let him in to portray them in the intimacy of their home. But that is a whole different story … and perhaps another book. Now let’s go on tour with him. To the streets! Lieve De Bleeckere

Kees Tillema, photographer, January 2003 Intro in the photo book »Beautiful people« by Willem Wernsen. Willem Wernsen: a photographer, quiet, kind and engaging. in the early years of his career as a photographer Wernsen portrayed a number of man and women he knew. e images he made stood out because of an almost tangible interaction between the photographer and his models and it did not take long before people began to take notice of his work. Wernsen conveyed the vulnerability of man, which he emphasised to an increasing extent by depicting his models in their typical surroundings or a special

meetingplace. His photos are deservedly called portraits. Portrait photography has been known to create a furore since the days of the industrial revolution. Following the elite who honoured their forefathers and important relatives with stately paintings, the less fortunate were now given the possibility to come up to their level. Especially the newly formed middle class made use of this modern device to decorate their walls with photographic images of their loved ones. e photographs oen served as a means of documentation or as convincing evidence of their owner’s social status. And if perchance the portrait was not flattering enough tools to scratch, sandpaper or retouch could easily be used to tickle the client’s vanity.

Swimmer, Jinan, China, 2014 08/09

A photographer who was given the opportunity to immortalise celebrities could earn a great reputation for himself. Willem Wernsen became a ‘philanthropist photographer’ who portrayed the people he met, amicably working together, without any adornment or manipulation. He did not become famous overnight – aer all, who were the people in the photographs? Who knew them? But today Wernsen enjoys great renown as a portrait photographer. Looking at Wernsen’s photo’s means sharing in the encounter, a very intense encounter. Regardless of social status or merit every person who has his portrait taken becomes very important when he is being photographed. important for the future as well.

Bride, Beijing, China, 1999

e perceptible presence and, at the same time, the detachment of the artist provide an indelible, moving impression. e frog becoming a prince, Cinderella becoming a princes, the royal offspring accidentally ending up in the wrong house: fairy tales to many people – almost becoming a reality for some. e encounters are very real, the people portrayed have risen in esteem. ‘Beautiful People’ introduces Willem Wernsen, the photographer who humbly states: ‘i have only managed to photograph people’. A man with a much admired talent. Kees Tillema, Huissen, e Netherlands. Senior Lecturer Art Education. University of Professional Art Education

Grandfather with Grandson, Forbidden city Beijing, China,1999

Factory workers, Kengzi, China, 1999


People at Tiananmen-Plein (天安門廣場) starring at a Portrait of Mao, 1999

Barber, Beijing, China, 1999

in 1999, photographer Willem Wernsen spent ten days in the small city of Kengzi, in Guangdong province, about 30 miles northeast of Shenzhen in an industrial zone.

»People of Paris« Hans Niezen, photographer, April 13, 2013. Speech at the opening of the exhibition ‘People of Paris’ in Galerie Pitt & Co, Amersfoort, the Netherlands. GLASS

Bella Vita, New York, 2011


Man and dogs, Arles, France, 2015

inking of Willem Wernsen, i see glass. His own (oen dusty) glasses, the viewer glass, the glass of lenses and of course the glass to protect photos in a frame. Willem works a lot with glass. Glass is clear, sharp, transparent en also pure. A glass window is used because it acts like a mirror. e reflection creates another world. To capture that, is what Willem does in sharp contours and beautiful hard contrasts. At the same time glass is vulnerable. i know Willem is too – his health, Margaret – disarmingly transparent. A sincere man, opposed to decoration, fuss and unnecessary boasting.

e honesty, sincerity, pureness en clearness, one look at Willem to see it all. As clear as glass. To me all reasons to enjoy his work and to be happy for being his friend. We raised our glasses many times and always le our fingerprints on the glass. at same fingerprint i recognize in Willem’s work … his own style, unmistakably recognizable. Like the way he works, nothing complicated, just some small talk and then a photo. And always the integrity, nobody loses his/her dignity, never a showcase. His large body and that small camera … an almost endearing image. Willem, i admire you for yourself and your work and i’m looking forward to the next time we will.


invisible thoughts, old memories travel through its streets – still lively for sure – as in a bateau-mouche1. Not one breath is orchestrated in this light-hearted scene. An angel is standing guard, although rancidity might be expected in its old alleys. – He waits, he knows – “A Paris, on a inventé le plus-jamaismalheureux, Monsieur.”2 Disappearing as scents of old wax, its beauty of powdery glamour must give way to new memories. On rosewood time has become an almost faceless mirror. 14/15

Paris, 1998

Paris is old and young at the same time. As perfect an illusion as a bubble of soap, even when it bursts, its thin air will stay in the hoots of laughter of wondering children. Paris is like a swooning mistress indulging all caresses, those of love, and those of comfort. At night, when eternity humbly reflects her in her lover’s eyes, her song becomes melancholy in tremolo. Even the grandeur of trees is different here than elsewhere. Lieve De Bleeckere 1

a riverboat in Paris, the never-ever-unhappy was invented, Monsieur.


Paris, 1998

Merry-go-round, Scheveningen, NL. 2000

Paris, 1998

Willem Wernsen, man of timeless photographs

Girl at the beach.


Renowned for his portraits, reviewed for his subtleness and praised for his involvement. Photographer Willem Wernsen, the man who senses the decisive moment. “i have seen the picture before even taking it.” “Timeless”, Willem’s second book, is dedicated to his wife Margareth, who passed away in 2009. “Your pictures are timeless,” she always told him. Margareth was his sounding board, looking over his shoulder, she had a keen eye for his art and always stimulated him. She was the first to see his new pictures. She shared his love of photography and it was her dearest whish for him to publish another book, aer she had gone. us happened. is book covers a seven-year period, 2003 – 2010. A period where Willem, because of his illness, took less pictures but nevertheless made progress. His photographs are more intense, they breathe life. is development is important to him. “if you start repeating yourself it turns into a sleight of hand.” His photography originates from his love of common people. Willem’s first pictures featured people he saw on the streets. in those days he made a living as a butcher, later as a market manager at the local market. ese unlikely places have contributed to the development of his talents and shaped him. e pictures in this book form a selection from his travellings to, among others, istanbul, New York, Paris and closer to home. Portraits as well as street photographs. Further, some snapshots have been incorporated, pictures that were taken ‘in passing’. Willem has a way of giving these photographs something extra. “it is wonderful to see a certain unexpected moment happen, that is the exiting part of it. ” He went to New York with one of his daughters. At a

Artist Anthony Vouleon

Toys”R”Us a woman raises her head above a number of dolls. An unpredictable instant, but Willem has already taken his shot. He seems to have a kind of a sixth sense. “i have already seen the picture, before even taking it.”

Willem’s portraits have three distinct characteristics: black and white, square format and natural lighting. About his love of black and white Willem says the following: “Black and white is timeless, it penetrates deeper into the essence of the image.”

His first book, all sold out, Beautiful People, shows a selection of photographs that reveal the purity and the individuality of the one portrayed. ere are no frills, the immediate contact between the photographer and his subject in tangible. ere is not a hint of holding back with the subject, just trust and surrender.

e format comes from the time Willem used a 6×6 camera. “With my Mamiyas,” he says in a tone of voice that covers a hint of nostalgia. “i always look at the world through my photographic eye, usually in a square,” he adds. “i still work with the square format. Some people tell me to use the entire frame. i won’t, what i don’t need i just trim away, i am not beating around the bush about that.”

in “Timeless” Willem’s development goes a step further, there is a deepening in the purity, and a subtly hidden intention is covering the photograph like an invisible layer. How does he do that? it is a mystery. How does he get these persons framed into the picture so spontaneously, being approached at a random moment in their life?

e lighting is always natural. “Sometimes i open a curtain or a lace curtain, maybe somewhere there is a light bulb to give the extra lighting i need. A number of portraits in “Beautiful People” were made outdoors. On the market i bought a black cloth, which i threw over a washing line or something similar.” Continue reading on the next page. ➢

Many of the pictures originate from encounters on the street and Willem explains how he made these contacts. “Oen they are very short encounters. To make contact i look a person in the eye. One way or another things start clicking and then i ask if i may take pictures.” He does, however, set limits. e other person’s dignity is paramount and they must maintain the individuality that made them stand out in the first place. Willem has worked with people extensively and is used to approaching them. Here’s an example. “A man in a

bicycle shed went home one day, full of happiness and with a big bunch of flowers. it turned out to be his fortieth wedding anniversary. i congratulated him and made a little joke.” Willem depicts the circumstances with warmth in his voice. it looks like he is reliving that particular instant. e man spontaneously invited Willem and later he made a wonderful picture of the couple in their home. “i have always been a people’s photographer. i have focused on one subject only and tried to go as deep into it as possible. i have not touched the bottom yet, but i have reached a lot.

Specializing in one subject makes one go deeper. More will come floating to the surface compared to engaging in different subjects at the same time.” He takes a deep breath and adds: “at can be very pleasurable, but you will be engaged in too many things at the same time. You will not deepen, which is very important to me.” Willem does not let himself be distracted, he stays with his subject because his power lies there! “Timeless” and “Beautiful People” have different formulas. in the former photographs were arranged by country, in the latter everything is at

Portrait of a married couple at their 40th wedding anniversary, 1994 18/19

Brother and sister, Nail care. Taken 2010 during a visit to a psychiatric clinic in Belgium

random. New York next to istanbul and a portrait from a coffee shop facing a portrait of a child at play. is leads to more variation, it is more pleasurable to look at. He gets up and demonstrates. First some boxes the size of a pair of gentlemen’s boots must be moved aside. in them are countless pillboxes. “i take several medications a day,” he says. e box is balancing dangerously on the backrest of a chair. Willem is placing two pictures side by side several times, making his statement clear. By making choices there will be more overall dynamics. “Your eyes are made for looking, but your feeling is made for seeing,” he stresses and that doesn’t only go when taking pictures but also when selecting, assisted by a close friend.

e prints he shows look like they have been made in a ”wet darkroom”, as Willem calls it. However, they have been printed on barite paper using K3 ink with an Epson printer that sits in his working chamber upstairs. “is picture was taken in Antwerp.” Five men, wearing hats, one of them looking curiously into the lens behind him. “i saw the frame before my eye, even before the picture was taken.” “i started scanning my black and white negatives.” Willem has been working on film for a very long time. He skipped the starting era of digital imaging. “i got onboard the moment i was sure i could accomplish exactly the same printing quality with the digital process as i did with film,” he explains. Later he discovered that digital cameras and computers offer many advantages. Leaning over the trays, his head

arched forward had become impossible because of the rheumatism in his spinal cord, as was spooling in films with cramped hands. Digital imaging thus enabled Willem to continue his art. Willem takes his digital images in color and converts them to black and white aerwards. You can set the camera to black and white, and maybe it’s the logical choice for photographers who take picture in black and white only. On the downside: “One loses much of the image information. in color there are more hues, more possibilities that are important to post processing.” When finishing the pictures they appear in color on his monitor screen, which is quite different from what he was used to in his wet darkroom.

Continue reading on the next page. ➢

Trui Koorman, taken in 1989, when she was 87 year old.

Willem is happy with digital developments because they offer many advantages. Still he doesn’t idealize things. He stresses: “it is a tool. A stunning picture made with a pinhole camera is as valuable to me as a picture taken with a thousand-Euro camera. e photograph, that’s what it’s all about, it should tell a story!” He cites an example from the darkroom: “Some people laugh about it,” he says in a serious way, “but you


should have tried techniques such as burning and dodging, your hands making subtile movements under the light of your enlarger, even if it is only once.” He is an absolute advocate of teaching ‘analogue’ technique in photography education. “Give students an analogue camera, a roll of film and send them into the darkroom. Teach them how to develop film, then you really see what is happening. ese are the basics that you must have seen and done at least once.”

He still holds on to his darkroom. e old faithful enlarger is still standing there and from a rope hang black and white negatives. it is as crammed here as it is downstairs. “Some people ask me how i can possibly work here, but i feel at home.” “A picture on a wall is nice, a picture on the internet is fine, but a book is every photographer’s dream,” Willem says. en suddenly the old butcher from a distant past emerges: “A book is like having a juicy steak in your hands,” he stresses. “A book is tangible.”

Photo books are lying around in his house everywhere. Willem looks at other photographers’ pictures and studies them. He is especially fond of portrait photography. “Kees Scherer, a Dutch photographer, may not be famous but his pictures are fantastic,” he says with admiration. Willem is foremost interested in portrait photographers. Among his favorites are the classics: Cartier Bresson, Diane Arbus, Ed van der Elsken and contemporary Belgian photographers such as Stephan Vanfleteren and Carl de Keyzer.

Four months aer his wife passed away, Willem went to istanbul with his “Delta F” photographers group. “e boys thought it would do me good to be away for a couple of days and they were right.” Delta F is a group of professional photographers who have been convening for over twenty years, and who form a close circle of friends. Once every two years this collective participates in the Naarden Photo Festival. Pictures are shown everywhere in the open air of this beautiful little fortified village.

He also loves many old black and white movies featuring Humphrey Bogard and movies by italian master Federico Fellini. “ese old images fascinate me. Sometimes i put the movie on hold, just to study a particular scene. i study how the light is falling, how the scene has been set up. You can learn a lot from it.”

Besides being important for the mutual contact, his friends of Delta F are also important as a benchmark. e group convenes at regular intervals to discuss each other’s pictures. “if i show a photograph, reactions are sure to come, but i don’t react to them immediately.

Willem does not take many pictures of the same subject. “One, two, maybe three. at’s all i need,” he insists. “You can tell whether the picture is good, whether it has charisma.

First of all the photo will be put on the table for two or three weeks to look at. en i decide if something needs to be changed, whether it needs more contrast or whether some parts need to be burned.”

i take a lot of pictures with a very small camera. A Panasonic Lumix GF1 with a 20 mm/f1.7 (40 mm equivalent in 35 mm format) lens. With it i can go as high as iSO 800 or even slightly higher, and take pictures in almost complete silence.”

A short intermission ensues and Willem changes the subject to a delicate issue he discusses without holding

back. “For me, the most important thing is to evaluate my physical state, what can i still perform. e mind wants to, but the body is weakening. is in turn limits your photography.” Once or twice a week he moves into town on his mobility scooter, the local coffee shop being his resting point. “i like to talk, i’m a real people’s person and the atmosphere is great. So i make conversation, have a cup of coffee, take a picture or two, but not always. i oen leave the camera at home because i don’t want to give the impression that i only come to take pictures.” Willem emanates peace and is sitting upright in his chair. He is a big man; the chair is big, too, and wide. A king on his throne, but modesty is his forte. “Being a photographer to become famous is not my way,” he says. “i never chose to have success, my pictures come from the heart. if it is picked up or leads to some level of success, that’s fine by me. Having success is only relative, you enjoy it, but then you move on and go ahead.” Helena Jansz, december 2010 Article in Camera Magazine (Publisher Jansz Media) around the appearance of the photo book Timeless of Willem Wernsen.

To this he adds an important detail: “On rare occasions i use fill-in flash.” Willem demonstrates this. “is is called bouncing,” he explains. “You aim your flash at a certain angle to the ceiling, which gives you just the little amount of extra light you need to lighten up your subject’s eyes for instance. e advantage of a small camera is that people don’t take you for a professional. is facilitates the interaction with a possible subject more than a big SLR with a huge lens do,” he explains. e bag containing his equipment is compact, light and workable.

Bram Montauban, 1989

Bridesmaids in Cologne, 1989

Willem Wernsen, man amongst men Marco Bastmeyer – Delta F member – about the special touch of his friend and collegue photographer. December 2010 Many people take pictures to keep beautiful memories; places they have been, moments they have experienced, or to photograph family members for future purposes. Maybe this is the way things started for Willem Wernsen long ago, too, but to him photography means so much more. His photography is all about communication, connecting to his fellowmen. Both in taking pictures and in showing them, there is an exchange between him and the people around him. 22/23

Willem is always hunting for images, for people to appear in his photographs. it is amazing to see him when walking the streets, or when he is seated on a terrace with you in the middle of a conversation, aiming his camera to someone and taking a picture of someone. Almost in all instances this is proceeded by seeking c asual eye contact with the one who is about to be photographed. A friendly nod, a quick glance at the camera to let the other one know what is about to happen, followed by pressing the shutter button.

Dirk Jan

is all happens in a matter of seconds. i have to admit that i always seem to underestimate what has just happened. My amazement and admiration come to life when i see the pictures aer printing, beautifully produced in black and white. Willem’s hunting is not aggressive. Despite his imposing figure and body length Willem always seems to blend in with the people in a natural fashion. His power is in always getting people to feel at ease before taking a picture. i have seen Willem at work in China, where he towered over people and yet was ableo go about at leisure and inconspicuously. it is a fascinating ritual to witness. e moment Willem sees his image he walks ever so slowly towards his target. He then puts his cane carefully

against a wall and makes contact with a nod or by putting his hand to his chest. People have already been able to see him coming and to take a good look at him. en he greets them with a short and friendly hello, he looks into the viewfinder from the top and tells them in English or Dutch that he wants to take a picture. With some subtle gestures he shows them that he would like to include them in the picture frame. e other person almost always agrees. Willem adjusts some settings, there is hardly any directing and the picture is taken. Sometimes a second one follows and then it is finished. Willem expresses his thanks, sometimes he shows his picture or a short and friendly conversation ensues. en Willem heads back to his seat or he proceeds to his next image.

in this way we have traveled far and wide, but it does not matter where you are. Willem can take his pictures the same way in his hometown Amersfoort, or in istanbul, or New York. if you head out with Willem for five days you will be amazed about how many images he can pick up from daily life. Pictures that show people and their environment, but all radiating that very Wernsen touch. it is always amazing to see this photographer being uncertain about his own work. He needs some else just now, he cannot do without them. i am proud to be one of the people forming his sounding board. Among the many photo friends that Willem has and relates to, Delta F represent a very special group.

Five friends who are very different from one another, but who have one thing in common, an unequalled passion for photography. John Seegers, Frank Detrixhe, Ben Ros and yours truly have for over twenty years been getting together each month to review each other’s photographs intently. is is done in an open and fair way. it keeps all of us sharp to continuously improve our images. Of course we all know that our best picture is yet to be taken! Timeless has given us once again a beautiful picture book to look at and enjoy. is is a book that will inspire us all when taking our next pictures. Willem, we are deeply grateful. On behalf of your friends of Delta F.

Smokersarea in the Cannabis Shop 24/25

Happy moment in the Cannabis Shop

Grandfather with his granddaughter, Arles, 2015


in 2011 i worked with Rommert Boonstra as jury members for the Fotobond, the umbrella organisation for amateur photographers. We made the selection for the annual National Photo Salon, the pride of the Fotobond. Many photographers participated. Our selection was exhibited in the National Photo Museum. ere, for the first time, i met Willem Wernsen. i complemented him with his photography and his answer was that he would like to send me his photo books. Actually i was surprized that he – as an amateur – made two photo books and when i received the books, i was astounded … WOW!!! i was impressed by his work, the beautiful “clairobscure” makes every photo even more intense. All in the tradition of great black and white photographers, like Ed van der Elsken. i mailed him “your photos still sizzle on my mind … have you ever considered to join GFK, e Dutch

organisation of professional photographers?” ere is always the balloting committee before being accepted as a member of GFK, but as i wrote him, it will be a honour for GFK to accept you as a member and i will fervently recommend you. ere was a minor protest … some members claimed the professional status. But to me, Willem was “hors concours”. Sometimes quality is all that matters, rules are there to be broken, and without further protests Willem was accepted. His passion for photography is always present, even in difficult circumstances. e heart of a true artist. i do hope to see many more beautiful photos by Willem Wernsen. Laura Samson Rous Member of the Dutch association for professional photographers DuPho/GKF

Willem Wernsen. “About 37 years ago i bought my first camera. Photography started as a hobby, but it has grown into a passionate life style. From start i felt the need to photograph people. Of course in black and white, because i love that the most. in that time i collected books of the great photographers. Many hours i have spent looking at all that beautiful photos, it gave me so much inspiration. rough the years i have developed myself and the connoisseurs say i developed my own style of photography” independent Photographer. Author of 4 books B&W (Beautiful People. 2003) - (Timeless 2011) Both books sold out. Behind the Great Wall. 2014) - (On Street Photography. 2015 published by Cra&Vision Canada) Member of the Dutch association for professional photographers DuPho/GKF

For further contact: http:// educational E-book »On Street photography« »Behind the Great Wall«








DONE, c’est le projet d'une fille et trois gars ... L’envie d'en découdre et une solide expérience dans le monde de la musique réunissent les quatre musiciens qui forment DONE fin 2014. Le groupe sort en octobre 2015 son premier EP »NOTHING MORE« L’alchimie entre les membres du groupe qui viennent d’horizons différents fonctionne à merveille : Eva Mad tient la basse, pose sa voix, Manu Drg assure à la guitare et au chant, John Asana se concentre sur ses riffs de guitare et de basse, et Richard Dalynch s'occupe de martyriser les fûts. Avec des influences passant des seventies aux nineties, le quatuor compose des morceaux magmatiques dans un alliage résolument noise rock et une atmosphère souvent tendue. Ca sonne et ça dissonne. Chacun y reconnaîtra ce qu’il voudra bien y entendre: Girls against Boys, Sonic Youth, Fugazi, Swans, voire les Pixies ... Ces noms plantent le décor: nous sommes fin 80’s-début 90’s dans un club sombre de la banlieue de Boston ou de Wasington.


DONE sort son premier EP en octobre 2015. Enregistré et conçu par Bastien Maizière (Piscine, Woods, …) au studio Maizé, il a été masterisé par Stéphane Teynié à Bordeaux au studio Ad Mastering (Chokebore, Mars Red Sky, …).

»Nothing more« EP

Ce premier EP, bien que discret lors de sa sortie, est accueilli de manière positive par la chronique (POP NEWS, ROCKAWA, MOWNO...) Ce premier EP permet au groupe d’intégrer le ROSTER de AFTER/BEFORE (Basement, Capsula, Sleepers ...) et la distro de HEAD RECORDS. DONE rejoint naturellement le roster de MANU R’EVA BOOKING PRODUCTION (association crée en 2013 par Manu et Eva membres du groupe.) Cependant, c’est véritablement sur scène que DONE convainc! Dixit Mickael Choisi (chroniqueur chez POP NEWS): ils font preuve d’une énorme cohésion. Compact, ramassé, sans temps morts mais qui confirment la capacité à DONE de couper dans le vif pour ne garder que le nécessaire, le set place le groupe comme un élément singulier de la scène noise française tout en affirmant sa puissance. Il n’y a pas de place pour la prouesse technique, l’esbroufe, pas de cavalcade folle, juste quatre musiciens qui n’en rajoutent jamais et frappent juste: well done.

DATES MAI 2016: Retour studio pour enregistrement d’un second EP à paraitre en septembre 2016

FIN MAI 2016: Enregistrement d’un clip live ETE 2016: Participation à divers festival SEPTEMBRE 2016: Sortie du second EP OCTOBRE 2016: Tournée nationale

En mai 2016, DONE enregistre son second EP. Une nouvelle fois conçu et enregistré par Bastien Maizière. Ce deuxième EP sortira en septembre 2016. S’en suivra une tournée en Octobre pour défendre ce dernier. Le groupe est toujours à la recherche de structures pour l’aider à gagner en visibilité et où participer à la sortie du second EP. DONE est prêt à défendre ses titres sur scène!! Si vous êtes intéressé pour booker une date, contactez-nous:



Contact and Booking: Facebook: Bandcamp: Soundcloud: 36/37

DONE is the project of three guys … and a girl. A typical rock band, in short. Passion and a serious experience in the world of music get together the four musicians that constituted Done in 2014. e band released their first EP in November 2015. e alchemy between the members of the band coming from different backgrounds works like a dream: Eva Mad runs the bass and gives her voice, Manu Drg is great at the guitar and at singing, John Asana focuses on bass and guitar riffs, and Richard Dalynch takes care of the drums. Getting their inspiration from the seventies to the nineties, the quartet composes magmatic pieces in a definitely noise rock mix and an oen tense atmosphere. It sounds and dissonates. Everyone will recognize in it what they want to hear: Girls against boys, Sonic Youth, Fugazi, Swans, even the Pixies … ese names set the scene: we’re in the late 80s – early 90s in a dark club in suburbian Boston or Washington. DONE released their first EP in October 2015. Recorded and created by Bastien Maizière (Piscine, Woods …) at Studio Maizé, it was mastered by Stéphane Teynié at Studio AdMastering (Chokebore, Mars Red Sky, …) in Bordeaux. is first EP, although discreetly announced at its release, was positively welcomed by critics (POP NEWS, ROCKAWA, MOWNO ...). It also enabled the band to be part of the roster of AFTER/BEFORE (Basement, Capsula, Sleepers..) and of the distribution network of HEAD RECORDS. To finish, Done naturally integrated the roster of MANU R’EVA BOOKING PRODUCTION (association created in 2013 by Manu and Eva members of the band). However, Done really shows what it’s worth on stage. According Mickael Choisi, a Pop News critic, “their cohesion is decisive. eir set is powerful, compact, without any time out, which confirms that Done is straight to the point and enhances the band as a singular element of the noise rock scene. ere is no room for any technical prowess, show off or any stampede, just for four musicians who never overdo it and strike right. Well done.” In May 2016, DONE recorded their second EP which was once again engineered by Bastien Maizière. It will be released in September 2016 and will be followed by a tour in October to promote it. e band is still looking for people who would help us be more visible and participate in the release of our second EP. Done is eager to share their songs onstage. If you want to book a date, contact us: www.a Bandcamp: Instagram: SoundCloud: Twitter: Tumblr: YouTube:


16 rue Sainte Anastase 75003 Paris



Exhibition Dates Event Dates 2016 – Exhibitions at Gallery Rastoll Du 1 au 18 juin 2016: Urbanitas 5 Artiste: Cyril ABAD – Hervé BEGOU – Philippe BLAYO – Francis GIUDICE – Gilles LANGE et Elisabeth MAURICE Vernissage: mercredi 1er juin

Du 5 au 30 juillet 2016: Paper and Ceramic Exploration Artistes: Diane VO NGOC et Laure Sulger Vernissage: le jeudi 7 juillet

Du 1er au 24 septembre 2016: Paysage des hommes »Dérive au hasard d’impressions« Artiste: Jean Luc Bailly Vernissage: jeudi 1er septembre

Du 7 au 29 octobre 2016 : Regard sur l’autre regard sur soi Artiste: Caroline Arnoulth – Maxime Franch – Marion Gautier – Karim Walehian Vernissage: samedi 1 octobre

Du 1 au 26 novembre 2016: New York the wall Artiste: James Vil Vernissage: jeudi 3 novembre

Du 1 au 30 décembre: Echos Artsite: Loïc Guston – François Rastoll – Pascal Geoffroy Vernissage: jeudi 1 décembre


LOUiSA DAWN »Louisa Dawn. Mid-thirties. Living and working in Germany. Graduated from Central St. Martins College in London with a Masters Degree in communication, art and design. Aer my degree I worked for serveral companies as art director for magazine design, corporate publishing and typography. Photography is part of my work and a real passion. I didn’t have a concept but I have an idea ... a dream ... a vision ... following this way was never a failure but ever a lesson. Taking photos of daily life it’s the perfection of imperfection. Radical, clever, smart, sexy poetically ... life seems to be. Just come to the kingdom guided by the little monsters of daily expectations. I’m interested in a photography which is »unfinished« – a photography which is suggestive and can trigger a conversation or dialogue.« Contact:

KAZUYUKi SHiMOKAWA »Hello. I live in the city of Hiroshima in Japan. I love film and photography. Always emotional, attracted by a chance encounter. I want to feel people’s hearts. And I hope that my pictures have touched someone. ank you.« Contact:


Louisa Dawn meets

Kazuyuki Shimokawa






































































































Photography by James Roderick

Bill Bernstein



»HOMELESS iN NYC i« ree adjectives describing Bill Bernstein? Persistent, observant, curious

Who would you be and what would you do, if in your life there was not your photography? i would probably be a social psychologist because i am fascinated by our collective human nature.

What were the most important moment of your artistic experience, the biggest success and the toughest defeat if any? My most important moment was my first “professional assignment” from e Village Voice back in the late 1970’s. i was assigned to photograph Carlos Santana at Roseland Ballroom in NYC. at night i found myself invited into Santana’s dressing room. e room lights were dimmed and Santana sat cross-legged on the floor playing his guitar which was plugged into a small amplifier at his side. Candles were lit, and a shrine to his “guru” was on a small table in front of him. i tip toed into the room. He acknowledged me with a nod and continued playing his electric guitar. i positioned myself across from him and watched as Santana played, with his eyes shut tight, as though he was praying, or chanting, through his guitar. i began to shoot. it was at that moment that i knew that i had found my life’s work. i was allowed into this special, and sacred space because i was there for a purpose. My life was to be full of moments like this where i am able to capture extraordinary and intimate moments on film. Probably my biggest success was recently when i had my collection of images from the late 1970’s NYC nightlife/disco scene published. e book, entitled DiSCO THE BiLL BERNSTEiN PHOTOGRAPHS ( received amazing critical acclaim and i have offered a selection of limited edition prints for sale. ( Another success for me was my association with Sir Paul McCartney. i was his personal tour photographer and documented his tours from 1989-2005. i traveled around the world and met everyone you could imagine. in terms of defeats, as a freelance photographer defeat is part of the game. My professional life has been full of small defeats (jobs lost, shoots not working out the best, etc.) but my success’s have far outweighed the defeats!

»HOMELESS iN NYC ii« 112/113


Why do you do what you do? i knew at the age of 9, aer seeing Robert Frank’s e Americans, that i loved photography. i later found Cartier-Bresson, Avedon, Diane Arbus, William Klein and many others. i am just very curious about light, people, and imagery and found a career that lets me explore my passion.

What equipment do you use? i use Canon 5D Mark 3’s, and recently Sony cameras.

How do you work? if i am doing a studio shoot, i tend to do a lot of research on my subject and go into the shoot with a couple of starting point ideas in terms of concept, body language, lighting, etc. i oen search thru the internet for images that have the right kind of “vibe” and show these to my subject to start them thinking along the same lines. if i am shooting something of a more documentary nature i just show up with the right gear and keep my eyes open for “the story being told”. it’s a very instinctual thing and i don’t press the shutter until i see something in front of me that i find curious or compelling.

What’s your background? i studied graphic arts in college and for several years out of school i worked in the production department of several NYC magazines. i realized i wasn’t meant for a full time job and decided to follow my dream of photography. Luckily e Village Voice was the first place to hire me and my life was forever changed.












What’s integral to the work of an artist? An artist should be in touch with himself or herself first and foremost. What is interesting to YOU? Not “what do people want to see”. What turns YOU on? Let your subconscious be your guide!

What role does the artist have in society? i believe the artist’s role in society is to be a voice of the truth. A human voice that speaks about and for humanity. To show the human condition, power, frailty and all.

What’s your favorite art work? Artwork that is accessible and speaks to me.

Is the artistic life lonely? i don’t believe an artistic life is any lonelier or less lonely than any other life. Except in some ways it is good to be a bit “removed”, not aloof, from life so you can see it more clearly.

Should art be funded? Of course. e role of the artist is important to society in general. Artists are not usually great business people so they oen need some support in this area.

What makes you angry? Posturing politicians because they are the opposite of truthful.

What superpower would you have and why? To be invisible. is way i could study people around me in the world without being seen. i love watching people un-self-conscious and involved in their lives.

Name something you love, and why. My son. Because he is an amazing creature.

What is your dream project? Even though i just said that about politicians, one of my dream projects would be personal photographer to THE PRESiDENT OF THE UNiTED STATES because there is so much activity, movement, power and history to photograph.

What’s the best piece of advice you’ve been given? Take the camera away from your eye and look at what you are shooting before you start snapping away.

Finally, what are your next projects? Without being too specific i am currently working on a personal project on a subject that is very important and deals with being true to ourselves. i am also working on a film project that deals with Music.



For further contact:



Jenny Papalexandris

»FiVE BELLS« BEiNG LGBT iN AUSTRALiA Paperback 8 x 10 , 160 pages ISBN: 978-1-62097-166-6 February 2016 Also available as an e-book Pre-Order:

is project is about the Queer Community, my community. I do not seek to tell one story, one union from one perspective. My aim is to offer a series of vignettes, small narratives of lives lived from a spectrum of the community whom act as symbols to tell that story. e individual stories will be displayed as chapters to form a whole narrative, like turning pages in a book. People I know intimately and others who I have engaged recently for this project. I offer a view inside the personal and psychological landscape of how it feels to be queer as opposed to how it looks to be queer. ere are portraits and intimate everyday scenes that reveal the poetics of what it means to be “queer”. All my work is about this subjective interiority of experience. I employ methods, visually, which engage modes of temporality, memory and time. My aim is to find the commonality between the desires and ambitions of the LGBTI community and the shared experience within the straight community. ey are equal citizens of the wider human experience. Not as ‘other’ but as ‘same’. My work is an attempt to normalize the experience of the LGBTI person. e queer community is engaged in the same quest for belonging, happiness, intimacy, fulfillment and sorrows. Within this frame the struggle for full acceptance and equality is presented in images of isolation and deep contemplation, a rural youth, an asylum seeker. As well, moments of pure joy, a wedding, and a family gathering form part of the story. e individuals are not labels or stereotypes, but act as active agents in the world. In this way, I am not strictly concerned with realism, in the sense of documentary photography but wish to evoke something of the human face of the LGBTI community. In this way I hope to arrive at the essence of my subjects, beyond traditional realism. e narratives are thus subtle but clearly belong to the sensibility of queer identified people; a community as diverse, as it is rich, paralleling mainstream culture. “Five Bells is an evocation of the queer community told in a series of poetic visual narratives, it offers a view inside the personal and psychological landscape of the LGBTI experience” 126/127

JENNY PAPALEXANDRIS "What is real is not the external form, but the essence of things... it is impossible for anyone to express anything essentially real by imitating its exterior surface" Constantin Brancusi, Sculptor Jenny Papalexandris is a Visual Artist based in Australia. She holds a Master of Art (1997) and a Bachelor of Education (Art) 1987 from the University of NSW in Sydney. She explores photography as a subjective response to the world of light and shadow. Her photographs are highly expressive and visually commanding. ematically rich and diverse, her photography is imbued with a strong sense of poetry, symbolism and metaphor. ey are personal records tracing universal themes of loss, identity, sexuality, the body as metaphor and nature. Her work reveals a brooding, introspective questioning of her subjects to arrive at a sense of mystery and wonder. e images have a deep respect for the essential rhythms and pulses of the world recreated in her unique vision. e common thread in her diverse body of work is the impulse to ‘sense’ rather than ‘see.’ Her work reveals a singular vision explored with rigor and sensitivity, both visually and conceptually. Jenny Papalexandris continues to exhibit both nationally and internationally. She participated in the Ten Diez International Art Event, held at the prestigious Magma Galleries in Tenerife, Spain in 2013. She has also shown as one of eight photographers especially selected for Album: Telling with Light exhibition held at Garage Bonci in Italy in 2013. She has exhibited extensively in the USA, at the Darkroom Gallery (2013) and e Center for Fine Art Photography in Colorado (2014) and Gallery 1650 in Los Angeles (2014). Jenny Papalexandris has been the recipient of numerous Art Awards. Her work has been included in various publications and media.

Contact: Design by EWS: Funding body for this project: Arcus Foundation: Publishing House: The New Press

ViNCENT MiNOR »Anything in life can be Art and vice versa«

CONTACT: 128/129


ree adjectives describing Vincent? Emotional, Reflective, Adventurous

Who would you be and what would you do, if in your life there was not your photography? Well before i started photography i had been a musician singer songwriter since a child. Photography is a much newer trajectory of my life and i’m following my impulse and expressing myself this way. Who knows what tomorrow may hold? i know i enjoy storytelling so that can translate into so many avenues and i’m sure to explore and experiment with other fields of the arts. i know i would always do things that are creative.

What were the most important moment of your artistic experience, the biggest success and the toughest defeat if any? i wouldn’t say that any one moment was more important than another, it’s been a joy to travel and create stories. it’s been such a joy to meet new people that either collaborate or share adventures together. i’ve accepted that failure is just another way to learn, sometimes i have to reshoot concepts because they don’t work but it prepares me and makes me better the next time around.

Why do you do what you do? Ultimately it’s first to express myself and discover parts of myself, it’s constantly questioning things even if there are no definitive answers by asking. i try to define by understanding what it is that i’m doing and then share that with others. it’s a way to find more meaning in my life and a way to keep the demons at bay.

What equipment do you use? i went from a canon 7D, to a Canon 6D and just recently purchased a Sony A7R2.

How do you work? Usually i will write down ideas that come to me randomly in my iphone notes, if the image keeps screaming at me i’ll elaborate on what it is exactly. ill figure out what i will need to shoot it, models, clothes, props, atmosphere and camera angles. But then there are also times when nothing is planned and i come up with something by being present and inspired in the location of shooting.

Tell us about a usual day in your life. Your motivation and your approaches onto your photography. Well my life can be pretty systematic. Lately i have been making my mornings for exercise and editing. en i’ll do some



research and study. en back to editing. Some days i’ll be out shooting so on those days i kind of fit what i can into it. Also i’ve recently got into printing and learning a lot about the process of getting the image from the computer to paper and have them match as close as possible. i guess that doesn’t really answer the original question very clearly.

What’s integral to the work of an artist? To have integrity and consistency. To put in the work, inspiration isn’t going to always strike so you have to be able to find ways to work when uninspired or find new ways to inspire yourself.

What’s your background?

other dreams to be had too. While traveling a lot in my 20’s i decided that by the next decade of my life i would try living in another part of the world, and so i made my home NYC since 2011. it was in NYC that i discovered photography, i had purchased a camera for a friend to direct a music video of mine and i decided why not learn how to use it and shortly aer taking some basic classes i started to develop my style and imagination.

What role does the artist have in society? To communicate and hopefully in doing so inspire others to take actions in their own lives. Art is like a mirror, it reflects into the viewer. it hopefully creates a conversation whether it’s positive or negative. yourself.

i grew up in Los Angeles and was drawn to music at a very young age. i think i always believed i would only do music for the rest of my life. But when you grow up you realize there are



What’s your favorite art work? Bosch – Garden Of Earthly Delights Magritte – e Lovers Escher – Reptiles


What jobs have you done before working as artist? Musician, Marketing, PR and Artist Management

What is an artistic outlook on life? To see that anything in life can be art and vice versa. Like the quote by Oscar Wilde »Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates Life«

What memorable responses have you had to your work? Some people have nice things to say on social media, it’s always nice to see my work reaches other people in some way. Sure some people don’t like it and they also like their voices to be heard but mostly its been positive feedback.

What food, drink, song inspires you? Coffee is always a good pick me up when editing in the mornings. i also love red wine and music that is emotional, repetitive or atmospheric.

Is the artistic life lonely? What do you do to counteract it? i like a balance. i enjoy the time spent with other creative people and the adventures we have together, traveling and meeting new people. But then there is the time alone editing which is crucial to making art. if i ever start to feel too introverted i make sure to plan a shoot with others or hang out with friends. it’s important to have that balance in your life.

Should art be funded? if you plan to make a career with it then yes but if it’s just a hobby to share with others that is perfectly ok too. i do think artists deserve to be funded as making it is work and worthy like any other hard earned job.

What role does arts funding have? i think it’s important for schools to fund art education, to have kids involved in creating. it brings about self discovery, self worth and keeps children productive and interested.

What makes you angry? Bigotry and small minds. People who purposely try to make others less important. Superficiality.

What research do you do? Reading, Study, searching the web, planning what i need to achieve something. Logistics.

What superpower would you have and why? invisibility. i’d love to be a ghost and experience what is behind closed doors. it’s a bit creepy but you would see people really as themselves. You would see everything that one hides from society.



Name something you love, and why. e smell of Cedar. Woody smells. i’m not sure why, maybe because it’s masculine and gives me a certain feeling that is hard to describe.

Name something you don’t love, and why. e smell of stinky feet. Pretty self explanatory.

What is your dream project? Well i applied for an artist residency for a company recently, it’s a dream position. i can’t tell much about it but it would be a year of creating and sharing while getting paid to do so.

What’s the best piece of advice you’ve been given? What you feel now is not how you will always feel. Sometimes it helps to remember this when you are feeling really low or like life is against you or unchangeable.

What wouldn’t you do without? Friends, good food, traveling and adventure.

Finally, what are your next projects? i’m currently planning and researching some projects i want to do this year, doing things i’ve never done, putting more time into building things to use in my photos. i don’t want to give too much away but i feel like this year i’m ready for some new challenges.







BY PHiL MCKAY 140/141























»C’est un frisson au goût amer.«


»C’est bien planqué au fond de l’âme.«

»Ce n’est pas les violons du drame. Ca met du gris dans tes yeux verts.«

»Ce n’est pas la mélancolie – mais encore.«

»Ce n’est pas le blues infini – mais encore.« 158/159

»C’est pas non plus la mélodie – de la mort. Des accords et encore.«

»C’est une femme entr'aperçue dans un port.«


»Une mélodie dont on a plus les accords.«

»C’est un poème très ancien sur l’amour, sur la vie,«


»Et la mort.«

»Si la Saudade est dans les nuages – le parfum subtil,« 164/165

ÂťDe la nostalgie.ÂŤ

»Elle a le visage de lointains voyages – c’est un grand voilier,«


»Qu’on a jamais pris – qu’on a jamais pris.«

»Ca vient de loin et en douceur.«


»Cette douleur qui sent la marge.«

»C’est comme un souffle sur ton cœur.«


»Ca porte un joli nom …«

»C’est comme un souffle sur ton cœur.«

C’est bien planqué au fond de l’âme. C'est un frisson au goût amer. Ce n’est pas les violons du drame. Ca met du gris dans tes yeux verts. Ce n’est pas la mélancolie – mais encore. Ce n’est pas le blues infini – mais encore. C’est pas non plus la mélodie – de la mort. Des accords et encore. C’est une femme entr’aperçue dans un port. Une mélodie dont on a plus les accords. C'est un poème très ancien sur l'amour, sur la vie, Et la mort. Si la Saudade est dans les nuages – le parfum subtil, De la nostalgie. Elle a le visage de lointains voyages – c’est un grand voilier, Qu'on a jamais pris – qu’on a jamais pris Ca vient de loin et en douceur. Cette douleur qui sent la marge. C'est comme un souffle sur ton cœur. Ca porte un joli nom Saudade. Si tu ne la vois pas venir – elle te voit. Si tu essayes de la fuir – oublies ça. Et même si tu veux en finir – Elle veut pas. Elle se serre contre toi. C'est la maîtrise des musiciens – des poètes. C'est la frangine des vauriens – de la fête. Elle est planquée dans les plus belles mélodies. Quand elle pleure, elle sourit. Si la Saudade est dans les nuages – le parfum subtil, De la nostalgie. Elle a le visage de lointains voyages – c’est un grand voilier, Qu’on a jamais pris – qu’on a jamais pris.

»… Saudade.« (Bernard Lavilliers, né à Saint-Etienne, extrait de l’album »Arrêt sur Image« – 2001) 172/173

It’s well hidden to the bottom of the soul It’s a bitter tasted thrill It’s not drama’s violins It makes it grey in your green eyes It isn’t the melancholy – but even. It isn’t the infinite blues – but even. It isn’t either the death – melody Chords – but even. It’s a woman just seen in the port. A melody which has no more chords. It’s a former poem about love, about life, And death If la SAUDADE is inside the clouds - e subtle perfume Of nostalgia She has the distant journey’s face It’s a big sailboat which we’ve never taken at comes by far and smoothly e pain which smells the margin It’s like a breath on your heart It gets a lovely name SAUDADE You don’t see her coming – she sees you You try to go away from her – forget about it Even if you want to finish with it, she doesn’t She squeezes up against you It’s the musicians and poets’ mistress It’s the good-for nothings sister – party’s She’s hidden in the most beautiful melodies When she cries, she smiles If la SAUDADE is inside the clouds – the subtltle perfume Of nostalgia She has the distant journey’s face It’s a big sailboat which we’ve never taken, were’ve never taken

»… Saudade.« (Bernard Lavilliers, born in Saint-Etienne – Album »Arrêt sur Image«)











Poetry District Mike Lee

Through the Forest Passage 182/183

Photography by Mike Lee

I. When Stefan arrived in Antanzia, he felt both the sense of loss of leaving home, perhaps forever, and the relief of never returning to the land that had hurt him. Simply put, he was done with it all, and the present offered opportunities. What they were remained an unknown but, as a former friend once told him, sometimes the unknown is a good thing. e destination at which he arrived served as both port and anchor. For now he had no complaints, only an overwhelming sense of relief that with each step through the tunnel leading to the air terminal he felt more rooted in security. Where he had le was not secure, and increasingly daily dangerous; where he had arrived was a hiding place, away, though only for a while. One could not predict the future. His new country, the Republic of Antanzia, was strong enough to be respected by his exiled land, defiant indeed to take in its refugees without question, but far enough away to be largely ignored. ough, as always, that situation could change without warning, but Stefan had no other choice. europe was in chaos, Russia worse, and most of Asia was allied with his former country. in addition, the Antanzians spoke his language, heavily accented though with english, along with Portuguese and Spanish, particularly in the deeply forested countryside beyond the coastal desert of the capital where he arrived. e capital was pleasant, located in the Southern Hemisphere, and on the approach to the airport he was taken with the gorgeous landscape of its vermilion desert. He had seen photos, and remembered a documentary on National Geographic years ago, but to actually view the fabled Antanzian desert with his own eyes was a breathtaking experience. Beyond the desert was a narrow strip of green swamp, the river, and below him, the capital city, and the windows of its glass skyscrapers reflecting brightly against the high southern sun. Stefan knew he had arrived at a destination, but the journey had only begun. Antanzia, as the embassy official warned him when his extended visa was approved and stamped, was but a rite of passage for his countrymen, and the likelihood of never returning from this journey was high, nearly to the point of certitude. “To rebel against the rebels,” the charge d’affaires said, handing back his passport. “it’s a hard thing to overcome, albeit laudable.” e impression from his conversations with the staff at the Antanzian embassy, the crew of the airplane on his flight over and then, passing through customs, was of the serious, although relaxed, bearing of the people. it struck Stefan that, unlike the people he le behind, the Antanzians were not perpetual adolescents, with the middle aged dressing as sloppily and tragically hip as their children, talking like them, mouthing exhausted slogans, spouting inanities. Despite its

protestations, with some veering on the violently maniacal, his country was in decline, as was much of the world – particularly in europe and Asia—but at least in the South the bleeding was staunched, particularly in Antanzia. Which was why so many arrived here, the new wave of immigration to South America; there remained in countries like Argentina, Uruguay, Chile, and Brazil opportunities and hope. Like them, Antanzia is a country that cast its national fate with successive waves of european and Middle eastern immigration, and refugees in smaller numbers from political global conflicts. Stefan was part of the latest wave coming to port to hang their hat and, like many already here, he held vague hopes of eventually returning. Again, though, he was told that home might never be there again. During his visa interview he was told, “everyone learns to want to die in Antanzia.” Stefan remembered those words as he waited patiently at the taxi queue in the airport parking lot. II. e radio in the taxi was tuned to a satellite station playing classic rock. Stefan found it fitting the song playing was George Harrison’s “What is Life?” He was old enough to remember hearing it as a child. Mom liked it, too, dead and buried now back in the home he eventually would accept never returning to. He had thought about traveling to his hometown to take a photograph of the family plot: grandparents, aunt, uncle, and Mom – bronze plaques laid out in a row in the cropped grass in the cemetery – but he was advised to leave before a potential arrest. Political conditions back home began rapidly declining when the economy of the european Union collapsed and, by default, Russia became the dominant power in europe. e ruling elite, never much for long-term thinking beyond the magical, was le scrambling to bolster a sagging currency and a flight of finance capital to Asian economic powerhouses. e government response was a retrenchment of already onerous price and currency controls, and the response was sudden decline in value and massive shortages of even basic goods. e reaction was nationalization and demonetization, with attendant added controls. e remaining opposition who dared to be vocal in their protests against the regime was silenced, jailed or stripped of ration cards. e fence sitters such as Stefan, who had spent the years complaining in private but did nothing in real opposition, found themselves with a difficult choice – fight or leave. He took the safe bet. Many chose to leave. Ones with money went to Asia, some with strong ties to former homelands migrated back to these lands, and those with limited resources went to Antanzia, who welcomed them with a relaxed optimism that they would do well and not cause trouble. Continue reading on the next page. ➢

ough far from the first, Stefan was not going to be the last. Fortunately, he knew a few here in the city, and a couple who lived in the deep forest. He planned to stay for several months in the city to gauge his prospects and, depending on the work opportunities, then travel the country – get his bearings, as it were – concluding his journey with Zoe and Martin, the couple living in the forest region, near the canyons. From there he would decide what his future options in his new country would be. He had a hope, wrapped tightly around a belief that he would return home. But, he understood that might not happen. As he rode in the taxi driving toward the hotel district where he had booked a room, he considered what his options would be if he stayed in the city or moved further out into the countryside. Zoe and Martin wrote him extensively of their lives in the forest, sending the photos they took of their surroundings. eir relative isolation and the raw beauty of the region appealed to Stefan; he remained unsure of what to expect in Antanzia City, or in the northern river cities beyond the forest, dotted along the Argentine and Brazilian borders. Aer the regime took power, Stefan considered suicide. He disdained the ruling elite that had taken power, and had turned away from its ideology long before they finally had taken over the country. He found them immature, given to hysterics when things did not go their way or they were


disagreed with in the mildest of critiques but, like so many of his countrymen, he remained silent. He read once that all men were immortal, and within each was an unexplored land in their eternal life. No power could ever take that away. As freedom was taken away, one law and silent assent from the masses at a time, his fear slowly budded. Finally Stefan realized, when the shortages grew common and the lines at the supermarkets and gas stations longer, that when commonplace comforts and everyday life began to diminish, he had to overcome those fears and make a break. it was his first act of freedom, as exhilarating as driving an automobile alone for the first time as a teenager. Still, his apprehension toward the unknown remained, though as he rode in the back seat of the Mercedes taxi he felt less anxiety. He convinced himself this was a process – a passage – and felt a growing confidence in the course of the journey he had chosen to undertake. What he le behind was just “stuff,” possessions that were going to be lost eventually in the madness of the economic crisis. ey were but things to give an impression of wealth. e true treasures, Stefan concluded, were his soul and the freedom to act. is outer journey was also an inner expression of taking over the destiny of his life, and the course he set to Antanzia was only the beginning to finding the peace he failed to find up to the moment he landed at the airport. Now was his time to live.

e taxi arrived at the hotel and, aer paying the driver and checking in, he relaxed on the terrace overlooking the beach, the tenseness of his shoulders slowly slacking, receding like the ocean waves he watched at the beginning of low tide. He ordered American coffee from room service. Sipping coffee with real sugar cubes stirred into the cup and cream served from an actual server felt so honest and real – the way he wanted to live his life. Stefan leaned back in his chair and considered napping, the ocean breezes wrapping about him, and closed his eyes until dusk came to gently wake him. III. Stefan found the city nightlife amazingly dynamic, with crowds gathering outside the nightclubs and bars on the main street, Avandia General O’Doul. Outside of listening to 1980s dance music and new wave, which had him feeling wistfully sentimental, he felt a deepening sadness that overcame his relief at having escaped to this safe harbor. Stefan went to a café on a side street with architecture he found appealing, and sat himself down for a mate. Antanzia had a large number of Argentines, as well as Brazilians and Uruguayans, and its Latin influence ground finely into this national stew, along with all the other exiles from locales ranging from europe to india. Antanzia was the recipient of many a citizen of – if not failed nations, but crushed dreams, his being the latest wave rippling in from the skies, landing at the international airport, disembarking, taking the taxi, and finding their way to search for their own kind in the city. it did not take long for Stefan to recognize a countryman. He looked the part: tan sport coat over a black t-shirt, faded

Levis and battered Doc Martens, coming off as too cool and individualistic to come from anywhere but his homeland, along with the shaggy, unkempt mop of jet black hair and day-old facial stubble. He looked up from his worn journal, blinking in recognition. Stefan nodded, smiling while stirring his mate. He was recognized—and for the first time in months, he felt no anxiety. Back home it made him nervous to be noticed; mainly because of his politics, which were deeply disfavored under the new regime. So he tried to become – as his grandmother advised when he was a child – one with the wallpaper. Stefan slid into the patterns and, for the most part, became at best a squeaky cog in the academic-intellectual-cultural system that became the biggest grinder in the established political machine. Supposedly all that was behind him, and Stefan smiled, responding by flipping his forefinger off his forehead. e young man blinked at him again. Stefan assumed he was a fan – poor guy. ere was a pause, more than a moment, between them in silence as one appraised the other. Should they introduce? Stefan, being the infamous character, would likely wait, but as the fish out of water in exile, he also felt he should make the approach. instead, he hesitated; the paranoia seeping in through the cracks of confidence. Antanzia might be a safe haven, but there were spies probably everywhere. Stefan still had family back home. So he remained guarded, focusing his attention to his mate. Continue reading on the next page. ➢

Aer he finished, and ordered another, the young man rose from his seat, leaving the café. While passing Stefan he moved rather awkwardly, as if the former was at once a repellent and an attraction. Stefan assumed nothing, and wanted to quickly forget, drawing attention instead to his battered Moleskin, and searching through its pages for the number he needed to call. He changed his mind about staying in the city. Stefan’s cell did not work in Antanzia, not until he bought a regional calling card and switched service to the national telephone exchange, so he used a pay phone next to the bathrooms. Martin picked up on the first ring. “Stefan?” “How did you know it was me?” “We never get calls and, anyway, were waiting for yours. Well, dude, welcome to refugee beach.” “i’m in the club district. Hotel is near the beach.” “You should spend a day there. Go to Anton Beach. it has babes, booze, and endless sun. it is summer down here, now.” “i’d like to get out of here as soon as i can. i had something weird happen to me at the café. Some guy watching me. i think i need to get out of this place. Mind if you put me up?” “Don’t be paranoid. e secret police are as fucked up as everything else back home, but they’re nothing to worry about, trust me. Go to the beach tomorrow, and relax. Zoe and i have to go to Plate City for a day and will return on ursday. So hang out in Antanzia and enjoy the sites. ere are great bookstores in town, so stock up.”


“Okay. Give my love to Zoe.” “Sure man. Glad you are coming.” “Relieved to be here; more so when i arrive at the–chalet?” “it’s kinda like that. it’s hard to explain.” “Cool. So should i come on ursday?” “Just take the midnight train tomorrow, you will arrive at the Forest Station at seven. We will be there waiting, with bells on.” “Got it. See you then.” “Later.” Stefan hung up and paid the bill. He wandered the club district for a couple of hours, half-forgetting the possible spy in the café, but stuck close to the Avendia O’Doul. e main drag resembled a 1950s throwback – all neon and midcentury modern architecture, with sloping poured concrete, pastel colored walls. Hip young kids wandered the street, and reflected 70 some years of western pop culture: Mods in tan jackets, girls in fringe haircuts, punks in leather, hip hop boys in baggy pants, and party girls waddling on their platforms, mixed in with Rockabilly girls, and early 1990s-style Riot Grrls. it was a fascinating sight; the scene reminded Stefan of his college days in the 1980s, which in his late middle age were far better lived had he known the truth of the times as compared to what he recently le behind. e crowd didn’t seem to notice the newly-arrived foreigner. Stefan mused that we are all from somewhere else, yet types like him are of the invisible kind. e invisible kind

making a passage quietly, from airplane to taxi, walking the neon-lit avenue through the crowd, eventually taking a night train into the forest, passing unnoticed, easily forgotten in the journey of exile. He sighed, and smiled at a pretty brunette who reminded him of college coffee and idealistic hopes turned to dictatorship. it wasn’t as if he had not expected the warnings. A pretty brunette, indeed, he mused. He missed who she reminded him of. is memory he tried to avoid, but it was hard. Perhaps this sprung from exhaustion or the realization that he would never return home. either way Stefan knew that his life would cease to be an endless series of tautologies – at least for a little while. He hoped eternal, but hope and love, in his experience, proved to be neither. IV. Antanzia was not the jungle of cities, but it was large enough to get lost in, and it took Stefan several hours of wandering before he found his hotel. Stefan wanted to walk, and was shy about taking a taxi or asking for directions. exhausted, he showered, and went to bed. in his dreams, fragmented as they were, he remembered the day he had lost his faith. He was a child, living out in the country, several miles from a medium-sized city as forgettable as any other in his nation. No home was this place for him, only where he stayed, and his memories of going into the city for mundane shopping visits with family, or to the clinic, were dimly unremarkable. Most of what remained in terms of memories was snapshots filed in his head, pulled when needed. As far as he was concerned, Stefan’s life began at thirteen, the year his mother took him out west to the coast, to the big city. at was when it all started. Before then was a prehistory of lost time, with moments he usually didn’t dwell upon. ese years were not a good time in his life. e family did not get along very well under one roof, and it was clearly obvious his grandmother resented having her eldest daughter and her little boy in her house at a time when childrearing was over. Her anger was oen on the passive-aggressive, and at times she went out of her way to insult his mother, and sometimes him. Stefan managed to forget most of the slights, both perceived and real. escaping to the coast, a new life, achieved that freshness. Still, some of those welts remained and occasionally hurt. e clearest memory was from when Stefan was 11, of the long ride home on the school bus, getting off at the end of the overpass beside the interstate access road and walking down the slope to the gravel road that led to his house. e house wasn’t much – it was actually a mobile home Grandmother purchased when they moved to this wooded hillside when he was seven. He liked the lazy Susan in the kitchen, and Grandmother told everyone this was the reason why she purchased it. He lived in his room, with the grandparents in the back bedroom and his mother sleeping on the fold-out couch in the living room; it seemed to Stefan this was some sort of punishment, since in the house they lived in before, Mom also slept on a couch in the den. His father le before he was born – he

never knew him, and out of his respect for his mother he did not go searching for him until it was long too late. Mom died 20 years ago, stroke, gone without warning or word, and Stefan paid the funeral expenses, including a bronze memorial plaque in the space next to the grandmother who made her sleep on couches. Here, at least in rest, the bedding was equal. He visited twice before the revolution, and once a year ago, when he decided to eventually leave the country. He wondered if anyone else bothered to visit, or what would come of the cemetery. ere were no other relatives who really cared about them le alive. But, Stefan thought, as he sipped his coffee on the terrace looking out into the rising sun above the Atlantic, they missed seeing their world crumble. Unfortunately, he was the one who witnessed it, and was none too surprised. He studied Gramsci in university, and was influenced by him and the postmodernist Marxist thinkers. He knew what was to come aer the seizure of power. At least there was toilet paper to wipe his ass with, and running electricity, and differences of opinion, and agreeing to disagree. None of that existed anymore back in the old country. e old country – Stefan smiled. inking that meant it had finally come to this. He sat back, hands folded across his chest, and remembered. His faith was lost during a walk with his grandfather. ey walked uphill through the woods behind the house, toward the strip at the edge of the property where he kept oil barrels to collect rainwater for the garden he built beyond the patio of the mobile home. He had worked diligently on the garden since they had moved; though in Stefan’s memory, he could not recall his grandfather ever showing an interest at the old house. Occasionally he helped him move stones and plant. His grandmother and mother never helped, leaving all the work to them. Grandfather was a creative man. He knitted and made rugs from discarded scraps of cloth, twisting and tying them into place. One creation he took with him to Antanzia, stuffed into one of the three bags customs allowed him to leave the country with. When they reached the oil drums to fill the water cans, his grandfather began telling him stories about his father, a horsemounted policeman, who died of tuberculosis when Grandfather was 12. He recalled the time he visited his father in the infirmary, the stench of vomit and blood, of recent death. is was overwhelming, though he remained stoic as he passed through the large hall of beds of sick and dying patients until he came to his father’s bed. Stefan had seen photos of the man – standing tall, resplendent in his policeman’s uniform. Grandfather described the sunken, gray cheeks and the fading stare in his blue eyes, looking nowhere, unaware of his eldest son’s presence. Grandfather described touching his hand. Cold, waxy – a man already dead but still breathing – Grandfather realized his father was about to die. His father spoke. “Water and stone. All that is out there is water and stone.” Continue reading on the next page. ➢

For several seconds, Grandfather said, he waited for more, before realizing the man had died. ey filled the cans. Grandfather bent down and picked up a small rock, dropping it into his can. Turning to Stefan, he said, “Remember this: ‘Water and stone’ – nothing more.” ey silently walked down the hill to water the garden. Stefan continued to go to Mass until he was 16, but he no longer believed. He still wished otherwise. V. At breakfast, in an outdoor café facing the beach, Stefan had his first cigarette in 20 years. e pack, titled Fatimas, was a long-discarded American brand that an Antanzian firm had

maintained the licensing of and produced cigarettes from tobacco grown and imported from Argentina. e other brands were Argentine, British, and indian, but the vintage yellow and red pack of Fatima extra Milds looked appealing. Aer the rush from the first few puffs, the cigarettes tasted bland. He resolved to quit aer finishing the pack but, for now, Stefan felt a sense of independence, though unhealthy a habit it was and remains. He wore wrinkled white chinos and a blue and white striped t-shirt, with his black Oxfords, the only pair of shoes he bothered to bring, along with his old hiking boots. He did stuff three suits into a bag and enough matching socks without holes to do him for a while. Stefan had thought to bring his


now-unavailable Levis, too. every country had bootlegs, but these were the real thing: black, blue, and gray drainpipe jeans, kept in near-pristine condition. ough he had enough cash, and Martin had promised writing work for him, Stefan knew he could make good quick money selling the Levis as well as the Morgan silver dollars his grandfather had given him when Stefan was a child. Old American silver and gold coinage – in fact, anything American – was a fad in Antanzia. Stefan wished he still had his old LP and CD collection, but the external hard drive did archive his music, and the regime allowed him to take electronic versions of his manuscripts. e plate of ham and eggs over easy done and taken away by the waiter, Stefan reached into his pants pocket, pulling out

his iPod and, aer unraveling the cord, stuffed the ear buds in, leaning back with another Fatima between his lips, listening to a post-rock dirge, feeling good and considering walking from the café to the beach. e beach at Antanzia reminded him of what Martin described in an email from months ago. e shore did resemble italian tourist posters from the last century, pastel and dreamy, women in one-piece suits and bikinis, under widebrimmed straw hats to shield their faces from the burning heat of the Southern Hemisphere sun. Stefan had read up on the increasing ozone radiation, but wasn’t worried about buying a hat just yet. He was still unused to the sun passing on his le, and the clockwise motion of draining water, both serving as reminders of the new world he had entered. He also resolved to strengthen his Spanish and learn Portuguese.

Martin also mentioned the German-speakers around his area but, even with all the english spoken in Antanzia, all the signs were printed in both languages, which from reading in Wikipedia was a compromise in a tripartite agreement with Argentina and Brazil ensuring Antanzia’s independence, thus protecting the nations from the British and also from each other. As usual, the Americans were involved in the deal, in order to keep the British out – Monroe Doctrine and all – but in actuality the American influence was nonexistent, except for selected aspects of its pop culture. When it came to culture and mores, Antanzia seemed to be a country stuck in various decades of the 20th century. e nation had a love affair with modernity, occasionally dallying with the contradictory dialectical mysticism of postmodern Marxism. Stefan thought a little of the rusting automobiles of Cuba under Castro in considering some of the historical anomalies and anachronisms on display in the streets of Antanzia City. rough the ear buds he heard the distinctive noise, and Stefan pulled them out to listen to the song. e sound system in the café played a popular old Brazilian ballad, “Alegria, Alegria,” by Caetano Veloso. Stefan heard it for the first time on the plane ride – part of the in-flight film was a segment on Brazilian pop music, and he was taken with the song, and asked about it. From the song he had his first Portuguese lesson: ‘eu vou’, “i’ll go” – an appropriate beginning, given his circumstances. e music cheered him as he bent to take off his Oxfords, stuffing them into the cloth shoulder bag. Stefan wandered into the sands, the granules warm between his toes. early morning and it was already comfortably warm. e bright sun already had him in sunglasses. Stefan found he could not really see without them, and he realized he should have bought a hat, but he would on the walk back. in his wanderings the night before he had seen a bookstall he wanted to visit, and he wanted to return to the café. Despite the unsettling experience with the young man, Stefan wanted to soak in the bucolic atmosphere of Antanzia City before moving on into the deep forest. Stefan read that Antanzia Beach was much like Rio de Janerio’s Copacabana frozen in the time of the early 1960s. Although Antanzia had steady population growth from immigration, the capital, because of the city being situated on a narrow peninsula jutting between the ocean and the desert, had stagnated in growth since the early 1970s. Many who arrived to the country moved on to the north, to the river industrial city of Bataille, or to the fertile farmlands in the south central area beyond the Antanzian desert. e city remained an administrative center and a university town, laid back and happily serving as an alternative tourist destination, and attracted political dissidents since the Russian Revolution. Perhaps that was a reason why Antanzia did not do much aer a while – seemingly everyone here was either a former college professor, or writer, painter, political hack, or related to one. All the other arrivals with a trade moved on to Bataille, or to the farmlands, and the more imaginative types fled to the mountains that rose above the great forest.

e imaginative types – Stefan hoped he was one of them, hence his move to the mountains. Aer rolling up his chinos and walking into the clear blue ocean surf, Stefan sat on the white sands, smoking Fatimas, trying out his imagination. e South Atlantic was warm in this topsy-turvy land which, aer a half-day and one night’s observation, was a heaven within a cage of invisible bars. He knew there was no return home – and in much of the rest of the world he was either unwelcome or could never afford. Antanzia was forever, not by choice, was now and forever. VI. At the bookstore, situated in a three-story yellow stucco building, walls cracked from age, wood weathered with a century of use, Stefan searched through the disorganized labyrinthine stacks around him. it was far from the only store in Antanzia, but it might as well seem that way as he stepped carefully around loose books stacked haphazardly at his feet. He spent two hours in the store and came away with a stack of books, mostly replacements for what Stefan had le behind when he le for Antanzia, which the clerk carefully packed into Stefan’s cloth bag. Aer stopping to connect his cell phone to take Antanzia calls, he sat in the café and spent hours writing, and reading the city english language daily, trying to acclimate himself better to the place he now lived. He wanted no news from home; he was not yet prepared, and carefully avoided the international news. instead, he read local run over dog stories, written in a clear, concise language he had missed even before the takeover. His nation was a land in decline, both culturally and morally, and language was a key component and indicator of such. Words changed meaning, loaded with increasing hysteria and emotionalism, passive tense and advocacy between the lines. en, replaced by straight-out propaganda to bolster fading enthusiasm, devolving into outright lies to mask the rising insecurities and failures. Stefan sighed, and lit another Fatima. e buzz faded aer the third cigarette, and now he was back to his former chain smoking self. in the cafés you could still smoke at the table – that had been years one had been able to, even in most of europe. Antanzians seemed indifferent to basic personal health, though he was told the health care system was as good as any in the West and relatively inexpensive once he qualified for the national service, which he would aer 60 days incountry with employment. He already had working papers filed through Martin and was unworried. What concerned him was being alone. Other than Martin and Zoe, he had no friends – they all stood with the regime, and he began to disengage with them when he began withdrawing his support for the government. Martin assured him he would make new friends, and affirmed their friendship, as did Zoe, writing in coded messages hidden in banal emails about hiking in the forests and chasing butterflies in the valley where Martin and Zoe held refuge. Continue reading on the next page. ➢

Yes, long walks in the woods, alone. Maybe, Stefan thought, lighting another cigarette at the end of the finished one, he should stay in the city, and try to apply for this newspaper. He scanned the futbol and rugby scores. Also, the politics were hard to get used to. Antanzia had multiple political parties, with names like Social Alliance, the ruling party, in coalition with the Center-Democrats and the Liberals, two minor groupings. e opposition was a mix of le wing and right, the major party being the Radical Socialists. ere were also a few unreconstructed Marxist-Leninist factions, both of the Trotskyist 4th international type and obviously tiny Maoist groupings, along with a pro-Russian party that no one seemed to like. e bewildering array of acronyms turned him off. He only wanted to write about peace, and himself; an inner journey, resigning himself to an inner emigration through the forest. Of course, obviously, alone – yes, the walk in the woods, under blue skies and dark forests of green and gold. He thought of water and stone. Stefan paid his tab and returned to the hotel, and packed, in preparation for the final stage of his passage. Never placing a high priority on efficiency, though also having a prideful disdain for incompetence, the Antanzians had a saying: “What is, is.” at applied to their rail system. When they said a train le at midnight, it did. it might be late to its destination, but it did leave when they said it would. e Midnight express to Bataille did leave at the tolling of the massive National Cathedral across the square from City Terminal, and Stefan made sure he had a window seat in second-class, bags stored in the rack above an hour before the final rush of passengers filled the car. e ride to the Forest Station took six hours, so he felt no need to have a sleeping compartment in first-class, and dozed off with his book in his hands – Roberto Bolano’s 2666, read for the umpteenth time – aer the night train made it across the bridge and into the desolate desert. ere would be nothing to see but stars and moon and, aer a glance at the flat dry plain leading endlessly to the horizon; Stefan closed his eyes, the air conditioning quietly humming him to rest. e conductor woke him – he first spoke in Portuguese, then Spanish, finally in english. “Forest Station, two stops ahead. Twenty minutes.” Stefan nodded, “ank you, sir.” “ink nothing of it.” His english was perfect. “Welcome to the Great Forest. We will be going uphill now, so be prepared when you look out the window.” Stefan glanced out the window. in the pre-dawn light he saw the mountain ridges, and trees, innumerable pines mixed with oak, and indeed, they were climbing. e conductor smiled at him. “Some say it’s like the Blue Ridge, others the High Tatras, others the Urals, the Andes, Alps, but really it’s only the O’Doul Range, the only significant mountain region in South America besides the Andes.”


“it’s quite beautiful.” “To everyone who comes here, this is at once a parting reminder of where they are from, and a sweet hello to where they are now. Yes, i know it sounds pretentious, but i know everyone who rides this train, including you.” He smiled at Stefan. “Lived here eleven years. So to me, it was the Grand Tetons.” Stefan nodded. “it looks like everywhere, but yes, it reminds me of the Blue Ridge.” “Yes, the pines,” said the conductor. “i recommend you to take down your luggage now before the next stop. i will come by with the porter to help you to the door. e car remains a little crowded.”

ough his seat was now empty, Stefan saw a number of people rising to disembark at the next station, but more remained in their seats, still sleeping. Aer the conductor waved and moved on, Stefan got up and began pulling bags down, stacking them in the empty seat, and waited for the conductor to return. VII. e light grew bright above as the fog rolled in, billowing white clouds smoke-like, heavy and deep, hungry to envelop all that lay before it: trees, mountains, the train. it was not as high as the Andes, but the peaks were majestic enough, at

least the faded outlines Stefan could discern in the early morning as he looked out the window, his eyes scanning to the valleys below. e Forest Station was the next stop; the conductor, who with the promised help gathered his belongings and moved them to the door, interrupted his enthralled viewing of what lay before him. Stefan was reluctant to leave, but waited patiently at the door as the train slowed as it arrived at the station. Aer waving goodbye to the conductor and porter, Stefan stood alone at the platform with his bags. He smiled. Martin and Zoe were late, just like old times. He remembered to put on his old Burberry trench coat, and did remember on his way to the hotel to stop to buy a hat, an old Borsalino at the market, perched high on his head, brim pulled down like an old police detective. He pulled the belt tight, feeling like he was in e ird Man, but without sewers and betrayal, though peeved at his friends’ tardiness. Stefan scanned his surroundings. e station was impeccably clean and looked very old, despite some recent refurbishing and signage, the deserted platform a zigzag pattern of red brick. Aer looking around for a no smoking sign and seeing none, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the crushed pack of Fatimas. ere were three le, and he considered finishing the pack and quitting again. He figured he might as well enjoy the scene, and pretend he was noir, lighting the cigarette while watching the train fade into the fog. Stefan was halfway done with the cigarette when Martin and Zoe arrived at the platform. Martin was a tall man, his height accentuated by Zoe’s petite figure. He was wider in the waist than Stefan had remembered, and he had taken to shaving his head. Zoe still dyed her hair blond, and still wore green-tinted horn-rimmed glasses attached to a silver chain. “Good God,” Martin yelled. “We were waiting for you inside!” Stefan smiled, spreading his arms over the luggage. “Not exactly the Hilton over here, service-wise.” Martin walked over to hug him. “Fucking-a, man. Can’t believe you finally made it.” Zoe, wearing an old wine-colored fur coat, stretched up to kiss him on the cheek. “i never thought i’d see you ever again.” “Same here,” Stefan said. He fought back his tears, undecided whether this reaction was from seeing them or the realization that this was the final reminder of reaching that point of no return. “Beautiful country, here.” “Wait until the fog lis,” Zoe said. “i will fetch the porter. Be right back.” “ere aren’t that many bags.” “Four or more requires the porter. Tight union rules here.” “Well, then. Gotta make a living.” Martin tapped him on the shoulder. “Come with me. You have to register your arrival here. You are classified as a political refugee and the stationmaster has to stamp your transit papers and passport.” “i didn’t know i had to do that. i was not told i needed a transit paper.” Continue reading on the next page. ➢

“You still have some hoops to jump. Don’t worry – you are programmed into the system. ey basically need to keep track of you until it is official you are a resident alien and registered here in town. it’s all rather pro forma, and they generally forget about you unless you give them a reason to be reminded of your existence. Once your work permit arrives, you have no worries there, partner. Few ever are deported. We also have to register you for the health care, which you can do online once you have the work permit.” “i’ve gotten used to all that.” “Yeah, difference is they don’t use them against you. is is not like where we came from.” “For some reason, you are avoiding the word home.” “Home?” Martin chuckled. “Home is where you sit your ass and stick your dick. at’s home, and this is where it’s at.” “Nice to know all that, brother. Let’s go get me set up.” “Just basic housekeeping, my friend. No cops – ever.” “Nice to be in a place i don’t have eight eyes on my back.” Aer a brief interview and signatures on a printout, Stefan le the station sitting in the back of an old navy blue Mercedes sedan winding through the small mountain town surrounding the train station. Martin turned from the front passenger side. “it’s called Dos Passos – and yes, it was named for the writer. A former mayor went to boarding school with him, and was kind of a fan boy.”


“i wondered about that when looking at the map. Didn’t think to ask about that. i can add that fact to my depth of useless information.” Zoe was driving. “We are going to stop at the restaurant at the end of this street and have breakfast until the fog lis. i’m never keen on driving in this fog, especially during the summer. Logging trucks use the road to our house.” “at works for me,” Stefan said. “Damn hungry.” “e place we’re taking you to is irish, so get ready. Mostly irish around here, along with Germans and italians.” “Read it’s mostly German.” “Not as many as you are led to believe. ey’re settled further down the valley. You have all kinds here. it’s the entire world tipped over and dripping down. Pretty diverse.” “Glad to hear it. i like variety.” “You do need to learn Portuguese, though. ¿Alguna vez se molestan en aprender español?” “Lo suficiente como para saber que molestan no se trata de algo malo. Pero, no, es una mierda.” “at passes for decent Spanish. ey think it is polite to know, but everyone usually speaks english in the country, or whatever kitchen language they arrived here with. Some baggage never gets unpacked, you know. Bataille is a different story, since it is close to both the Brazilian and Argentine borders. ere, you have to know both.” “eu vou.”

“Ohhhhhh. Você pegou algumas Português! Bom!” “Not really. it’s from a song i heard yesterday.” At the foot of a long sloping hill, with old stone houses on either side, Zoe pulled the Mercedes to the curb. “is is it.” Stefan turned to Martin. “Okay, so which of you is going to teach me Portuguese?” Zoe opened the door for the men. Her eyes gleaming behind her horn-rimmed glasses, she said, “We have that worked out.” When they entered the restaurant, Stefan spotted the brunette sitting at the table next to the window, facing the road. She only stared. Stefan thought of two ghosts coming upon each other in the middle of a cemetery. Martin grabbed his shoulder. “She’s here, brother. Long story. She’ll tell it.” “Uh, yeah.” VIII. Patricia. Pat. Patty. Petite, little Patty wearing the white trapeze coat with matching poodle in the rain by the park, struggling with umbrella and handbag, kitten heels scraping the ground, and wondering why she dressed up not for work, and walking the dog on a Sunday, no less, and not Christian in the least. at’s how they met, Stefan remembered. First consideration: She seemed a good idea at the time. en it wasn’t. en it was, once all was forgiven and Stefan

learned to miss someone. He didn’t miss his family when they passed, one by one; he seemed indifferent to all that. Patricia, however, he missed – quite so. But shit got in the way, a lot of it, and this remained for years. Second consideration: Neither knew how to say hello. Patricia stood up, hesitated, as Stefan walked toward her. ey stood, facing each other, yes, two ghosts for the very first time, amid all the water and stones surrounding them. Stefan first: He took her hands, not cold. Warm. Patricia’s head turned downward. He could see the lines, crow’s feet, and the glasses slipping down. Her throat, she was trying to hide – the throat always showed the age more so than the eyes. Wrinkled, the skin tone slightly different. Makeup could never cover that up, nor should any one attempt. She was not old, though. No, Patricia in the white trapeze coat with the poodle forever. Not a half-century, though she was that age, but 29 still, acting a little younger, being a bit older. Demure on the outside, but that was an exterior. e interior much – far more – passionate, Stefan could sense this remained deep inside her. As fingers touched, they wrapped around each other, and they sat opposite, hands remaining over the table, eyes both downturned, and for now reticent to view the other fully. Continue reading on the next page. ➢

Finally she looked up, peering into his face, and the abyss was bridged. ey need not have said a word, and they did not for a moment, as Zoe and Martin awkwardly sat beside them. Finally, Stefan spoke. Pointing to the camera set next to the flower arrangement on the table, “i see you still have a Leica.” Patricia smiled. “Last model. M12. ey don’t make them anymore, and if something breaks, can’t be fixed.” “Yes, i understand. Do you still have your film cameras?” “A few. Some stolen. Others i had to give away or sell. ose i can have fixed, along with the other digitals.” “Do you have a studio?” “No.” She paused, adding, “is is awkward.” “Yes, it is. at’s why i am focusing on the cameras.” Patricia smiled, and nudged Zoe. “Doesn’t he look like Jean Gabin to you?” “Yeah, he kind of does.” “Well, i am old.” Patricia reached out and daringly touched his hair. “You really went gray, babe.” “Obviously, i had reason to be.” Martin reached over and took his hat off. “Also lacks in manners.” “Oh, you really went gray, Stef. Yeah – you do look like Jean Gabin.” “Well, let’s change the subject,” Stefan said, feeling selfconscious. “You look the same.” “You know better, but i will take the compliment. i don’t dye my hair.” “e yellow streak, yeah. e shitty hotel shampoo in Bataille caused that. it’ll go away soon enough.” “i guess i should ask where the last fieen years took you.” “eighteen,” she corrected. “No, i knew you were in Hong kong fieen years ago.” “Bureau chief AFP, Asia. en assignments in Australia – Sydney mostly, but ended up living in a place called Ballarat working on a long-term project i never finished. en your bullshit happened, and no way was i ever going to return.” “So, what happened then?” e snapping Patricia emerged, cutting the conversation to the current moment. “is isn’t story time. Let’s order, instead. ey have brunch here. Bloody Marys, oh, yum. Do i ever need one. All right, two.” “Trust me, babe. Me too. Oh, i just realized we have company.” Zoe playfully smacked Stefan over the head with the menu. “Yes.” “Well, you did this.” Patricia smiled. “i plead guilty. is was my idea.” Stefan grinned back, eyes lingering at hers before looking at the menu. Awkwardness aside, the surprise meeting her again returned him to that faraway place: him helping her with the dog and taking her across the street, carrying the poodle while holding her umbrella, getting soaked on his exposed right


shoulder, water seeping into his shoes and soaking his socks. He ended up spending the day, and the night, in her apartment, clothes drying on that old radiator in the bathroom. it seemed at the time they were going to be forever. Stefan really did believe. is was the first time Stefan ever believed in anything that was not an ideal. As experience eventually revealed to him, this remained the only occasion where this was so. He really wanted to get drunk, now.

IX. Stefan didn’t get drunk, but buzzed. He relaxed on the porch at Martin and Zoe’s with Patricia sitting by his side, both sunk deep into matching padded wooden deck chairs. e four of them talked throughout the morning, before Martin and Zoe insisted on going into the kitchen to prepare lunch. e conclusion Stefan drew from the conversation was that yes, they had all aged, but a layer of youthful idealism remained, keeping them fit psychologically and well prepared for their present. Optimistic, too: while all of them were aware they might never return home, the opportunities for rejuvenation were there – all that needed to be done was to assemble the moving parts into an engine of inspired work. is lied his spirits, and aer they le he drew quiet, thinking ahead to the mystery unfolding in his life. He remembered the saying, “to rebel against the rebels.” it had been uttered in a speech by one of the leaders, who later

turned against the regime and went into exile. He had been told to keep clear of him, however. He was too big a fish, Stefan was warned, and his emigration to Antanzia had many strings attached. Some thought of him as a puppet, still others the puppeteer, manipulating the exile community with his writings and speeches, which were attended by agents. Stefan did see an editorial in the newspaper he read yesterday at the café, and aer scanning it found him to be as clichéd and dryly dull as he was as a propagandist for the regime. To him, the two poles

of support and dissent were truly one, and as a thinker, Stefan found this prodigal son to be an unfortunate by-product of what happens when ideology is transformed into a commodity. His price was paid, le on a shelf, gathered dust, and then discarded. He might meet him, out of curiosity, but this was not a priority for a long time. He never had much use for leaders, fallen or raised. One must pick through the ruins most carefully. Dwelling on this man’s presence, and on his own, his friends', and of Patricia landed here in this distant land, Stefan wondered if crossing three lines and a hemisphere was a cowardly escape to relative safety or an act of defiance. Would this be rebellion? He pondered this question while gazing at Patricia, who had turned away to look at the small garden of flowers in the yard in front of the porch. e house was two stories, five bedrooms with a den and separate dining area.

Built in California rustic style by an American oil baron nearly a hundred years ago, the house was designed with materials to survive for a very long time, with heavy beams of oak, with pine and imported rare Sequoyah flooring and buttresses. it had never been abandoned, each owner keeping care of the domicile, but Martin claimed he got a low price for the house. Martin had money, having parents who invested abroad before the regime took power, and used those resources for he and Zoe to live here, and to create a publishing house devoted to literature by the exile community in Antanzia and certain reprints of authors he preferred. ey did add personal touches; Zoe grew a garden and replaced the front windows with stained glass panes of her own creation while, with the help of some of their italian-Antanzian neighbors, Martin began building a three-story stone tower adjacent to the room both shared as their studio. He intended to be finished in a year, and explained he wanted the tower to be a place of meditation for them, and others who passed through from their homeland to enjoy and find a sense of place at the end of their long journey. Stefan appreciated the sentiment, and inquired whether once completed, he could borrow time in the tower to write a book. Martin politely nodded, remarking that his writing always seemed to him to be a meditation on something. ey all laughed – Stefan blushed at the notion, but nonetheless agreed that this was the case. His writing was always philosophical, meditative, and under the regime utterly out of favor. No one was interested in reading about mystery, or on the beautiful randomness of life, or to question beyond a boundary of materialism. Critics ignored him or, when they did take notice, belittled his work, passing judgment that the writing lacked a praiseworthy referencing regarding the glories of the class struggle, of the oppression by the former ruling class of the now-new ruling class, and of course the attendant gushing over the wonders this new regime bestowed on the people. Stefan had found himself without work, so he had taken up proofreading legal briefs in a law office, which paid for what was not rationed, which was everything by the time he le. He thought about the Soviet Union and similar dictatorships, and wondered if this was the natural state of man. When he wrote about that, he realized it would never be published. into an external hard drive it went, and soon other pieces rolled out. He wrote mostly during breaks at work, which sometimes would be all day, because private law firms were generally proscribed and court cases rationed among the remaining lawyers still practicing outside of government-paid public advocates and prosecutors. He would save directly into the external drive, and obsessively delete any presence of the original manuscript, using cyber soware to scrub out any disallowed pixels of his thought. is went on for a year, until he finally was able to get a visa to get out of the country. at process to escape became an excruciating experience that taxed the patience of even the strong-willed. Rumors were rife that so many people were leaving that the government Continue reading on the next page. ➢

imposed an unpublicized quota system. if one had the skills necessary to “build the state” – which translated to struggling to maintain the crumbling infrastructure – you were not allowed to leave. e land borders were closed, and a nation was penned in. Stefan remembered the Berlin Wall. He had heard stories it was somewhat similar in places, and he assumed the worst. Unless you were one of those dreamer types, as his grandfather used to say of Stefan. ose were encouraged to go, but not aer a time. ey made you pay exorbitantly for leaving; Stefan had to sell most of his belongings for the exit visa, and forego any public pension, and pre-pay several years worth of income taxes before the visa was finally approved. Stefan did not mind shedding nearly all his belongings in this process – no price was ever too high to get the hell out of that awful country. Stefan noticed Patricia staring at him. Her expression was one of study: she was a photographer, an artist, and her considerations of him plumbed depths, soundings in search of aspects of his soul. He recalled the times she did that when they were together years ago, and for a while it had bothered him. He was not a subject, but her boyfriend. Yet he had grown to accept that this was Patricia’s way to learn who he was, to speak without voice, to learn of him with silence. e sun was directly behind her, affecting an orange-yellow halo behind her head. He smiled at her, and quietly considered the book he wished to write in Martin’s stone tower. He reconsidered an ernst Junger quote, from one of the books he repurchased at the book store in Antanzia City, “To avoid losing the way among mirages, it is therefore a good idea to always keep the necessary in mind.” While gazing wordlessly at Patricia, Stefan began to form a clear idea of what necessary was – freedom. X. eir dinner was held in the wood-paneled dining room at a long mahogany dining table that was designed by George Nakashima, which belonged to Martin’s parents and was brought over from their home in France before the great economic and political chaos that had overtaken much of europe occurred. While things had settled down, Martin had no intention of returning, and remarked that this table was all that remained of his parents’ possessions, other than a sheaf of now-worthless stock certificates he kept in a file cabinet in the studio. ey had roasted a turkey, just like an old time anksgiving, with crouton stuffing and gravy. Mashed yams and potatoes swirled into bowls, with small trays piled high with broccoli, green peas and beans, cabbage, romaine lettuce, and cherry tomatoes picked from the garden. Bread and dinner rolls were whole wheat, and home-baked. Stefan was stunned. He hadn’t had turkey in years, and the last anksgiving was when his mother was still alive. e red wine was a Merlot from the local vineyards, and the fizzy water was imported from Brazil. Martin and Zoe had


money, and living well was an expression of revenge against the regime; Martin did briefly spend time in prison, aer all, and all power to him and her, Stefan thought as they all raised their glasses in a toast to their safe passage to Antanzia. Aer a dessert of chocolate crème and apple pies, and copious amounts of Brazilian coffee laden with vanilla-tinged pure cream bottled from a neighbor’s farm, they decided to walk off their feast through the property. ere remained another two hours of light, Zoe said, and therefore much to be seen before returning, if they so dared, she added, grinning mischievously. Stefan remembered his childhood experience with living in the country, but it was never like this. Antanzia might remind one of elsewhere walked, but this forest was thick, and hardly traversed by humankind. it certainly was not preyed upon by development, like where he had lived, and he noted the agelessness of the beauty of those mountain peaks that rose in rows toward the clouds. is part of the O’Doul Range was forested but, Martin explained, the highest ridge was a half hour drive away, and above the tree line. He promised to take them there tomorrow. e house sat on a gently inclined slope, which rose at steeper angle toward the end of the grassy lawn at the tree line. in the center of the line of tall pines standing sentinel at the edge was a discernible path. it was wide, nearly a road, and enough to accommodate them side-by-side. Patricia took Stefan’s arm. He looked at her, but she stared ahead, smiling. He adored her smile, but they had already agreed to sleep in separate rooms that night. Neither was ready, it had been too long, and reticence and romance made for honest courting, they believed. He also noted that while she had a camera slung around her neck, bouncing below her chest, she did not stop to take photographs. He recalled that in all the times they were together she invariably had taken pictures. Not this time. e forest canopy was cathedral-like and, through the trees, the lowering sun teased them with its brightest offerings, noting their steps with increasing contrasts as they trod on the pine needle covered trail. As the two couples walked, their talk grew deeper, of thought, not reminiscence. Stefan thought to quote Junger again, “ ‘e great solitude of the individual is a hallmark of our times.’ He wrote that in the 1950s, more than seventy years ago.” “Do you feel such solitude?” Zoe quietly asked, as she always had since they met over coffee in college cafés. “i know what you mean by that,” said Stefan. “i think what he meant by that is how i interpret it from our own individual, personal experiences. at is, of alienation. We all became permanently alienated – first by the culture and society of what we experienced growing up, and aer a brief hopeful moment when change had come, we were struck with a crushing alienation by what we felt we – or at least i do – were responsible for helping to create. at government.” “at country,” Patricia said, instinctively touching her forehead to brush aside her hair. “Nothing is permanent, as we come to find,” Martin said. “i learned this when – ” He paused. “Let’s just say i learned,

and thankfully so.” Stefan wondered if he would ever ask Martin about that time, imprisoned, but all in due time and eventual. e trail became steeper, and curved behind a row of exposed stone. rough the fading light, Stefan saw they were nearing the top of a ridge. He assumed this was where they were going to pause for a time, before returning. As they completed the turn, he saw the trees parted on either side of the trail, leading to a bright light. ey were facing the direction of the sun, which by then was setting, ending its day with a dramatic flourish of orange and red in tandem with the darkening navy sky. When the group reached the summit, Martin and Zoe stopped, and with a wave of his arm, flourishing his hand like a magician revealing his penultimate trick, Martin showed them what lay before them. ey stood at the edge of a precipice, viewing a wooded valley below and another, higher mountain in front of them, dark and primeval. e trail went onward, snaking its way along the edge of the ridge, but this was their destination. “Do you see that over there?” Martin pointed to a spot near the top of the mountain. “You might not be able to since it is getting late, but there’s a chalet there. i own that, too, and

the mountain. e trail leads there, down into the valley, across a creek, and you’d have to climb a rock stair for some ways, but there is road access on the other side. i will drive you over there tomorrow.” “i’m guessing that’s where you will be keeping me,” Stefan said. “if you want it.” Stefan pulled on Patricia’s arm. “One has to live somewhere. i guess this is the place.” e four stood at the precipice for several minutes, before Martin reminded them all he forgot the flashlight, and the night falls heavy in the Great Forest, so they turned to walk down the slope, down through the forest passage, toward Martin and Zoe’s great house which they could see in front of them, an array of multiple colored lights burning through the kaleidoscope of stained glass between the pines. is place offered, if not home as they once knew it, but a refuge; and, as Stefan wrote later that evening in his journal, sitting at the table set in his bedroom window, looking out at familiar constellations from a momentarily foreign, and soon familiar angle, heralding closure—a word Stefan disdained, but deemed apropos. ●

Mike Lee is a writer and photographer based in New York City and Managing Editor of Public Employee Press, the voice of District Council 37, AFSCME. Previous publications include e Ampersand Review, Paraphilia, Sensitive Skin, Glossolalia and e Potomac Journal. His stories are also featured in several anthologies, including Forbidden Acts (Avon) and Pawn of Chaos (White Wolf). A collection of photos, Le miroir invisible (e Invisible Mirror), was published by the French publisher Corridor Elephant. His photography is featured in ArtPhotoFeature Magazine, Aspect: Ratio, Black & White in Color Magazine, Visions Libres, VL Editions / All Your Ambition, SHOT! Magazine, Inspired Eye and in the books Black and White Street Photography, World Street Photography (Kujaja Press, Austria). Web:





















BY ALAN THexTON 208/209
















BY eDWiGe k 218/219






















»Never let me go« 232/233

»ellens pieces are both beautiful and emotive. ey also encapsulate and reminisce on events that may have colored her life and her unique interpretation of it and how sacred the perception of life is. Her submergence of color and imagery is hypnotic, encapsulating unique portrayals of life.« Beautiful Bizarre Magazine

ellen is a Fine Artist and Photographer based in Wicklow, ireland. Originating as a portrait artist in 2008, ellen’s work has been exhibited internationally and featured in numerous media including Yahoo Blog front Page video interview. Beautiful. Bizarre Art Magazine, Gimp Magazine, Phlearn, Mocoloco and many more

ÂťSarah in the ForestÂŤ


»Lady of the Lake«

ellen’s work blurs the boundaries of art, photography and fashion. exhibited by Clic Gallery Soho New York, Copperhouse Gallery, Open Window Gallery, Hibernian Gallery, kilmantin Gallery and many more. Limited edition Prints available on Saatchi Gallery, Open Window Gallery and Copperhouse Gallery. image licensing available on Getty images

»Kissed …«


exhibitions »Metamorphis«

kilmantin Art Gallery expose Yourself Gallery Dunlaoighre Tramyard Art Gallery, Dalkey Clic Gallery, Soho NYC Gallery 27, Dublin 1 Open Window Gallery, Dublin Copperhouse Gallery, Dublin RHA Royal Hibernian Art Fair Talks/Workshops 2015-2016 Dublin Camera Club Malahide Camera Club Castlebar Camera Club Donegal Camera Club Galway Camera Club

»Girl with Hat & Jacket«

Belmulet Camera Club Greystones Camera Club Portlaoise Camera Club Tallaght Camera Club Celbridge Camera Club Louth Camera Club London Brick Lane

Previous history Technical engineer in the Field of Fiberoptic Business and Marketing Studies

»e Alchamist«


»e Swinger«

BY kรกTiA LiMA






















From a series titled »Urbanality«. As city commuters travelling on foot or by bicycle, car and bus we oen keep our gaze ahead or downward. Yet way up high are the unseen and unfamiliar creative signatures of architects and stonemasons long dead and forgotten though frequently visited but unappreciated by the common pigeon. (All images were taken in London and shot in-camera on analogue film.)





BY ARek RATAJ 254/255









ViOLiN BUiLDiNG PROJeCT. Portrait of Precision.

Planing the Ribs. 260/261



Geigenbauwerkstatt – Spurensuche zwischen Holz, Leim und Lack, Projekt zum 5. Familienkonzert des Education Programms der Berliner Philharmoniker – Spurensuche in Cremona Working alongside the education department of the Berliner Philharmoniker, i spent a whole year documenting the building process of a violin. e goal of this project was to build a violin using a Stradivari (the so-called “Lady inchiquin”) as a template, and upon completion the violin would then be played in a family concert of the Berliner Philharmoniker comparing the freshly made violin to other original Stradivaris, played by the Stradivari Soloists of the Berliner Philharmoniker.

Cutting out the F-Holes.

Violin Plane.

19 participants took part in the project by the education programme of the Berliner Philharmoniker, and worked together in small groups in a luthier’s workshop in Berlin under the watchful eye of a very skilled luthier. We met each week in small groups of five participants, who were working on different sections of the violin. e building process took four months and the v arnishing process took another three months. inbetween the violin had to dry in a special drying cabinet.




Sealing the alignment of Ribs and Violin back.

Taking Shape.

Operation Violin.

Measuring the Strength of Wood.


Creating room for the End Pin.



At the end of the building process, the whole project team chose a name for our masterpiece: we called the violin “Lady Tante Mani” (italian for “many hands”) as it was built from many hands. My job was to document this project in pictures, and as you can imagine at the end of this project i had an enormous amount of picture material.



As a photographer “instrument photography” is a totally different ball game to fashion, people or commercial photography. Wood does not smile for you or move into interesting positions. i had to bring life to these pictures. So it was a challenge for me, which i gladly took on. is project changed my view on music instruments, and i have developed a passion to capture their “soul” and individuality.


Creating a Masterpiece.


Project cover pic.

Adding some Colour.




BY eRiCH ReiCHeL 270/271




BY DieTeR keMPiAk











»e Owls Are Not What ey Seem« From the series »Welcome to Twin Peaks« (2016)






From the beginning i wanted to work on poetry and lights and made researches on that ... and then came the meaning of all. ... Beyond the formal look and architectural meaning of poetry in that building i documented one can notice there's a lot of lights and reflections in that series. in fact, the reflections are the metaphor of many things: they are reflections of my choices which are hopes and not fears. î ˘at is to say, they are more than art, but art


is itself also the reflection of something based on knowledge but that is even brighterthan knowledge alone. But the most important is that the reflections are what is hiding in the series: human presences. indeed, we need men and women to put our theories into practice, which is as true in artas it is in other areas of society


in 2012 Lorenzo Diez, director of the ecole Nationale Supérieure d’Architecture of Nancy, personally contacted me and commissioned me to shoot some special interior and exterior photos of this particular school. e school itself architecturally, is a special place and beyond its facade, it has great poetic strength. e aim of this project is to present the building in its entirety. My personal research and investigations on this topic led me to discover the beauty of its poetry. One that does not exist at first glance, but dwells somewhere between suggestion, perception, construction and reconstruction.


Somewhere between the work of Mexican architect Luis Barragan (1) and the School’s architect Livio Vacchini. e poetry and beauty of this building came to life not only in color but also black and white, as seen though my lens. 1

»e most surprising part of the project for Nancy, was the poetic design in the use of concert blades. ey are space markers, light finders, wind stoppers, but above all, they create a faceless facade. One might think of Barragan, but Barragan only pursues poetry, he does not build it.« Livo VACCHiNi; works and projects; Roberto Masiero, Author; GG editions, Barcelona,1999







BY eRi NAkAJiMA 290/291






BY kAi HiRAi













Pedro Antonio Heinrich


Homem de negoĚ cios, Montevideo / Uruguay

Pedro Antonio Heinrich was born in Manaus (Amazon Capital), Brazil. I’m 29 years old and started shooting in July 2014.

Already performed six (08) exhibitions in Porto Alegre and Minas Gerais, won two awards, one being the Sioma Breitman Photography prize 1st Place organized by the Municipality of Porto Alegre/ Brazil.

Already had book project accepted at the fair of the Book of Lisbon-Portugal.

Currently a professor of Street Photography (Street Photo) at the school Camera Viajante, freelancer photojournalist of Agencia Freelancer and Jornal O Sul.

He does some personal works in parallel FineArt and am also a personal project where he wants to develop the street photography in major cities in South America, having already traveled to Argentina, Uruguay and Chile, still missing six countries to shoot.


Dançando pelas ruas, Porto Alegre / Brazil

Sentindo a musica, Porto Alegre / Brazil 308/309

Exhibitions: 2015 – Janeiro: »Olhar Poa« local: Shopping Rua da Praia Porto Alegre/RS 2015 – Julho: »São Léo Efervescente« local: São Leopoldo/RS 2015 – Agosto: »Fotógrafos em Ouro Preto« local: Ouro Preto/MG 2015 – Agosto: »Cidade Baixa Todo o Tempo« local: Porto Alegre/RS 2015 – Outubro: »POA na ponta dos dedos« local: Porto Alegre/RS 2016 – Janeiro: »Ensaios Inspirados no FineArt« local: Porto Alegre/RS 2016 – Fevereiro: »Vida Grita nos Cantos/ Café Minéraux« local: Porto legre/RS 2016 – Março: »Concurso Sioma Breitman« local: Porto Alegre/RS

Concursos de Fotográficos: 2015 – 1º lugar – Paísagens Gaúchas – Escola Câmera Viajante 2015 – 1º lugar – Sioma Breitman – O Cotidiano Invisível de Porto Alegre – Câmara Municipal de Porto Alegre

Perdido na avenida, Porto Alegre / Brazil


A vida gritando nos cantos, Porto Alegre / Brazil

Icones da cidade, Porto Alegre / Brazil


Reflexos ...

Carona, Porto Alegre / Brazil

Ruas de Santiago / Chile 314/315

























BY MiCHeL SeNGUYeN 330/331














»My Black and White photography, in particular, is inspired by the dark, tempestuous, beauty and drama of Cornwall, where the sea sculpts the far-western fringes of our island shores«

Chris Tuff is an international, award winning Producer, Director, Writer and Photographer living in Cornwall, South West England.

Chris has a BA in Communications Studies from Goldsmiths College and an MA in Professional Writing from Falmouth University. He has written five screenplays and published several short stories.

‘By age nine I was taking my own photographs, with an ancient Kodak No1– A folding camera that belonged to my Grandfather,’ processing the film myself and making prints in my Father’s darkroom.’

CONTACT: www.christu 338/339

Symphonic Sky

Black Rock 3

Negative Break


Spires Sand Shoal

Serenity 1

Serenity 2 342/343

Dark Light 4

Dark Light 2


Sand Shadow


Moonlit Sea 3

“Landscape photography is the supreme test of the photographer, and oen the supreme disappointment.” Ansel Adams Growing up as the son of a Landscape Photographer I was accustomed to spending hours, days, sometimes weeks accompanying my Father on photographic expeditions, oen to windswept, wild and remote locations. is was time, more oen that not, spent waiting. Waiting for the sun, the clouds and shadows to fall into place; and sometimes if they did not, not a single frame of film would be exposed – the moment just did not arrive.

However, my exposure to the raw power and beauty of the landscape at a tender age has had a life-long influence. For me nature is the ultimate, awe-inspiring subject and it is only by stimulating and engaging all of the senses; the smell, sound and taste of a place can one distil that into a pure and powerful single image that conveys a sense of moment and location.

“A great photograph is one that fully expresses what one feels, in the deepest sense, about what is being photographed.” Ansel Adams


Wave Motion 1

Wave Motion 2

Shorelines 7

Shorelines 5 350/351

Shorelines 9

Shorelines 4


Sea Shadow


Call for Submission MonoPix is an international monthly magazine for photographers around the world who like to see there work being published. ere are so many photographers among us who doesn’t get that chance. Well, MonoPix gives them a chance. Our publications presents the portfolios of amazing photographers. Portraits, street, scapes, or macro photography: each edition of Monopix has a general theme which can include a wide variety of photos. MonoPix is a growing series of hardcover books with the works of international photographers, releasing a new edition every month. Enjoy!



From June 2, 2016 Joerg Heitsch Gallery Munich is going to present selected contemporary artworks that are directly related to art history. e shown NEW MASTERS are contemporary artistic positions that bear a relation in content and form to the „Old Masters“ which are approved in art history. rough the juxtaposition of works by NEW MASTERS and works by „Old Masters“ as well as through the classification of the NEW MASTERS in art history, the „Old Masters“ will shine in a new light. Participating artists of NEW MASTERS are:

Salustiano (ES) Danielle von Zadelhoff (NL) Bas Meeuws (NL) Medardus (CH) Nashun Nashunbatu (MN) Matej Kosir (SV) Andrea Bender (DL) Jorge Villalba (ES) Henning von Gierke (DL) Slava Seidel (RU) Agnes Toth (GB)

Exhibition period: June 3 to September 3, 2016 358/359




»e shown NEW MASTERS at Heitsch Gallery are contemporary artistic positions that bear a relation in content and form to the »Old Masters« which are approved in art history. Art history can also be read as a history of mankind. Although our world changes quickly, we always search for stability and content. e main themes of life and what concerns us always stay the same. For thousands of years we are forced by love, faith, power and progress. Despite of the virtuosity and technique that’s why we are still fascinated by the »Old Masters«, as we can see something of ourselves in these overwhelming artworks. Danielle van Zadelhoff knows how to capture these feelings which accompany every person the whole life, in one single moment when she takes a photo. Her photographs can leave no person untouched. In her pictures one can see life, loneliness, vulnerability, innocence, the pure emotions. Especially today, when everything is loud and changing quickly, a picture like that can bring you back to what really matters and what can still touch you deeply. We may oen forget where we come from, but we all contain the history within ourselves and grow up with a cultural heritage. is and the unchanging big themes of life make the »Old Masters« and also artists who reflect on art history so touching and meaningful.«


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Urban Poetry


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