HALFPACE MAGAZINE

HALFPACE a teen culture magazine by mercer meeks

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HALFPACE HALFPACE HALFPACE HALFPACE

ISSUE 1

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SPRING 2021

HALF CE HALFPACE HALFPACE HALFPACE

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cover photos shot by peace kiponda

A LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

welcome to HALFPACE, a teenage art, culture, and literature magazine designed entirely by MERCER MEEKS (left) and curated by MERCER MEEKS and CHARLES MATADIN (right). a HALFPACE is a flat protrusion in an otherwise ordinary set of stairs where one may linger briefly. it is a liminal space. our contributors find themselves in myriad liminal spaces, grappling with differences in culture, mixed ethnicity, and the transition from highschool to college. HALFPACE is a space to explore and consider these themes with an emphasis on navigating the clutter and chaos of twenty-first century urban childhood. issue 1 for spring 2021 of HALFPACE represents the artistic vision of a relatively small group: 5 young and talented creatives have contributed works of street photography, digital art, literature, and painting to create an urban texture representative of current and relevant adolescent themes. the majority of our contributing artists are based in new york city, and the city plays a critical role in our identities and the broader identity and vision of HALPACE. we were raised between concrete skyscapers and on cracked asphalt pavement. it would be remiss to explore and examine local youth culture without emphasizing our relationship with the city. all works presented in this issue of HALFPACE are created and owned by ourselves and our artists. HALFPACE is an original and interdisciplinary space to view outstanding works tangibly. the importance of physicality and texture in our rapidly digitizing world cannot be overstated. right now, we're in your hands.• 5

TABLE OF

CONTENTS 6

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A LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

by

Я НЕ "ОН". Я НЕ "ОНА". Я — "Я".

16 SKATEOGRAPHY

28 47TH ST

by

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mercer meeks

by

masha malinina

mercer meeks

peace kiponda

40 MADISON—WASHINGTON

by

54 BEACH READING

mercer meeks

62 SIDEWALK ETIQUETTE

70 TEENAGE FREEDOM

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by

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73 BUT [THE SCHOOLCHILDREN,

75 CREATOR

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mercer meeks

trace mateo

charles matadin

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mercer meeks

charles matadin

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I AM NOT "HE." I AM NOT "HER." I AM "

Я НЕ "ОН". Я НЕ "

BY MASHA MALININA

EXPL

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"ME."

"ОНА". Я — "Я".

LORATION IN APPROPRIATION

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PHOTO BY MASHA MALININA

RUSSIA, AMERICA, M

y mother taught me how to sew before she taught me how to read and write in English.

Breaking through our cultural barriers with sewing, our connection always started with a monthly local fabric store visit. My favorite creation was a gold and red dress with nostalgic Russian motifs. I decided to recreate this piece with a fresh take to show the oxymoron that Russian culture is in American fashion.

Russian culture has been integrated into American pop culture: from Gosha Rubchinsky’s collaboration withAdidas becoming a staple in U.S. street fashion to A$AP Rocky adopting a “Babushka Boi” persona with headscarves and fabric patterns stereotypically seen on Russian grandmothers. Pop culture icons challenge the idea of masculinity by using typical Russian womenswear as a way to incorporate femininity into their outfits. This current trend, the gold and red dress of my childhood, and the Russian folk fabric patterns of my mother are the inspiration for this garment.

After inspiration came, I started comparing centuries-old Russia clothing trends to current trends, combining not only the traditional fabrics of Russia but also the current trends for young women in both countries: from the United States, the long and slim trench coat silhouette, mixing patterns and patchwork; from Russia, the popular trend of layer fabrics in the coat.

There was one key difference, though—it was going to be worn by a six-foot four male mod-

el. I found fabrics from that same local store— now with a sense of maturity and developed vision. I wanted each color and fabric to not only scream “Russian” but also emphasize Russian Symbols.

Gold is the color of prosperity and wealth.

Due to the patriarchal ideals in Russia, men have extraneous pressure to become wealthy to provide for their families.

Red symbolizes unity and beauty; the solid outer strip of red is thinner because unity in Russia only applies to heterosexuals who follow gender norms; all others are ostracized. The floral red fabric for the lining symbolizes how men are encouraged to hide “beauty” such as emotions and sensitivities, typically seen as feminine.

AND GARMENT FIT11

-TINGS Blue, or “голубой” in Russian, is a colloqual moniker of homesexuality. Valuing equality, I wanted to represent this community in my piece.

Blue represents how American pop culture is exploring this rigid part of Russia and breaking its rules—creating hope for the future of gender norms. The combination of a masculine collar and femine floral prints throughout emphasize this breakage.

Finally, the silhouette of the piece is intended to contradict the bulkier male silhouettes: the length of this coat and the layering of fabrics gives it a dainty, dress-like appearance that adds volume to accentuate curves—a modern body standard for women, but not for men.

My goal as a designer is to blend cultures in ways that emphasize the uniqueness of each and break down societal barriers—calling attention to societal norms that negatively affect marginalized populations. •

Blue represents how American pop culture is exploring this rigid part of Russia and breaking its rules—creating hope for the future of gender norms. The combination of a masculine collar and femine floral prints throughout emphasize this breakage.

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MODELED BY ANTHONY PALERMO

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PHOTO BY MASHA MALININA

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by mercer meeks

SKATEOGRAHY

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47 st

BY PEACE KIPONDA

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1 who is peace kiponda?

/ hailing from kenya but based in new york city, peace kiponda is an up-and-coming urban street photographer. he primarily works with 70-200mm zoom len ses which give his work a compressed, painterly feel. most of his work is captured around midtown and the times square area.

3 influences

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2 aesthetics

/ kiponda is enamored with dark cinematic tones, such as navy and burnt orange. these shades give his work a dreamy yet subtly distopian aura, which is especially evident in his photos of foggy nyc. kiponda is excellent at capturing the everyday extraordinary; familiar routines and commutes which through kiponda's eyes are rendered magical.

though kiponda embraces the modernity of current times---a theme eveident in his choice of subject--he is influenced greatly by traditional film street photographers like joel meyerowitz and gary winogrand. occasionally he attempts to recreate the look of 35mm film in his lightroom edits.

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HOME

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digital art by charles matadin

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a photo essay by mercer meeks

graceful chaos in streets, corridors, subways, bike lanes; inbetween conversations and through cell phones. chaos in battered hands, lunch breaks, graduations, betwixt smooth glass and jagged industrial abundance. chaos in "hey taxi!" or a "fuck off!" or a "happy birthay!"; continuous chaos with sloppy multiplicity yet gorgeous intersectionality. nyc is a city of beautiful chaos. once you step onto a gum and trash-riddled sidewalk you are in the thick of it. swaths of personality smash through your hair-strands and finger-vacancies. class, race, sex, culture, language, integrated all-in-one like your shampoo-conditioner mix that you're not sure really works. how can we preserve it? traditionally the answer is kodak portra 400—a classic 35mm film stock which renders color in a very specific way. it has been used by infamous nyc street photographers like joel meyerowitz, saul leiter, and contemporary photographers like joe greer. the look is so specific that i've spent dozens of hours trying to recreate it in lightroom to little effect. so, the easiest way to get the portra look is to shoot portra 400.

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MADISON

WASHINGTON—

i took a walk down fifth avenue from madison square park to washington square park with my grandfather's yashica tl-electro and a 35mm lens. i find wider focal lengths like 35mm to serve nyc far better than something more compressed, like 50mm or 80mm. it allows for more room; more chaos. the resulting photos have a modern yet vintage feel which suits nyc perfectly.

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25th and 6th avenue, NoMad

union square

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26th street 9th ave

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washington square park

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26th street 6th ave

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nyu grads, washington sq park

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the new school grads, 7th street 5th ave

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19th street 5th ave

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union square bodega

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fig.1 blackened pupils (heightened contrast)

fig.2 exaggerated skin tones (lowered black point)

ARTS & L 58 58

fig.3 prominant lashes (in-post sharpening)

LETTERS featuring poetry and short fiction from mercer meeks, charles matadin, trace mateo, ria bellisi

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BEACH REA

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ADING

by mercer meeks

"A

nya, c’mon. Don’t give me that now.”

“What do you mean don’t give me that?”

“I mean, like, big questions. You know? We’re at the beach. Try to enjoy the waves.” Jacob tilted his sunglasses to half-cover his eyelids.

“There’s water here, for Chrissake.”

“What has that got to do with anything? I’m just curious, y’know, cause you always say you like my femininity, but the hell is that?” Anya snapped her magazine shut, removed three grains of sand from between the crevice of her big toe and the one adjacent, and eyed Jacob. The glossy magenta cover rippled in the slight breeze.

“I suppose it’s the opposite of masculinity, right?” Jacob swiveled his head.

“Well, sure. But what the hell is that. That’s like, when you look up a word you don’t know in the dictionary, and the definition has another word you don’t know, so you’ve got to—” “Well we haven’t a dictionary.”

“You’re right, that’s why I’m asking you.”

“Do I look like a dictionary to you?”

“Babe, I’m not trying to argue.” Anya touched his hand. “It was just a question.”

“No, it’s alright. That was my fault.” Jacob looked towards the zephyrs and white-capped waves, using his hand to support his chin. The sound of childish splendor wafted from the water. “Do you wanna go in? I mean, we got our swim-suits on and everything.” He stood up and flicked with his index the spaces between his left-hand knuckles to knock some sand off. “It’s damn hot on the sand, you know.”

Anya, who had reopened her magazine to somewhere in the middle, looked up briefly. “Yes. But you never answered my question.” Crossing her legs on the towel, she made it clear she had no intention to move. “I’ll go in a minute.”

“Anya, I don’t know what femininity is. Hell, I don’t know what it isn’t.”

“Are those waves feminine?”

“I mean, no. What the hell kind of question is that?”

“How do you know they aren’t? How do you know I’m feminine?”

“Anya, babe, cause you’re you. You’re a woman, you’re feminine.” Jacob nodded. “Women are feminine.”

“Yeah, but—I don’t know. Sometimes I don’t feel like it.”

Jacob, now standing, looked down to her. He was absentmindedly fingering his baby blue swim trunks. “Feel like what?”

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“Feel feminine. You know?”

“What do you feel like?”

“Well sometimes, I just don’t feel like anything at all. Or maybe I’m not feminine enough, you know?”

“Babe, you’re not insecure about anything or anything, right? I—I mean, are you? Cause you shouldn’t be.” His eyes, starting at her toes, traced her figure all-the-way up to her sunglassed eyes. “Cause you’re beautiful. I ever tell you that?”

“Yes, dear. It’s all you ever tell me.” Anya tilted her head back down to the magazine, but stopped midway. She looked up into Jacob’s shadow. “Not that that’s bad—I mean, thank you. It’s just—I don’t know.

I’m alright, really.”

Jacob, still standing, shifted his weight onto his left foot. “You know what I think you need? Some refreshing, cold, ocean-water. C’mon, let’s go. It’ll be good for you.”

“Not right now, I’m reading.”

“Really? Cause it doesn’t look like you’re reading.”

“Well, I’m thinking. Reading my own thoughts. Can’t I just think?”

“I mean, sure you can. It’s just damned hot and I’m trying to go for a swim. The sand is sneaking into my trousers by now, I can feel it. The hot sun’s getting me all tired. And look,” Jacob pointed towards the glimmering ripples, “there’s even a sandbar. And it’s empty! Won’t you go to the sandbar with me? Just the two of us, the salty beach air—the whole ocean.” He watched her golden-haired head catch the sunlight, where a few strands dangled around her earlobe. It did not turn to meet him. “God, isn’t it a beautiful day out? Also, I love that swim-suit you’re wearing. Such a striking—what is that, crimson?”

“It’s a fucking bikini Jacob, ‘course you like it.” She sighed. She brushed the particularly adherent sand off her thighs and out of her hair. “Of course you’d like it,” she said again. She paused for a moment in casual uncertainty, then gently closed the magazine. The title read “What the Hell is Femininity?” in loping, lilac flowered cursive. She laid it to rest on the beach towel.

“Okay,” she said, standing up to meet him.

“You wanted to go to the sandbar?”

“I’d like nothing better.” •

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k l a w e d i s

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etique by trace mateo

t te

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1 geometric love story

The mist lounges on the Hudson in a hushed display of courtship. It is impossible to derive when the river stops and the sky starts; their legs are tangled and their fingers intertwined. It’s all water anyway.

Not so far away, stone eyes line the walls of Chambers Street’s subway station. They twinkle in iridescence under harsh LEDs. These spirits of the subway, these kodama, stretch their roots into the ground and, like aspen, blossom as one.

1 kodama

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The brutality; defiant corners and sharp, unnatural edges; desecrate nature. A fluttering arch adorned with neglected friezes—an entrance to this fatal city—set in front of grime and fading brown bricks.

Monstrous glacial movements crumble into icebergs of trash and snow; pepper sidewalks like lesions on a rotting carcass. Perfect blades of glass and steel pierce the flesh in picturesque, divine wrath. Rusting fire escapes stare down from the jurors’ bench… a verdict whistles in the wind from the tip of their tongue. The building-with-no-windows’ battlements dominates the sky’s empty blue. A castle rises in the west—another to the east; they war with antennas and cables and weapons of mass telecommunication.

A wise bridge, a silent bridge, a strong bridge, a conceited one as well. These veins that cross the east river carry traffic on their shoulders. Pump viscous life into the vessel. Railway and highway roar above wide streets and hissing spray cans. Staten Island.

1 deli cat continuum

1 groundhog

I turned 18 last weekend. Among my birthday gifts were a slew of pseudo-adulthood privileges and responsibilities from the state. Among them: the right to operate a power-driven meat slicer.

This life twinkles in front of me. The other side of the curved glass. The cut-turn-slice-toast-roast-flip-crackscramble-stack-fold-wrap-sign dance of the bacon egg and cheese. Perfecting the art of the cold cut sandwich as the days blend into each other and the time bleeds out. And, of course, in this grocer fantasy, I’m accompanied by a loyal feline companion.

The deli cat is a staple of any respectable bodega. Gaze at me from across the produce aisle; lets me chase her until we’re under the grains; stroke the outside of my curved index finger against the soft forehead that curls to meet it. Maybe a meow was out—perhaps it was a purr—with a nonchalant flick of her white-tipped tail she waltzes away through a shimmering fold, I follow.

Lead me down cobblestone streets lined by Xie Shan roofs and pluck a distant melody. Shattered awnings, shade the fish market. A chorus of clicks and clacks betrays invisible drives and chops.

The sky comes crashing down. With a POP!, the plug is pulled. The cat drowns; lights, shingles, and I swirl to the pit of this deli cat continuum.

day

A violin player announced the coming of spring. He filled Soho streets with an electric melody—a fingerless blue glove danced the bow to enunciate every note. A crowd gathered, dollars passed from mother to daughter to violin case, he smiled through rose-tinted glasses. “Thank you,” he said.

Under the unencumbered rays of a 52-degree sun, mountains of snow melted, leaving behind mountains of dog shit.

Washington Square: A man jams out Joplin on a mysterious piano (where did it come from and how did it get here?) accompanied by the kicks and pushes of restless teenage skaters. The dormant fountain tosses with youth and excitement (“Is that BIG margiela?!”).

Pastels splash the horizon; the moon rises; ghosts of last spring begin to clap again.

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1 arson in june smashing windows the insects swarm the insects screech the pigs snort the pigs squeak he grins at me the dumpster erupts

1 house of mirrors an A seemingly endless array of mirrors refracts a seemingly endless collection of chandeliers. Leaving the impression of swimming in a seemingly endless sea of sparkling lights. Towards the end of this endless sea, there is a mountain of silverware from the iconically pretentious Waldorf Astoria.

Dozens of doorknobs adorn the adjacent table.

Above the doorknobs: a bookshelf filled with marbled green and black covered editions. The journey to the basement downstairs passes not one but two boxes of baseballs, bleachers packed with fans, and an inordinate amount of floor lamps.

Colorful framed mirrors cover sloping stairways.

The basement is demarcated by a seemingly endless collection of mirrors. The ceiling is smothered in a seemingly endless array of chandeliers. Leaving the impression of swimming in a seemingly endless sea of sparkling lights. And then there are the doors. Brown doors with stained glass windows, grey doors with intricately carved floral adornations, an inconspicuous green metal door that should lead to a smoked-filled, Italian infested poker den, but is instead collecting dust in the corner of a mirror filled, chandelier infested, hoarder’s den.

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nd empty doors As I left, the old man at the counter smiled at me and said the most endearing “good-bye” anyone has ever said to me, filling me with a lucid warmth and placing a cheek-to-cheek smile on my face.

From the Whitney’s ceiling: 1. Mike Wazowski’s soul trapped in a lightbulb 2. An emergency rice cooker

1 emergency rice cooker

The cashier’s counter is run by a wizardous old man, insinuating some sort of magical conspiracy...

Olde Good Things is run by, and finances, the cult The Church of Bible Understanding (previously the Forever Family). Founded in Allentown, Pennsylvania by Stewart Traill, The Church of Bible Understanding is an evangelical Christian commune that adheres to Trail’s divine interpretation of the bible. His interpretation that all men should work at his carpet factory for free inspired Seinfeld’s cult Sunshine Carpet Cleaners (A humiliated Goerge Costanza shouts “Am I not good enough for a cult?!”).

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Dimly aware of where you are, less sure about how you got here, and not at all preoccupied with this realization; my legs thread and dangle off a fire escape. A prime seat to this late-night opera.

Across the street—9 windows up—a young couple laughs in a kitchen that is not their own. They open a cabinet and laugh at the platoon of intricate champagne flutes that salute their flushed faces. They turn on the tap and laugh. Why not? But most of all they laugh at the social ineptitude of their pudgy host, who only breaks his curled-up-instagram-scrolling-muteness to mock his incapacitated friend. They briefly disappear, reemerging when the door—9 windows down—opens. The fat boy shrieks insults and flashes cash at the taxi driver who refuses to take them, “You are too many.” His assholic shouts devolve into hysterical laughter; both ring with priceless loneliness. The young couple laughs with incredulity. The incapacitated laughs and laughs and laughs because he has nothing left to say.

The opera bleeds off the stage and mingles with the kitchen lights and the bedroom lamp. It mixes with the streetlights and the skylights and the exit signs.

Here it comes for me; my head, twice as heavy as it was a moment before, falls back. My gaze blurs and follows, the laughing lights shoot skyward.

Streaking towards the stars they brand the sky. One blink—they fall from the sky and land in my eyelids.

Two blinks—even that impression fades. Three blinks—

Crinkled toebox, missing shingles, wishfully white laces. A burst heel, scarred leather, faded branding. Despite the crushed inner sole, their familiarity grants comfort, even on rainy days that beget soggy socks.

Their mileage is a prize won through aimless pilgrimages and blistering encounters.

Memories, scuffs, and scratches—all victims of this sole sander; soul whetstone.

1 sole slander; soul whetsone

1 late night opera

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TEENAGE FREEDOM by charles matadin he early morning sun is blinding as I step out of my front door into the churning machine of NYC. I get on my skateboard and begin pushing towards my local skatepark. Overwhelmed by the cacophony of car horns, street vendors and selfie-snapping tourists, I put in my headphones. “If 6 Was 9” by Jimi Hendrix forces out the white noise of the city and envelops me into the psychedelic experience of his wailing electric guitar.

I started skating at the age of eight, when my friend Jenny gave me a skateboard and lessons at a local flower shop with a halfpipe in their garden. Since then skating has become a form of meditation for me, an escape from the ordinary.

My mind wanders and I become lost in the labyrinth of my imagination. Our brains project emotions, thoughts and understanding of the physical world out in front of us as we take in information and stimuli from the surrounding energy.

A horn blares as I weave between cars and turn down an empty street to get to the skatepark as soon as possible. Removing my headphones, I hear the clicks and clacks of polyurethane wheels on broken concrete echo off the overpass that protects skaters from the heat of the summer sun.

I throw my skateboard over the fence and climb the chain links that separate a society of competing individuals from a flock of misfits moving in chaotic coordination. I feel at home in the diverse skatepark community; it’s like an ever-expanding art exhibit, with new people and graffiti appearing every day. I scan the area for my friends and spot them sitting in the far corner.

I venture into the heart of the skatepark, careful not to disrupt the ebb and flow of the professionals. Sounds of underground hip-hop and Brazilian jazz fill the air. I get off my board and dap up my friends. I sit down on the ancient wooden bench covered in cigarette burns and observe the instinctively harmonious paths of the skaters.

“Let's go get eats from the bodega around the corner,” says Mercer and he jumps up from the bench and rides away. We force ourselves into the narrow doorway of the deli in a flurry of teenage hunger and excitement. The sound of skateboards knocking into shelves and raucous laughter shocks the clerk calmly sitting behind the counter. The snack aisle is ransacked—every bottle of iced tea purchased—and the cooks work overtime to prepare twelve bacon-egg-and-cheeses.

We skate down to the East River and naturally split into groups. A few sit against a tree as Jimi fills the air with peace and love, some sit on the edge of the boardwalk with their feet dangling above the grimy water and others continue to practice tricks on the grass, free from the fear of hard concrete. The sun begins to set behind the ominous financial buildings looming over our fading childhoods. Our banter is loud and the people around us keep looking, but we don’t care. We are blissfully unaware of the weight of our existence.

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That's teenage freedom, I guess. •

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but [the schoolchildren, by mercer meeks

sheathed in silk] ought to be famous, or close-to-it— (nanometer notoriety drunk silly on bottomless pockets, dressed like television parrot-breathed; caught in cy cle with blackoutbars and smashed vases cy cle with starved chests and touchable dreams who; nanometer notoriety) wake up next to greatness but never feel it. but [the schoolchildren, shadowed by history] ought to be famous or close-to-it— you extortionate failure” powdered and pompous and future-proofed airtight; crushed by eyeballs; who assure they are who they aren’t felt alive but never were.

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CREATOR by charles matadin Amidst the flood of cultures I disappear.

The ebb and flow and the surge that engulfs us.

Forced into a duality Of two minds, We become dissociative. But that's...wrong. Wrong, wrong.

A bad reading of the situation.

The right reading is that I just don't understand it.

At all In two and creator in extension suffers from the same old shit, An ignorance of duality, of real duality. In that: can u create true harmony, every Last bit of it, and just let reality unfold?

It's interesting from my point of view, the blind draw, the trick of making something confounding and great and potentially horrible, drawn out of consciousness---all of this is no longer of interestIn fact, even seeing things in this light depresses me. And so I often come home at night depressed by what I have done, what I am doing. It's good. It means I've changed We lose the world we once thought we knew, as we grow.

Realization catapults us into a new understanding of the world around us.

But these realizations are not the answers, they are simply only bread crumbs.

Bread crumbs that only lead us to other bread crumbs, for there is no loaf; Only those who loaf upon the path, to ponder bread crumbs.

Balance once controlled this world, when there could not be Light Without Dark Good Without Evil Creation Without Destruction, but we have so wrongly shifted the tides 77

of thought and expression.

At some point, when this is finished, ill explain this poem word for word, swear to god A devil with angels wings: when I know if it is good or bad, I'll know what is good, and what is bad.

We are forced into boxes.

Boxes that come with labels that we cannot see, and are ostracized for not fitting.

Boxes we claw and scratch at until our fingers bleed; And if we breakthrough, what happens?

We are pushed down by those who created the boxes.

Those who define who we are, who tell us what to think of ourselves, who dictate the way we are perceived.

These are the people who define our “self-evident” truths.

An all-knowing fifty headed beast spangled with eyes watches over us.

Eyes that have no life, and peer at us from every crevice and corner.

Watching, observing, we are always seen.

Mouths that spew lies and false information to its subjects.

Hands that crush the ones who rise against, and push down thoughts of a world without the beast.

A tail that divides us in two, that splits our opinions, and separates us with money.

But without the beast we would not exist, for it has birthed us.

The beast created the rules of this world, and we abide and play its game.

Those foolish enough to believe that their breath belongs to them have already succumbed to the beast.

An insatiable hunger plagues humanity.

For all that once existed, has been consumed; and everything that will be already has.

We salivate over what the beast provides, for it is all we know.

The poisonous nectar of life is poured down our throats, yet we indulge, Finally becoming embalmed in our own desire.

Craving for what we don’t have, and live wanting ever more.

So we created a cycle to uphold and fuel our insatiable hunger One that cannot be broken, and one that torments us.

A cycle too strong to be broken or questioned by any one person, for they would seem delusional.

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The message from the dreams was quite clear: we will not be listening to you any further. Of course some tension is created. Cosmonaut in a bread line, etcetera The Beast teaches us that we are the apex of all things; Yet how do we compare to earth and all it has to offer, for it created the beast; For it has been in front of us since the dawn of time, and has defined human existence for thousands of years.

But in our modernized dystopia we have taken it for granted; We have forgotten what makes us human.

It's neither the blood running through our veins, nor the code that defines us.

It is the soul’s subtle love for all things, and the key to the lock with no keyhole. •

artwork by charles matadin

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photo by mercer meeks 83 photo by mercer meeks

modeled by rachel dan 84

photo by mercer meeks 85

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photos by peace kiponda

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HALFPACE HALFPACE HALFPACE HA PACE

ISSUE 1

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SPRING 2021

HA PACE HALFPACE HALFPACE HALFPACE

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