Now One With Everyone

“Now One With Everyone!”

Now One With Everyone A Modus Publication

This is a group photo.

We put out a 24 hour call for submissions and this is when the flash began.

Perhaps some artists and writers were captured by it with 23 hours to go. Maybe 15, or 2. By hour 0 the light faded out and left us with a impression of everyone who decided to turn and smile.

We, the participants and the publishers, didnt know a week ago that we would be captured together. We can only wonder what in our past was preparing us for to be together in this place. We can only wonder who you are and when you would find us.

We thank you for being here. We, the publishers, thank all those who submitted, and those who made this publication possible (Jim Strong, Icebox Project Space, Carlye Kalmes, Logan Cryer).

This is our group photo. Now One with Everyone.

Featured Alyssa Outwater 4 Kyle Gallagher 6 Sarmistha Talukdar 8 Samantha M. Connors 10 Cory Kram 12 Drew Kohler 14 Emily Brown 16 Liz Coylar 18 Jim Strong 20 Mark Danowsky 22 Matthew Raghunauth 24 Emily Small 26 Tara Middleton 28 Luke Desmone 30 James Bonney 32 Stephen Hobbs 34 Angela Heaps 36 Chloe Fimiano 38 AP Vague 40 Leah Gallant 42 Lane Speidel 44 Christina Gesualdi 46 Myles Cream 50

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Alissa Outwater Sympathy Digital Collage Alyssa is a graphic designer whose work explores different image making and storytelling techniques. Her work can be found across the web @aouth2o.

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Kyle Gallagher Untitled 9 by 12 Mixed media on paper 2017 Kyle Gallagher was born and raised in San Francisco, Ca. He currently lives and works in Philadelphia, Pa.

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The Empath Rorschach Of The Fall

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Brainwashing

Ariadne

Sarmistha Talukdar Brainwashing The Empath Rorschach of The Fall Ariadne

Sarmistha is an artist, musician, and scientist. Her interest in art started at very early age since then as a visual artist she has explored various mediums of expression such as contemporary abstract, and pop-surrealism in traditional media, mixed media, digital art and photography. Her aim is to express discontent with the traditional and conventional, dwell on the uncomfortable, as well as to reflect the socio-political rise of feminism and non-conformity. Through her art and music she seeks to empathically connect with her audience, while trying to make peace between logic and emotion, traditional and modern, the East and the West. Her personal aim as an artist is to amalgamate science, art and music in a form that engages the audience, compels them towards action instead of apathy, as well as provides ephemeral sanctuaries for catharsis, reminiscing and dreaming.

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Samantha M. Connors Eroden Samantha M. Connors is a sculpture artist with an emphasis on fiber materials and processes. They reside in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, where they received their BFA from Tyler School of Art at Temple University in 2014. Their work focuses on experiencing touch through visual means, as well as processing emotional release through physical meditation.

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Kyle Gallagher Untitled 9 by 12 Mixed media on paper 2017 Kyle Gallagher was born and raised in San Francisco, Ca. He currently lives and works in Philadelphia, Pa.

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Chuck-e-cheese

Cory Kram Chuck-e-cheese Untitled yo, I’m a cat Apple Ghost

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Cory Kram is a multi-disciplinary artist living and working in Philadelphia who specializes in video art, performance and book-making. She is greatly inspired by the ephemeral images and objects that lie on the everyday plane of modern existence.

Her work is often informed by materials found on the streets of Philadelphia or otherwise discarded. For example, she once developed a series of surreal performances involving a Gumby costume I found in the gutter in West Philadelphia. Kram has previously exhibited, screened, or performed at galleries and venues including Vox Populi, Philadelphia, PA; Microscope Gallery, Brooklyn, NY; Le Petit Versailles, NYC; Launch Pad Cooperative, Toledo, Ohio; and Little Berlin, Philadelphia, PA

Untitled

yo, I’m a cat

Apple Ghost

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Drew Kohler Virgin Boy Oil on wood 2 x 16 in 2015-2017 Drew Kohler studied at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts (BFA 2014). He is the recipient of the Richard C. Von Hess Memorial Travel Scholarship in 2014 and the John Anson Kittredge Educational Fund in 2016. His work has been shown in Philadelphia and New York City, and is in private and public collections, including the Woodmere Art Museum.

He lives and works in Philadelphia, PA.

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Emily Brown

Invention No. 2

lives in Philly

to play bach’s inventions is to have your two hands map two different scales simultaneously which requires a certain shutting off of the brain. a pact between fingers and brain requires a certain awareness of the body as a mechanism of parts fitted into ivory joints. on your pianoforte no sliding door for glimpses of balsa to tap a hum on its strings so its body and mind instead hidden, lumped

Anatomy of an empty womb Somewhere an iguana loses its tail the iguana maybe doesn’t feel the loss not physically but behind it sees a limb less vertebrae sees the stump. It attaches in its place a skin where it shed itself then an iguana must have scales and shed these also.

An iguana without its tail still knows itself to be an iguana. A limb detached from a particular bone we name a phantom. Something which occurs in lizards is these phantoms grow back.

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the color of the shirt The way she folded the clothes and hung them out on the line not as her mother would.

She used different detergent and hung them out on the line because the flax linen stained.

She used different detergent so as not to risk cracked skin because the flax linen stained pink. With palms flat she spread its color, and folded edges inward.

She recalled the specific shade of pink which stained the wet shirt.

That was important, just as she recalled the specificity of folding one way over another.

And that was important, just as important as her own resolve folding one way over another how it stacked against her mother’s

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Liz Colyar House In Suspension I am an artist currently residing in Philadelphia. I attended University of the Arts, and primarily work in ceramic. Recently I have been exploring architectural spaces using drafting software, but then turning them into spaces that no longer make architectural sense. Through use of color I flatten the space further distorting the information from the technical drawings.

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Jim Strong Jim is a visual artist, musician and curator. Member of Vox Populi gallery in Philadelphia Pennsylvania.

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Mark Danowsky Mark Danowsky is a writer from Philadelphia who lives in West Virginia.

His poems have appeared in About Place, Cordite, Gargoyle, Right Hand Pointing, Shot Glass Journal, Subprimal, and elsewhere. Mark is Managing Editor for the Schuylkill Valley Journal and Founder of the poetry coaching and editing service VRS CRFT.

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You would do well to bury yourself in others Who says you cannot Be all these different people?

Being who you must As situations require The face of desire In moments of need At what cost to you Are you something for someone?

You are who you are Only in this moment As night descends You darken with the hour Yet do not disarm yourself As the cooling air breathes you Take up your inner lantern— Dissipate darkling shadows

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Self Study

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The Lobotomy

Island In The Sun

Four Sister

Matthew Raghunauth Self Study The Lobotomy Island In The Sun Four Sister I am a 21-year-old self-taught artist, living in Philadelphia studying Interactive digital media. Many of the inspirations for my paintings stem from my West Indian / Caribbean heritage (Parents from Guyana) and memories of stories my family/parents have told me. I often like to juxtapose bright and vivacious color schemes with more morbid and series subject matter.

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Emily Small Me, Mother Emily is an emerging textile artist finishing her last year at the Rhode Island School of Design. Her work reflects the relationships she has to people and objects that surround her, and questions the way they script her life.

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Tara Middleton Calling rocket number 9 Currently Tara is the lead vocalist and violinist for the Sun Ra Arkestra under the direction of Marshall Allen.

Tara is the first woman to take the stage as a musician with the Arkestra in over twenty years.Tara has recently returned from a world tour with the Arkestra. At a time when female jazz singers have been arriving in waves, she is that rarity. An authentic artist who brings an irresistible blend of musicality and melodic insight to every song she sings. Tara focuses on the essential elements of her art, her voice is full of warmth and playing is filled with character.

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Habitual Repitition In The Boat

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Finding Sphinx

No Face, A Birdy Goes Flappity Flap

Luke Desmone Habitual Repitition Finding Sphinx In A Boat No Face, A Bird Goes Flappity Flap

Luke is a Philadelphia artist born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He is strongly influenced by enviroment and experience of our predecessors, through Primitivism, Superflat, Fantasy, and culture in a post digital era he explores what existence is for and the confusion that lies in that search. He uses his materials to describe facits of life, expressions of emotion and experience, responding to the essence of being human and what that means as our society progresses.

Desmone recieved his BFA in Ceramics from the University of the Arts.

To read more about their artist statement please visit www.lukedesmone.com

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James Bonney Park(ing) Day Pop Up Quarters James Bonney is a designer and artist based in Philadelphia. He is an active member of Space 1026 with interests in installations, furniture, and illustration

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Four Years Removed

Stephen Cobb

Four years ago today, we met.

Stephen is an emotional 22 year The way you would unconsciously smile old South Jersey native currently at the idea of a future with me. at Temple University persuing an You fell in love with the idea of stability, english degree, ultimately looking and I watched you collapse. to become a published novelist.

Losing yourself somewhere inside of sleepless nights, uglystephen.wordpress.com I wanted you to want me.

I wanted you to need me.

And you thought you didhypnotized by empty promises that told you I would make you better.

Because for the first time in your life, commitment felt safe.

We let the voices of the world play Cupid, telling us that we were meant to be.

So you spoiled me with your time.

Patiently respecting my 1,460 day rule before being able to have me in the physical sense.

And on that last day, I gave you all of me. Tattooing your name into my waistline.

Making love to your mind, whispering all the things you wanted to hear, like promises of a mĂŠnage with society so we could fuck the system together.

And once we finished, after the glamouring romance and the emotional investment was over, you realized.

The past four years you spent chasing me were obsolete.

And you stood there.

Heart full of wasted time.

Just to find out that you were still just as lost as you were on the day you met me.

Four years ago.

Because I never needed you.

You just thought you needed me.

Love, Your Bachelors Degree

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Millennial Prayer Our Father, who art online Hallowed be thy link.

Thy king.com, Thy answers be found On earth, as they are in cyber.

Give us a domain, for our daily media And forgive us our addiction, As we unfollow those Who troll against us And tweet us not into the truth But deliver us from reality For thine is the blogging And the browsing And the uploading forever Amen Interracial Handwriting The first page of the diary laid flat on its back.

White.

Vulnerable.

Waiting for the black ink.

The pen locked eyes with the margin of the diary page.

Intimacy.

And after awhile, you forget that they were ever two separate people.

Blind to the color of each other’s skin, unbothered.

The page of the diary opened up, listening.

Receptive.

Fertile.

Birthing a mulatto baby. Swaddled in words of poetry, Spelled with the culture of its father and the privilege of its mother.

The black ink to a caucasian canvas, still creates love.

And after awhile, you forget that they were ever two seperate people.

Because love is still legible when interracially written.

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Angela Heaps Oh Honey Caligraph, screen print, and paper pulp on paper Angela Heaps, originally from Louisville ky, is a printmaking graduate from Maryland Institute College of Art in Baltimore, MD class of 2015. She focusses primarily in silkscreen, calligraph and monoprinting techniques and is influenced by texture and memory. She often finds herself indulging in impulses and tends to remember shitty times fondly.

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Chloe Fimiano Chloe Fimiano is an emerging poet and clinical twenty-something. You can find her work on her Instagram @precious__cargo__shorts.

ORGANIC MONKEY MEAT The myth debunked, they weren’t eating the Mokèlé-mbèmbé, the four-legged creature doing laps in the Bangena.

This is the make-out creek of Africa where The Congolese can French-kiss the mouth of God, whenever they want and yet, the gape of Lake Tele whispers to you, This is not the middle of nowhere, but the center of the universe, and you do not belong.

THE WEST dissolves, water cleanses itself, and now we must forage the burger-joint for survival and the only way to live is to learn the ten thousand properties of a sesame seed bun that’s not biodegradable.

All while being barefoot and with the baby suckling at your silicone breast.

Nothing you learned in your University course, OPEN HEART SURGERY FOR BEGINNERS helps you in the swampland.

You, the desperate housewife may be able to mend a pulmonary valve after your husband cheats, but you can’t suck the venom from your own big toe, caked in the mud of the megatransect,

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C’EST NES PAS UN SPANKABLE ASS iT’S JUST AN IMAGE OF A SPANKABLE ASS The best type of person to be is some type of composite even though that is a lie that the devil is telling you and also imminent, all thanks to iCloud.

Humans can get by elementally, mostly nitrogen and magnesium.

But as a human girl you feel your chemical make-up should be more spankable than it currently is.

I think shapeshifting will get tiresome.

I think people might eventually see you for the abject chameleon you are.

In the dark, like my lily plant, ask me about how little I’m worth I hate Instagram My lily plant requires low light the window sill was too much for her I get that I find it hard to exist asymmetrically My boobs never came in I think I require low light too ironically my petals will wilt if you tell me you hate me or you tell me you love me some women look like this and some women look like this you don’t need pictures to understand on my deathbed I’ll still eat what you tell me My lily plant only requires water I’m so jealous

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A. P. Vague 10-17 Digital imaging and programming, 2017 This project explores the difference between the endemic information contained within an image and the subjective connotations that can imbue an image with meaning. This piece is an index of the pixels from three digital photographs taken during the course of one day, rearranged to remove recognizable imagery while retaining elements like color and contrast.

A. P. Vague is an American multimedia artist and educator whose work focuses on technology, communication, and distance. Vague received an MFA from Rutgers University and currently teaches Digital Art and Technology at Wichita State University. Using immaterial forms such as audio, video, and text, Vague is currently focused on building international collaborations and utilizing alternative exhibition practices.

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Drawing The Escalator While Standing On The Escalator (top and bottom)

Self Portrait With Mint

Leah Gallant Drawing The Escalator While Standing On The Escalator Self Portrait With Mint Leah Gallant is an artist and writer who lives in Philadelphia.

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Don’t Miss Me, Stuckness When will he leave me alone?

Can I be left alone at all? Is there an alone to be left to?

By that I mean, is it me?

I don’t trust my own memory, but I remember things every day I just remembered something.

Other people have taken ownership over my body for as long as I can remember.

This has leant to a feeling of unreality, that the things that happen to my body are not real. That the experiences of my body and the experiences of my person are separate.

I feel like the child with the chair.

A long haired child alone for the moment in a restaurant. Adults had made one decision and then very quickly another, leaving the child to catch up. Wrapped in a winter coat and a scarf with their hat pulled up slightly off of their head, letting thin pieces of hair puff up and out. They were trapped sitting in a chair pushed up under a table. The chair was heavy, upholstered with leather, padded, and square. It was pushed in snugly by adult arms and hands and could not be pushed out the same way by the child. The table was covered by glass with a table cloth underneath and the leather of the chair provided no friction when they tried to stand. Heat from the inside of their body started coming out in their effort, heat in their face from the embarrassment of not being able to catch up.

They begin squirming to the side to try to slide their body out from being folded in between the chairback and seat and the edge of the table. The hard edge of table bites through the thick down layer of their coat, pushing and nudging the child’s organs as they work to slide their body out. They get one ankle hooked around a table leg, and are able to use that as leverage to free their torso. They used their hands to brace themselves and push up and out on one leg, hopping slightly, to free their last trapped leg. They have to hop and wiggle a few times because they are wearing large winter boots. When they stumble back, free, they knock over another large heavy chair that was sat beside them. They look up, and unable to fix the situation, quickly walk away.

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What could be more horrible then someone else’s idea of fun?

Trapped by carefreedom, trapped by shirtlessness, trapped by wet walls of sticky skin. They were both too big and too small. Everyone was putting their arms up and down, moving their hips from side to side, with their faces turned up but eyes cast down smiling. There’s a pattern to it that they can’t reach. Rather, there is a pattern that they can see and feel but slide off of. It’s success relies on their non-participation.

For it to succeed it cannot include me.

Can you see my body in the past and in the future?

Every time I enter a room a question exists. Who are you but the sound made by others?

Pressing up the sidewalk in a body I don’t remember wanting.

Scraping down that street like so much collected refuse, brought out by the wind, dragging it’s thin skin on the ground with a scratching sound.

I’m stuck again crying again because of something my Mom said again.

I’m afraid that I can’t afford top surgery but I’m also afraid that it won’t be enough.

How often do I have to point to an object to prove who I am How could any one stay happy in a world this circular?

Lane Speidel Born into a loving family, Lane could find ways not to love them.

Sent into a group of friends, Lane could find a way to make them cruel.

Given educational resources, Lane could find reasons to hide from them.

Offered an opportunity to explain things, Lane could find a way to make fun of it.

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Christina Gesualdi To Accompany A View of the Mountain Pass Called the Notch of the White Mountains (Crawford Notch) by Thomas Cole 1839 Text By: Christina Gesualdi (painting by Thomas Cole)

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Christina Gesualdi is a Philly based dance, choreographer, and movement educator.

She is an artist in residence at Mascher Space Co-op where she makes experiential work that researches a certain softness and imaginative off-ness in the body. She is interested in place and criticizes how artists (finger also pointing back at herself) use authorship and ambition in a way that can bolster gentrification, place making and marking while creating static assumptions about solidarity. Christina is an advocate for DIY, small scale cooperation, collaboration, and community exchange in Philly’s dance community. She is also a yoga teacher who loves teaching senior citizens, undergraduates, and experimental movers at various gyms, universities, and studios.

She has taught yoga and embodied presence to kids at Neighborhood Bike Works Summer Cycling Camp and Girl’s Rock Philly Summer Camp.

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This is the poem of the mountain.

The mountain is singing.

In penetrates the mist without blinking.

This is the poem of the Mountain and of God with a capital G and of Man with a capital M This is the poem of the Unmoved, he, who stands at the very top of the mountain feet spread knees are soft He can see way out and if he listens carefully enough, maybe he can hear a bird chirping in the distance He reaches his arms way out, gathering the qi of the universe, bringing it down the front of his body ending in the lower dantien.

He repeats this movement five times.

Slowing down the breath Slowing down the movement Slowing down the overactive mind But this is the poem of the mountain, which came forth from plates pushing.

Like most labor, it started with a horizontal compression. some grunting and bearing down ending in folding and faulting folding into folds faulting into wrinkles layers upon layers protruding from the earth as mass.

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2.

This is the poem of the frontier and of the little man on the little horse.

He doesn’t know where he’s going.

He’s trotting in the shadows of the forests and the mountain.

He doesn’t know where he’s going.

He’s going to Home Depot to build a deck on his house.

He doesn’t know where he’s going.

He’s getting the hell out of there cause a storm is coming in.

He doesn’t know where he’s going.

He’s trampling anyone in the way – trampling other animals – other people who had set up camps and houses.

He doesn’t know where he’s going.

He’s riding a bulldozer, a thing with a wrecking ball and dynamite.

He doesn’t know where he’s going.

He’s rushing home cause his wife is having a baby.

He doesn’t know where he’s going.

He’s just out for a relaxing trot – trying to make it down to the riverfront – going to check out the new pop-­‐up beer garden.

He doesn’t know where he’s going.

He’s going nowhere – riding his horse more as a symbol.

A symbol of here I am. I’m here to stay He’s going to drop off his rent check.

He’s headed to rehearsal.

He’s going to fight in the uprising.

He doesn’t know where he’s going.

He’s going to meet up with the town watch. Someone broke a window, and they’re going to catch him.

He doesn’t know where he’s going.

It’s just important that he keep going.

And if he listens carefully enough, maybe he will hear some opportunity chirping in the distance.

He should keep going.

Not lie down at the bottom of this mountain.

Racehorse ambition. He should seize the day, singing all the while.

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This is the poem of the frontier.

3.

This is the poem of the woman I saw at the Korean Spa. I can’t remember if the water was soapy.

It was finding its way down, pooling at the drain. suds that smelled like cherry almond or weird raspberry a plastic stool, concave for her bottom Another plastic stool was upside down becoming a bucket with water for rinsing and splashing. a functional path to the body cupping the water with her hand – like a cat’s tounge bringing it to the body letting it have its fluid way with the body with the folds a movement a movement down with gravity a lazy river down the folds She was a mountain.

She was a tombstone.

She was timeless and remaining there.

She was cleaning, cleaning herself.

She was more than cleaning.

She made me realize that American notions of cleaning and clean and cleanliness are complete bullshit.

Cleaning is an action. a tracing of layers dealing with those layers Cleaning isn’t ridding of but reclaiming. tracing pathways sensing the skin carving pathways feeling it again and again like renewing a book from the library Cleaning is work in and with and through the messy and the murky.

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Myles Cream "22 years old. Pennsauken, NJ. I shoot photos...sometimes." @wurdlife

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October 21 2017