SOMOS Spring 2022

LATINX LITERARY MAGAZINE

spring ’22 volume XII • issue II

Carolina Correa ’22 Co-Editor-in-Chief

Nikita Baregala Lopez ‘23 Co-Editor-in-Chief

Yolizbeth Lozano ’22 Lead Design Editor

Jimmy Richmond ’22 Managing Editor

Teresa Conchas ’22 English Editor

Isa Longoria-Valenzuela ’22.5

Mara Cavallaro ’22 Publicity Manager

Kate Alvarez ’23 English Editor

Fiona Killian ’24 Design Editor

Sofia Gerlein ’24 Managing Editor

Sabrina Sanclemente ’25 Design Editor

Sofia Cruz ’25 English Editor

Spanish Editor

Monik Rodriguez ’25 Design Editor

letter from the editors Dear Reader, As we put together this magazine, our goal has been to create a work of art that brings together the diversity of identities, perspectives, and magic of the Latinx community. We explore the art and joy that comes from our community and we invite you to join us in the privilege of delving into these works. How do we carry our families and ancestors with us? How do we find comfort and safety in a space that is so uninviting? How do we navigate a world where our ancestral homes continue to be colonized? And how does our heritage manifest in our art, in what we love, and in what we are angry at? Reader, what you hold here is a precious collection of answers, in the form of love, care, hope, despair, confusion, and pain. The works that we present to you explore the Latinx identities we carry with us, far from our homes, family, and places of love. They explore, honor, and remember our family, friends, and home, while contending with the violence, trauma, struggle and dissonance of being alive in this world. This edition is the first which we, as a team, have decided to include a content warning. We do this as an acknowledgment to the heaviness of this year, this magazine, and these identities. We also do this as a way to make our magazine more accessible for people to share in both the pain and joy of these beautiful works. This SOMOS magazine would not be possible without the participation and efforts made by our amazing team.

Thank you for your participation, dedication, and perspective; this magazine would not have come together without each of you. As a team, we are proud to host a space that can visibilize, uplift, and publish Latinx creatives’ work in our community. Since the 1980s, SOMOS has been a small group of students dedicated to showcasing Latinx art. This semester especially, we find it particularly important to honor our identities and homes in the face of active colonization of our lands. While our peers display our homes from the perspective of resorts, we have often felt like our identities, communities, and lands are ignored despite inhabiting the same classrooms. We hope this magazine brings to light the diversity and beauty of our community.

Con cariño, Nikita and Caro

Content Warning: This magazine includes sensitive topics, such as disordered eating, violence, migration, and diaspora. We invite you to engage with this collection of art with care, sensitivity, and at the pace that feels the most comfortable to you.

table of contents 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 22 24 25 26 28 30 31 32 33 34 36 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45

Entre la noche y el día • Elena Aguirre Uranga Naive • Camila González Vásquez Dry crop • Jedry Davila Con Tiempo • Jedry Davila Patiently Biting • Jedry Davila To grow together • Ev Santos Dirty Laundry • Ev Santos Gris • Francisco Javier Macossay-Hernandez a poem on love • jared Cetz Modern Mona • Avalon Lafosse All Presidents Are Bastards • jared Cetz in-class journal entry feb 3 2022 • jared Cetz Egg-Over-Easy • Avalon Lafosse A Man Named Shoe • jared Cetz Untitled (Pink Bench) • Colin Orihuela fragmentos de mi labor • Jessica Gonzalez The Color of Dirt • Melanie Ortiz- Alvarez de la Campa A Colony’s Cries Are Merely Whispers From Ghost Lands • Nélari Figueroa Torres hasta la raíz;en fragmentos • yolizbeth splits • lluvia sketch: familia • Davi Sapiro-Gheiler Florida Water • Elena Householder Rivera Veladoras Místicas • Monik Rodriguez chá de camomila • Mara Cavallaro la diáspora puertorriqueña es sábados de ‘beauty’ • Graciela My Room After I Close The Door • Adrian Hernandez Breakfast • Melanie Ortiz- Alvarez de la Campa Wild Garden • Ingrid De Leon De La Rosa test of patience • lluvia El Dueto de los Dioses • Elena Aguirre Uranga * Lo Poco Que Me Queda de Ti • Melany Veliz Not Far From Here, A House • Elena Householder Rivera un descanso de más allá • yolizbeth * cover designed by Elena Aguirre Uranga

Entre la noche y el día • Elena Aguirre Uranga lithograph print

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Naive • Camila González Vásquez When I was seven, I saw the sun.

And smitten at once, I drank of its light.

A forbidden sun— one might say— for such held the warnings, I’d float with my gaze.

It was short for a love affair, one that bloomed with seconds and soreness in the eyes.

Free-spun kisses, boiled and blistered, somehow reddened, and surfaced on my skin.

“It’ll ruin your sight.”

Yet how could they know?

When they refused to look above the sun-swept costal lands.

Perhaps I was naive, at my seven years of age, to believe all that is beautiful to be gracious just the same.

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Dry crop • Jedry Davila acrylic on drywall

Con Tiempo • Jedry Davila

Patiently Biting • Jedry Davila

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To grow together • Ev Santos View the garden wholly, bear witness to the anomalies. When describing the garden to a stranger, start with what is beautiful and thriving.

Do not dig your spade into any roots unless there is rotting. Appreciate the Spring blossoms as much as the measures taken to protect the Winter foliage.

The real key though is mostly to come back even when the garden is closed even when burlap replaces the flowers even when the seats are moved indoors even if weeds grow instead of shrubs even if bad seeds are sowed or the dirt is not properly prepared even if everything’s been planted in the wrong season.

Come back to the garden, water the soil and idle in the sun.

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Dirty Laundry • Ev Santos Love is defeating, always. My mother has been on survival mode for the last decade, alone, living in memories. They are tripping over each other, trying to escape like smoke held in too long. She inhales to numb it and continues on, working, folding clothes, forgetting momentarily the open wounds. Once, she fractured her ankle in three places. The biggest ache was the amount of time she sat in her own head, in disuse, reliving, depraved of sleep.

I remember too– that girl on the bus; they grabbed her hair and shoved her forehead-first into the window over and over.

Maybe it would have been me if not for my sister. Maybe I would have drowned if my sister had not noticed me missing. If I died today, there are things I’d carry with me to the next cycle. Things I’ve held for so long that their weight is part of me. Things that sleep on my chest so I have a hard time breathing through the night.

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Gris • Francisco Javier Macossay-Hernandez Me gusta mucho estar triste. Bueno, estar triste sin razón alguna. Disfruto ver la vida con un tinte melancólico. Justo en este momento tomo un café delicioso, escucho música y me encuentro sentado viendo el día gris lluvioso.

Es divertido. Me hace añorar todos aquellos momentos de felicidad que di por sentado. Me trae mucha calma. No me encuentro llorando, ni tengo ganas de hacerlo. Sin embargo, se siente sabroso estar así. La relajación que traen estos momentos es por lo que me gusta vivir. Al igual que la música deprimente, mi vida es un reflejo de la mezcla que se forma entre lo bonito y lo malo. A pesar de que el café me hace temblar, lo disfruto. Disfruto lo malo de la vida con todo y sus matices. No se puede tener el gris sin el negro y blanco. Así se vive mejor, sufriendo y disfrutando. Quiero vivir una vida larga pero llena de tristeza y felicidad. Deseo poder encontrar el amor de mi vida, pero al mismo tiempo perderme en muchos amoríos. Anhelo poder formar una familia estable, pero antes de eso quiero pasar por caminos escabrosos. Creo firmemente en que todo en esta vida ocupa ser conformado por el bien y el mal. Si no, no vale la pena estar. No soy un masoquista, más bien un realista. Todo tiene que traer diversión, si no, ¿para qué vivir? ¡Que aburrido vivir sin sufrir! Me atrevo a decir que quiero morir trágicamente para alcanzar la eterna paz. Odio amar estar vivo. Amo odiar estar vivo. Disfruten lo positivo y negativo. Esto los hará libres, confíen en mí.

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a poem on love

• jared Cetz

I’m gonna throw up all the water inside of me the swamp before me bubbles and gurgles. all my spit has hardened and cuts my tongue and the roof of my mouth. i don’t pray for rain, but the clouds come anyway, and the rain falls on me and all around me, i look down. i don’t pray for wind, but the gusts come anyway, sitting on my heels, my head is pushed back, and i let my mouth fall open, a little bit.

- a poem on love

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Modern Mona • Avalon Lafosse

oil paint, acrylic, oil pastel

All Presidents Are Bastards

• jared Cetz

ima buy supersized, sticky notes & stick them on walmars & boxes of cheerios like Good Morning!, Fuck the President!!

Now here’s a big bowl of a hearty break-fer-est! i’m gonna propaganda a commotion & if u wanna chill w/ me u better bring a potion & that is not a euphemism 4 a 40 ounce i’m talkin shit that’ll turn clinton into a horny mouse or warp time and space so i can spit shit in biden’s face and make him like the taste & give him 2nd degree burns ‘cause ima be the 2nd son graduated and all our shit fire

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in-class journal entry feb 3 2022

• jared Cetz

Gargantuan is a funny word, maybe I’ll use it to describe one of my feelings.. my.. Sleepy! is Gargantuan, my focus is not. my feet? are Gargantuan, at least they feel really heavy most or all of my feeling has fallen to the top of my shoes or maybe my socks this is gonna be really awkward when this class ends and i can’t get up i want my feelings to be Gargantuan or even gargantuancito i want them to be Big and Scary or small and sweet i just want them i just want them there but instead, they’ve all gone to concrete my feet.

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Egg-Over-Easy • Avalon Lafosse

acrylic paint

A Man Named Shoe • jared Cetz Fun Fact: *actually* Not-So Fun Fact: this writer has a headache. This writer is also stubborn and refuses to take any medicine. And not in a like anti-vaxxer type of way but in a like “it’s whatever, I’ll just deal with it” type of way. Anyway, way before this writer started writing this (well actually writing this, Writer technically started writing this yesterday but that was just Writer on an open google doc while actually using instagram through the web browser, Who uses instagram through the web browser??), way before, this writer met a man named Shoe.

Shoe, when he was just that-dude-over-there-that-has-his-laces-untied, likes to walk around with his laces untied. Writer likes to not walk around and stare at people with their laces untied until they say “oops” or “oh” or “thanks” and then tie their laces. Writer prefers the wooden chair, wooden table combo located right outside of Yessi’s Cafe, Writer has grown so attached to this chair that Writer heavily considers following the expression “take a seat” very literally if Writer ever has to move. Yessi’s Cafe, which is on Brick Street. Not Jessie’s Cafe, which is on St. John’s Street on the nicer side of the city with no Bumpy Roads and with people who go on 7 a.m. morning jogs, but Yessi’s Cafe. Which is on Brick Street and whose cash register neighbors a tip jar slowly filling with quarters and one-dollar bills that might’ve gone to one of the strip clubs in the area (the dollar bills not the quarters obviously because um ... ouch) but instead are going to help Joseph pay for his rent (well, some of the cash definitely has gone through the strip club because a couple of the sex-workers from Sapphire’s around the corner love to kick it at Yessi’s during the week and give regular donations). Joseph got fired from his job because he missed a night of work to take care of his 11 year-old kid Oo-Oo after Oo-Oo threw up 1 School Lunch Real Beef burger and 2 School Lunch cartons of chocolate milk all over their brand-new old carpet while Joseph was brewing some cafecito that he bought from Yessi’s. They call Oo-Oo “Oo-Oo” because ever since OoOo learned how to raise their hand, they would raise their hand every time they overheard one of the adults at Yessi’s ask a question and con orgulloso would exclaim, “Oo! Oo! I know! I know!”

And they would know! Just ... never the answer to the asker’s actual ask.

But Señora Muhammed sure did learn a lot about how the Black Panther’s Free Breakfast program fed thousands of kids just like themself after asking about the calendar date. And Mister Nguyen sure did learn a lot about how the Young Lords’ Garbage Offensive, where they burned piles of trash in the middle of the street to call attention to the terrible condiciones de la comunidad puertorriqueña, forced the New York city government to start sending garbage trucks to clean up their neighborhood when he inquired about when the next open mic was. All the adults from Yessi’s wrote Get-Well-Soon post-it notes for Oo-Oo. But yes, the other day, outside of Yessi’s, not-walking in Writer’s favorite chair, Writer met a man named Shoe.

▶ Untitled (Pink Bench) • Colin Orihuela digital manipulation of acrylic painting

fragmentos de mi labor • Jessica Gonzalez laserjet image transfer, oil, and embroidery thread on canvas

The Color of Dirt • Melanie Ortiz-Alvarez de la Campa we had a game growing up, my friend and I played in the dirt under the young sky we would scoop dirt hold it in our grubby hands stare and whisper to the other the color of the land first scoop, one summer we stared at crumbled soil “it’s brown”, we whispered and relished in the spoils as teens we played again scooped dirt into our hands stared until our words tumbled “it’s black”, we rumbled something happened to my friend and I there came a day our game was nigh we put down our phones, used topsoil which is dryer but as I said, “brown” they said, “liar” I stared, dumbfounded picked at the soil once more it was as brown as my eyes but they insisted the game was spoiled “don’t lie to me”, they uttered “I would never”, I tried them, “dirt is unreliable, a million colors it hides” what had changed? for my friend and I divided now upon rich earth disbelief in our eyes there was no reasoning with their unreasonable only us, this dirt and the friendship it had chiseled

A Colony’s Cries Are Merely Whispers From Ghost Lands • Nélari Figueroa Torres Dorado, PR To whispers of deviance I say shout, allow disclosed desires to come forth— The Fourth was never our celebration to begin with.

Añasco, PR Where did we go?

Where did they take us?

If stars, land, and culture were stripped, where did it go?

Who did they give it to?

Salinas, PR Because grandma’s tales come from somewhere, grandpa’s art is inspired and inspiring, mother’s words are seasoned with tears of hope, father’s arms grew muscles with machete swings, brother’s eyes gleam white peace, sister’s lips show direction, baby’s cries are the loudest.

Juana Diaz, PR Where did we go?

When unplugged, who are we?

When unknown of, who cared?

Shackled our hands behind our backs, We are turned away from life and turned into carbon copy cookie cutter Martha Stewart James Bond Kim K or whoever I am supposed to be is.

Rhode Island, USA Now I lick crumbs where there were feasts and wonder where I have gone.

All I have is a ghost island, where people were forced into the diaspora and out of themselves.

▶ hasta la raiz;en fragmentos • yolizbeth

acrylic, gouache, oil pastel and colored pencil on unstreched canvas

splits • lluvia if you wanna know the state of my blood look at the blossoms in my hair scent wafting to your nose castor oil and pollen anoint your hands in the slip ive been hanging from the anacahuita flowing shade in my bedroom window how much longer do i have to swing here up

s

i

d

e

down

the splits of my ends grow heavy and full take a few blossoms to your altar remember me when you pray

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blood pooling at my scalp making long stems of my hair

sketch: familia • Davi Sapiro-Gheiler

oil pastel and charcoal on canvas

Florida Water • Elena Householder Rivera The bottle, long-necked and light blue glass, no label or at least very worn, or maybe just simpler than the printed labels now, sat behind the mirror above my mother’s sink in her bathroom.

I imagine because it did not arrive in the back of my cupboard until later.

Before then, mama sprinkled it in the bath, wanting my skin to smell like her grandmother’s and not to heal anything because mama doesn’t believe in that sort of thing. Pepa did, though; I know because the first time I walk into a church is with mama’s feet dragging beside me and the uncertain instruction to pray for Pepa. Ana says that in Cuba, when you die, the earth that covers us speaks. Here, when you die, we light candles with coins and ask for one more safe journey.

When I slip my hand away from mama’s to reach over my head into the stone bowl on our way out, I do not expect to find water waiting in its belly, nor for mama to quietly press a drop between my eyes and ask how it feels. The bowl is too shallow for baths, and the water does not smell like the warmth mama gently scoops up and runs through my hair, like the people with birthright only to leaving in the night, like sweet orange and lavender and clove in our wake.

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Veladoras Místicas • Monik Rodriguez color pencil & ink

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chá de camomila

• Mara Cavallaro

chá de camomila não tem gosto, mas tem a cor do mel, do âmbar, da madeira de lei rangente, do sol derretendo, de cabelos loiros. eu costumava ficar de pé do lado de fora da porta da minha avó, agarrando minha capa de toalha com unhas manchadas do vermelho da terra sedenta em que cresci, enquanto minha mãe despejava um balde de chá de camomila sobre meu cabelo preto, para torná-lo mais claro. esse ritual significava meia hora sob o sol equatorial pulsante e um fitar infinito para a lama renascida debaixo dos meus chinelos, rezando para que meu cabelo fosse transformado da mesma forma, em fios amarelo-dourados.

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toco meu couro cabeludo ao meio dia e espero um chiado. meu cabelo, sempre teimoso, permanece, mas sou transformada pela camomila, renascida um narciso. pois enquanto o girassol se estende em direção a uma visão que nunca alcançará, o narciso inclina-se em direção a terra de onde veio, admirando sua própria beleza, e as mães, avós, e bisavós de onde veio, seus cabelos negros e olhos de sabedoria.

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la diáspora puertorriqueña es sábados de ‘beauty’ Graciela

El sonido del blower compitiendo con el cantar de Willie Colón en el ‘espesker’. Conversaciones cortas empezando con el refrán “ay nena hace tiempo no te veo!!” y el trincar de la cabeza para evitar una quemadura de la plancha. La luz blanca del salón estéril no le quita el gozo de vida de estas mujeres que se reúnen una vez al mes. Entre ellas comparten la puertoriqueñez y dedicación profunda a el pelo planchado. Pero más allá, confianza plena en David, el estilista, que viaja hacia Orlando desde Puerto Rico cada mes para servirle a su fanaticada, a sus reinas como él les llama.

El ritual empieza a las 9 cuando se entra al salón, quesitos en mano para compartir, y ya hay tres mujeres sentadas que madrugaron primero. La número cuatro toma su posición en el sofá y mentalmente se prepara para la ceremonia que acaba de comenzar. A las 12, David ya te ha bautizado en tinte que va atravesando el color natural del cabello y has sido inaugurada a la espera con el resto de la congregación. Gotas de marrón o rubio o rojo, como te sugirió David porque es la nueva moda, bajan por tu frente y paran en su camino cuando lo sientes, quitas y limpias con tu saco plástico cubridor. Es un espectáculo ver: un grupo de mujeres que dedican un día al mes con el propósito de verse mejor, estar en completa comodidad con su estado de vulnerabilidad como sacrificio.

La diáspora puertorriqueña se ríe, se llora y se hace el pelo en comunidad.

Se conversa casualmente sobre cómo está el esposo, los hijos, y la escuela nueva del más pequeño. Se discute el chisme nuevo de que la que acaba de salir para tomar una llamada fue una vaga en el viaje reciente que tomó con sus amistades. “Que no ayudó a las mujeres a cocinar para el grupo? Ay pero qué vergüenza!“ David se mete en la conversación para contarles que ella siempre ha sido así. Si porque ella ganó Miss Petite Guaynabo hace unos años, no lo sabías?! Se ganó el título, se casó con un músico joven y se cree la miss influencer desde entonces. La miss entra al salón de vuelta y se calla el sofá, solo se escucha el crujido de las bolsas plásticas que llevan puestas las mujeres mientras se reajustan como no sospechosas.

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Suenan las campanas y comienza la curación. Los timbres de alarma retumban en conjunto con la salsa del salón y una por una David, con ayuda de su asistente preferido, va lavando y planchando el pelo. Con manos angélicas el asistente restriega el cabello limpio de impureza y lo recoge en una toalla. La mujer luego pasa al asiento de David, donde el desenreda el pelo canto por canto. Es evidente en la cara de la mujer que no hay mejor sentido que la liberación de tensión después de un jalón. Con cada desenredo se siente que toma las inquietudes personales también. Similar es el proceso del blower y la plancha. Jala, aprieta, quema y duele y luego libera. Libera un sentido de estar un paso más cerca a la hermosura, el profesionalismo, o el tener todo en orden.

David le da una vuelta final a la silla hacia el espejo y la chica ha renacido, ha renacido como la mujer que siempre ha querido ser. Es así con la miss influencer, la doctora, la maestra, la mamá, la hija, la abogada, la que sirve la comida y la amiga. Como toque final, David las unge con el aceite protector y les manda muchas bendiciones en sus caminos. Click clack suenan los tacos de la miss influencer caminando hacia su range rover. Tintin suena la que acaba de sacar las llaves de la Toyota Corola. Y riiiiing va el celular de la mama entrando a su Honda pilot. “¡Siiii ya salí del pelo malo por hoy!” le canta al recibidor.

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My Room After I Close My Door • Adrian Hernandez multi-media diorama

A teacher once told me that they drew their house when they were young because it gave them control over a place where terrible things happened to them. I made this small-scale model of my room for the same reason. My bedroom is a place of attempted sanctuary; it is a space that I have spent the most energy to feel comfortable in, but it is also where I have experienced the most pain. I like to keep my door open to keep energy flowing in and out, but occasionally I will close it, unwittingly allowing myself to sit in a small cube of isolation. Sometimes I like to sit on the rug at the foot of my bed and list things I don’t like about myself. Sometimes I like to lie in bed and close my eyes, waiting for someone to come in through my window and shame me. Sometimes I like to stare at the mirror and try not to move my eyes until I can’t differentiate lines.

There’s a long, useless list of things I can do between walls that are less than ten feet between each other. I keep this diorama on my floor now. I hope next time that the door is closed and I feel an itch, I can just step on it.

Breakfast • Melanie Ortiz-Alvarez de la Campa footsteps resonate on the linoleum my hands hesitate on the skillet sleep reaches for the coffee mug and my hands hover over the sugar you swallow bitter warmth by the table eggs quiver as I slide them on your plate crisp bread’s scent lingers around us and I float towards you on it your hands sweep towards the butter and mine find purchase on my lap you hum pleasantly around your toast utter bliss in your coffee-scented mind breakfast, for you, must be like love pure and sensory but how could I know?

I don’t eat.

Wild Garden • Ingrid De Leon De La Rosa embroidery

test of patience • lluvia the distance between a seam and a scar is measured by the minutes it takes to realize nothing is ever an accident rolling sand and water oscillating stitches enough to rub standard callouses smooth to a shine without drawing blood the distance is also measured by impatience wait until a yes echoes off the curves of salt and foam until grain wears down to a flour raw skin needs a certain kind of sifted care powdered and cloudy keeping the warmth within the distance between a coarse grain and a soft fleck is measured by the minutes it takes to realize this is how it feels to be in love

El Dueto de los Dioses • Elena Aguirre Uranga lithograph print

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Lo Poco Que Me Queda de Ti • Melany Veliz El anochecer es a veces acompañado por tristeza, y mi medicina ideal es regresar, A esas tardes donde el sol nos sonreía, mientras envueltas caminábamos al campo. El deber era separar las latas plateadas del seco suelo, y ponerlas en tus dulces manos. Llenabamos el aire con tu picardía y mi risa que nunca iba a parar, Pero, tu de repente ausencia ha ahogado el gozo durante el pasar de los años.

Las tardes me las paso viendo una pantalla, mientras sufro de una locura desconcentrada. Cierro los ojos con el deseo de volver a saborear la caña que nos partía el abuelo, Imagino que estamos sentadas encima del cemento formado de sudor y sangre. Vivo recordando tus sacrificios, tu aguante, y tus días de dolorosa hambre, Espero con ansia tu saber, Abuela, de que nunca me ha faltado nada.

Al oír el gallo cantar, el espejo me enseña mi pelo despeinado y chirizo, Con un suspiro, sueño con tus manos delicadas cuidando de mis colochos. Tus pacientes dedos, con amor y eficiencia, enrollados alrededor de cada uno; Pero ahora, dependo de la tontería de los míos desentrenados y mimados.

Porque me dejaste el complicado papel que tan feliz y perfectamente completabas?

Cuando la luna sale, toco mi cara y no siento la tuya, Me hacen falta tus líneas arrugadas, tus oscuros lunares, y la miel en tus ojos.

Como consentida, aún siento tú cuidado en mi corazón y tus fuerzas en mis brazos. Me pregunto si algún día seré para alguien, lo que tu fuiste para mi.

Pero, para mientras, me basta con lo poco que me queda de ti: El aluminio de lata, el jugo de caña, y tus huellas en mi alma.

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Not Far From Here, A House • Elena Householder Rivera When we found it in the heat, there was too much splendor to it. The crumbled fountain and scorched beds, sagging balcony arches looked Into me and asked whose eyes prodded at the gates.

I do not know how to be found by pale pale pink peeling down and crackling with the sun like Mary’s lilies except dry and leaded and guarding the doorway with a spell.

We left quickly– The second bloodletting and the first of my bones.

The necropolis was close and the sun blared through each of us, wandering across white stone after stone. This is the only place in Havana that has not rotted even a little bit; clean, crisp sepulchers of glaring white marble drained us of our questions.

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▶ un descanso de más allá • yolizbeth

acrylic, gouache, and oil pastel on streched lace

Type set digitally using InDesign by the SOMOS Team at Brown University. Titles are set in Acumin Variable Concept Bold 16, artist names in Acumin Variable Concept Italic 14, mediums in Acumin Variable Concept Regular 10, and body text in Acumin Variable Concept Regular 12.

April 2022.