2/2 012 q ua r t e r ly
Glue I S S U E
w w w.m a g m a m a g.c h
n o . 2
a very war m welcome b y o . w ü es t & j . s c h e l k e r
to be or to have to be The world can be divided into two categories of thinking, attached and detached. While some of us praise the high value of living in peace with oneself – not depending on the love, praise and approval of fellow beings, not relying on material aspects and mundane goods – to find happiness, others pray to their Maserati Quattroporte S or their Maybelline lipgloss. Luckily enough, there is a world in between. A world, that seems to be well worth to visit. Somewhere between needy-greedy and over-spiritual/ethical. We are constantly deciding for ourself, what we glue to us. And after all, what‘s bad about wanting things, striving for success, trying to achieve goals? Nothing. As long as we keep in mind, that all is temporary, one can live in gratitude for what is. Nothing is glued to you forever. But for the moment, enjoyment is enjoyment. So we wholeheartedly invite you to stick for a few moments to the great work of our contributors in this issue. Enjoy!
As a kid, I collected stickers (among many other things). Not, as intended, sticked somewhere, but like stamps in little books. They mostly collected dust boxed away in the attic and some years ago, I gave it all away. Intentionally or not, we tend to stick to all kinds of stuff, literally and figuratively. Some we say we treasure, like the Maserati, other things maybe not so much, like the food between our teeth. But however, getting attached to something, or of course, someone, always has the possibility to alter who you are. And often, when glued together, two things start to feel as only one. The question becomes, what do we want to stick to us? And, yes, for how long? But to leave this philosophical shore again, the following issue hopefully shows the direction we want to stick to. Sticky fingers and all. js
g l ue
10 16 i‘m sticking with you
m u d d y w a t e r s — o l i v e r w ü es t
u nt i t l e d — j o n at h a n sc h el k er
e v e r y m a n... — fa b i a n lü s c h er
w h y ? — o l i v e r w ü es t
s u g a r y — c h r is t a d e c o l
g o t s o l e — m i l e n a g y si n
& — j o n at h a n sc h el k er
h a p t i c — o l i v e r w ü es t
w hy ? — j o n at h a n sc h el k er
g l u e a n d t h e g h o s t — r a m o n n ie d e r h a use r s n a p ! — n o e m i s p ie l m a n n
S e b a s t i a n S c h ra m m , Fra n k f u r t a m M a i n , G e r m a ny w w w. s s c h ra m m .c o m
Iâ€™m sticking with you
a collection of loyal things
p h o t o g r a p h ies b y o l i v e r w 端 es t
muddy water, let stand, becomes clear.
d e l t i u nt s l a (a n i m o t d e g lu r e h t o ) s l a ani m
«every man looks out for himself, and he has the happiest life who manages to hoodwink himself best of all.» Fyodor Dostoyevsk y
photography by fabian lüscher
c h r is t a de col
milena g y si n
Haptic oliver w 端 es t
glue and the ghost
ramon n ie d e r h a use r
a s e r i a l o f co l l ag es by n o emi s p i el m a nn
F e d e r i c o B e ra rd i , Ve r b i e r/La u s a n n e w w w.fe d e r i c o b e ra rd i .c h
the Events of Black Rock Island
the magmamag story full of love, suspense and mystery continues!
september 27, 1967 It must have been about 45 days now since Earl had decided to set the table for two. After Jocelyne had died, it was as if a part of himself vanished. Earl and Jocelyne had been married for over 30 years.“That‘s a long time“, he would say to her in his usual unromantic and slightly harsh manner. After her death, Earl wished he had put things in a nicer, maybe even a more smoochy way. But he had never been much of a speaker. Although Earl knew that Jocelyne deeply appreciated his feelings towards her and was always well aware of them, he now regretted not having showed his affections towards her every single day. In this long period of their marriage, Earl had learnt a lot about himself. Having grown up in a world of love withheld, an infancy without kindness and old fashioned nurture with ideas of how a man has to be a man, he was in his innermost deeply insecure and longing for devotion. In the beginning of his marriage with Jocelyne, he was thrilled and amazed in an almost doubtful way of how much she appreciated him so unconditionally for whom he was. Eventually, his upbringing took over though. Earl was not used to be loved. In fact, he was someone who loved himself so little, that the only way for him to give himself respect, was his pride - like he was taught to be. Making believe he was strong and independent of his wife‘s affection and thinking he had to represent himself in a certain manner, his pride seemed to be a sinister shadow over their matrimony. At certain times, it looked like the doom would engulf them, if it were not for Jocelyne‘s patience and her tender temper. It was only, her sudden illness that caused him to change. He realized that it was about time to see how he had neglected the needs of the person he cherished most. Earl was shocked by his own previous inability to differ between being cool and being cold, between being strong and being regardless. Although he had always utterly loved his wife and secretly known her termless feelings for him, it was like the long due melting of wintery remains - or maybe rather of an iceberg - when he finally was able to unclench. And now, after her passing away, he wished for nothing more than to have had this capability much earlier. Nevertheless, it felt like those three last years of marriage, despite her illness, had been the best time they had had together. One day, maybe four weeks after her death, Earl woke up and realized, amidst his grief, that Jocelyne would want him to go on with his life. On this sunny morning, he took all the forces he had and decided to spend a few days at their old cottage in the fisher village, a few miles from Black Rock. He wanted to go out with the boat again, something he had not done for ages. Jocelyne‘s illness had prevented him from lea-
ving her for too long. The thought of spending some happy days for the rest of his fading life and of her watching him and smiling, was what pulled Earl out of his deep sorrow. For 45 days now, Earl lived in his cottage and started to do many things he had always wanted to do. He studied some Italian, for his upcoming trip, he rode the bike and went to the sea every day. Each evening, after calling his daughter Leila, Earl would prepare some healthy dinner - like his wife used to - and sat down at the table for two. This was the only moment he allowed himself to get weary. In time though, he even started to feel good while dining with and without her. Because more and more, he felt her presence, even though he was well aware it was only in his mind. He would share with her some thoughts, some moments of his days and always gratefully reminded her or rather himself of the wonderful time they were allowed to spend. This evening was strange though. The Sky showed signs of an upcoming thunderstorm, after a beautiful day. After dinner Earl slowly strolled down to the shore, relishing his cuban cigar. It got colder, the wind was howling. Like furious hounds, stormy waves were raging against the rocks. Indeed, a weather Earl had almost missed. Arriving at the beach, Earl was astonished to notice a boat drifting alongside the rocky area of the coast. It was a small and flat, wooden boat, silently wavering up and down. By closer look, he saw that in the small ship, there was a big, white plastic, looking like something was wrapped in it. Earl went to his storage cabin nearby and unpacked the spy-glass from his bag. Few seconds after his peering at the boat Earl was shocked. He noticed, a pale hand sticking out from the edge of the boat. Quick-witted, he begun running down the rocks, not even thinking of the hazard in his own action, in the dimming light. When he arrived down at the border of the rocks, the boat was dangerously close. Luckily, Earl was able to slow down the heavy movement of the boat with his feet, by stemming one against it, while trying to keep a good position on the rock with the other. Afterwards, he lifted the boat with all his might onto a flatter rock. A little jittery, he got closer to the boat, which was still rocking by the waves hitting the backboard. He carefully grabbed the cold plastic and withdrew it. Before his eyes lay the now unwrapped body of a naked, young woman. Earl grasped! In the pale and somber twilight, he recognized the porcelain skin, the rose-shaped lips and the floating hair. It was the face of Jocelyne.
be co nt
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contributions by c h r i s t a d e c o l s t i c k s wi t h m r s a vi a n o , e v e n t h o u gh h e is n o t i r ish .
m i l e n a g y s i n is l iving l a r g e a n d w a l k ing a r o u n d l i k e wis e wi t h sh o e si z e 4 3 . n e i t h e r e v e r wi t h o u t c a r r o t s t i c k s . www.m i lenagys i n.c h
f a b i a n l Ăź s c h e r m a in t a ins b a d h u m o r a n d b a d h a bi t s l i k e c ig a r e t t e s . h e â€˜ s a b l e t o f l i p t h e l a t t e r in t o his m o u t h wi t h a 4 0 % ac c u r a n c y. w w w. flu es c h er .c h
r a m o n n i e d e r h a u s e r l i k e s p l a c e s wi t h g l o b e s t r ing l igh t s in d iff e r e n t c o l o r s . m o r e a s a c o mf o r t a b l e f e e l ing t h a n a c hi l d h o o d r e c o l l e c t i o n . www.flickr.com/photos/finnegan _ zwei/
j o n a t h a n s c h e l k e r c o u l d n ‘ t p o ssib l e a b a n d o n his k i d d y d r a wings . e v e n if h e wants to. w r i t e him if y o u l i k e a t js @ m a gm a m a g . c h
n o e m i s p i e l m a n n , a lway s t h o u gh t , n o n e t h e l e ss d i d c o n t r ib u t e y e t a n o t h e r p i sh e p o s t s o t h e r t hings a t
a bs o r b e d in manage to ece. frau s .tu m b lr.co m
oliver wüest holds on to romance, n o m a t t e r a l l h e r s l a p s in his f a c e . w r i t e him if y o u l i k e a t o w @ m a gm a m a g . c h
t h is issue o f m ag m a m aga z i n e wa s c r e at ed a n d ed i t ed by o l i v er w ü est a n d j o n at h a n s c h el k er. copyright for all works presented within still belong to the respective artist. feel free to visit us on magmamag.ch or like us on facebook.om/magmamagazine
cover photography by oliver wüest. hand by miriam mura.
m ag m
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