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n.2 / WINTER 2017



n.2 / WINTER 2017

editors carolyn supinka zenon zabinski cover art front: lee johnson, Wonderland, photography inside: lee johnson, Layers, photography

Š Viator Project 2017 All work is copyrighted to the author or artist. All rights reserved.

letter from the editors “The beast observes no boundaries and respects no walls.” Since its inception, the aim of VIATOR has been to foster connection among the people and places that make up our global community. Now at the start of 2017, with so many events in the past year dividing people, VIATOR strives to be a meeting place, where artists—the storytellers among us—come to share the essence of the people and cultures they call home. What makes them unique and powerful and vulnerable and poignant and whole. When you see a painting, the first thing you do is just that: see. Observing a new landscape in all its detail, contrast, and style. The act initiates an exchange between you and the artist. It may not yet be understanding or empathy or compassion. But it is the beginning of a conversation. Now in its second issue, we hope that VIATOR can serve as a space where these conversations happen. The Winter 2017 issue features contributions from nearly fifty artists from around the world, including paintings from South America, photos from Europe, and writing spanning the entirety of North America. In selecting these works, we saw not only quality but also a spark: a glimpse of an experience, a story, a perspective, and the desire to share it. These artists have something to tell you. Destroying walls. Building bridges. Opening doors. The very language we use to talk about human connection is place-oriented. This is no coincidence. Places are connected to identity, to memory, to history, to our dreams. VIATOR is a traveler exploring these destinations. We hope you join us on this adventure. Carolyn & Zenon


vi¡a¡tor noun [latin] 1. traveler 2. messenger

places 7

in dreams

23 future 39

going home


between heaven and earth

83 cartographies 101 feast 115 street 131 throne 149 seasons 163 shelter


8 11 15 21

charlotte g phillips Eat People, gelatin silver print Weekend Paradise, gelatin silver print Belle Isle, gelatin silver print A Memory Forgotten, watercolor and ink on paper


irene gรณmez emilsson Dockland Stairway 1, digital photography


jet velasco Untitled, photography

in dreams


Little Bird, Little bird left before the men started speaking and oracles stayed in bed in bed with the sun. Your grease. Up in a sink pink swimming in orange. [When did my hair meadow?] in collusion with a shadow, merry-go-round red low no horses or plastic tigers. Flavor of air: high shallow pond. Shy kitten. Ceiling fans smitten, apples to be bitten, who did you dream? come along.

andre price


Coughing Rumor has it there is no I just the passing passing passing trees dusting and a hiss when the air moves testifies you know like another always talking low and taking solace in every rattle while drunk in the park hungry as a river falsehood begetting function that double triple vision sprouting panic in the hallways of mathematical philosophy playing a little banishment music while making love to a brick wall singing aww yeah girl spit in my mouth, ain't scared, took a sleep, gallon of sleep, we be sleep, got knife on nightstand, bombs on light bulbs, anthrax on ceiling fans, make it snow, who's nervous, let's do it: split split split into them bastard heads, bot flies hatching from the scalp, neck forking into a sink, oh dismal ape, kiss me like you're leaving.

andre price

Hell Sky is cheap. Body: cheap. Hell is cheap. I. The women robed in full blue. She was across the living room. I flew a private, single engine plane over an active volcano to meet her. The room developed, climates, air pressure patterns, weather. A venomous moth, mud under the titty, I was there, three black wolves, stones at the edge of the sea perched so you can't tell it's real. Cactus tongue. Mountains melting into inverted mountains.


II. He began to separate from it. Hung a bouquet in the stratosphere veiled & giggling cubist ghetto, 13 decked in black showing only the eyes. Carved out of pine fragmented and weeping soot. III. Women in small boats side by side, passing fruits, the water green casual as sharks in the living room. black pond being traversed the way rushing water goes around some things and not the other.

andre price


Three Black Boys Swimming at least Poppy blossom dull red cicada the sudden desire to die in the desert with my mothers two children one half black one half blue beads flowers bones and sticks Kneeling

water red with algae or petals

She's holding up a window frame with a yellow flag or curtain folded over in the wind whole body painted blue against sky Patchwork palace, pick a door, palm tree in the middle beneath the sky light Wild Baby's Breath, Pansies, African Violets. Clear day abandoned streets, more palm trees tall & a cloud rising so thick-heavy the sound and sight a clear omen climbing out

andre price


And I hear the punches. Thud. Boom. Pow. I have grown accustomed to a dark. I am dancing now. From me, from me, from me. I will sleep in this. Born on a Thursday I was bound to be denied. Pigeons, these pigeons. I throw the feed down and they kill each other. Morally repugnant. Of course the meat rots. Awwww Lot's wife, does she think I'm an animal? Goddess abandon, help me I'm being pursued. Falsetto. The gentle sorrow. Can I tell you something? Dressed in poison, mamba dart, wolf, funnel, coral, king, blue ringed wondering, widow, stone, box, Thud. Boom. Pow.

andre price


Lies We Told That August It was not as it was when we first arrived as though the summer fell apart before us. First exclamation of fallen leaves crowd gentle reflections of late-summer sky. I wade past this deadened mess. While neck-deep in weekend paradise swarms of surrender surround me. Alone in the deep end I look up to the light. He was as always when we came to this place: Silent under locks of bright hair. Skin aglow. Eyes gliding page after page

while sitting there

(a body's length above me) .

charlotte g phillips

Eye-to-Eye (Sound Partition) Boys in my neighborhood climbed anything taller than our parents: trees, jungle gyms, fences, and haystacks stacked twenty feet high on grassy hills in the pasture. During summertime by the ocean I'd climb my grandfather, six foot seven standing knee deep in the water. We'd stare at the slow curve of the horizon, the dark homogeneous waves. Pulled by the churn of the sea he'd tell me about my father at my age. I climbed my mother's pale dogwood and my father's Japanese Maple Tree, until fire ants infested that maple, and her dogwood drowned in spring. In the forest behind their house the boys and I built forts nailed high in sturdy oaks and firs. Breathing dead magnolia was compost for somber dreams. When November came to an end the churning floor of leaves melted into dirt. Calves weaned, we'd lie in tree forts, sun line lowering over our tree top horizon, shivering in our faded genes. Listening to the cattle moan for their stolen young.

ryan budd


loralee grace 24 Paths Ahead, watercolor and gouache 26 Presence, watercolor and gouache 28 Healing Waters, oil on canvas chloe j newman 30 Randy (in Space), ink on bristol 33 Dolly (in Space), ink on bristol philip carter 34 Crabstract, digital media 37 Lascaux, digital media




Lockjaw & Ether A dead flame painted on each hip, petals of light orbiting the dancefloor. The disco ball cracked, a wasp nest growing inside. Indecision makes a nightmare of every waking hour. Pivoting on cold heels, you go in one direction only to turn back a second later. Don't hesitate. Try not to look suspicious. Check the time. Check your phone. One wrong move. A body in the lake. The web of temporal fractures, split-second decisions, sweeping blow coincidences, unexpected chance encounters, & wrong-place-wrong-time


misfortunes has spun itself thick-&-thin since the universe's shell cracked. Drop a calico feather into a bucket of suds. Throw a cigar box full of burnt photographs into the wake of a fading asteroid trail. Dress the ghost inside for a quick descent. You may never take one sure step in any direction. You can't know a star's last breath though you've heard it's like a rising of smoke in the blood.

joseph mulholland


Transmigration 8 No sound survives below the rim of dead clouds, under the limbic surface of caffeinated wires. The fire in the belly of an abandoned pharmacy, patriotic scavenger. It combs future epochs for lost souls. It's keen on death's agenda & speaks with the torn mouth of a puppet. Night turns on splintering stilettos, shaking a path of clammy hands through the crowded subway platform. joseph mulholland


Transmigration 9 Smells anchored to departing memories, the split-second transition from salt air to rainfall. A match head losing its flame. A splinter going soft. The glassy flesh of the moon moving in slow-motion across the diameter of a dirty porthole. Do you remember how the images seemed to press against the inside of your skull? You never thought of all those voices as a collective. Now it seems a great silence chases the deer of your heart south, into a thickening wilderness. joseph mulholland 36


#HOTDADJESUS 40 Untitled, photography 43 Untitled, photography 46 Untitled, photography isabella barbetta 50 Home is where the art is 1, photography 52 Home is where the art is 2, photography 53 Home is where the art is 3, photography cameron kohji ormiston 54 Erick, photography joseph tatard 58 Sea, photography

going home


the red lion boston

windowless dive off mass ave strangers buy us drinks and drop quarters in the jukebox so we'll keep tenderly dancing georgia on my mind they sprinkle wax to make it smooth wayward smooth in the dim on the hard wood low tide stench on salt and pepper bridge please no perfumes aren't we enough I say the why of it the this and that here and there of it but you could not love talk breathless with godiva rippling ringlets in taut places strung on the slack of noon


you knot psychedelic chords on my pea coat buttons you clasp them like light like reins as I back away one long measure over the railing stepping down the stairwell stairs your skylight silhouette invites me to fare well I wrap the music round my head a crown for charles street in the after of the sun's roaring over the back bay

craig flaherty


gold star mothers march everett massachusetts 1947

march in the memorial day parade north on broadway toward the cemeteries four years ago I watched midnight tanks on flatbeds artillery in tow blackout headlights undercover of darkness troop trucks full of soldiers off to navy yard troop ships the last band's martial air passes beyond earshot in the parade's pause madness-recalled reclines on the trolley tracks women hush their children men remove their sweat stained felt hats hands over hearts men and women in uniform stiffen their stance ready to salute a block away the mourning gold star company the chirp of gold trimmed garrison caps bob the wind snaps the blue silk capes regal gold silk linings spark in the blazing sun like muzzle flash like cannon fire honor guard flags whip the wind like machine guns


gold star mothers march everett massachusetts 1947

tap the one boy scout drummer keeps the beat "two three four" I heard them faintly to themselves awkward unaccustomed to walking in the shadow of patriots tap the rim of the drum keeps order within the ranks one small voice "your left your left your left right left" the schuffle of white crepe soled shoes on the cobbles the sound death makes when the voice is lost tap ribbons and pins on collars and capes a festoon of sacrifice "halt parade rest rest" perfumes "attention mark time march" tap "two three four" when my father returned he threw his medals away ate them for the rest of his life drank them to get to sleep under fire nothing he could do pitch black the enemy in palm trees his friend screamed "" my father pulls the wrinkled photo from his wallet "see......this was eddie we called him 'fish' 'cause he was from gloucester" bruising my shoulder with his fierce grip "remember"


my mother explains strafing mines snipers staring out through the crowd she asks the wind "how do they go on" behind her locked door she cries into her pillow I think nothing's as big as the big empty when there's nothing you can do *** the mothers march to woodlawn cemetery sprays of gladiolas cradled in arms flowers like newborns orange flowers like sunset evening purple for the hero the journey the grave the righteous

craig flaherty


paying respects galway

on his hands stubborn odors from his rock strewn connemara dairy farm “perfume of angels” he often proudly said with apologetic humor to his wife dead now these months past he waits in his sunday best sky blue shirt
 gaunt under her final gift sea green sweater last unfurled from her arthritic hands dropped stitches uneven break against seams this day he had wanted to come sooner
 to the galleon restaurant to see his daughter not again in his dreams tarnished with guilt and the rehearsal of slippery questions where was she? what of london? how could she not? the sobbing coffin dark loam to gentle the long sleep dust settles on the chiseled angel
 the close scent of the sea biting his memory his bruising hand driving his only child to train to ship to london the daughter found no enchantment in distance
 her soul an admixture of joy and sadness rebellion and loss his voice rising to accuse too fresh with sarcasm “too many boyfriends”
 “bees to clover”
 “in my house.....of all places” the calloused hand strikes....a strange intimacy summer fall winter she pulled pints for hale and hearties at hand and flower kept christmas and one charming holford sheep farmer's affections her heart wading the shallows and lulls of epiphany what with the little money the winter tumult of the irish sea and the clipped words with which she hoped to sting when he called in tears


paying respects galway

early spring galway sunlight drifts into the small numbers of afternoon gold pours long low into salthill establishments and the galleon
 he said “see you 2 o'clock between milkings” seated for their meal
 her anger rolls from regret to regret within the embrace of kindness his forgiveness angles against his self accusing
 fish and chips for two
 the large window haloes gold her delicate incline bent in earnest to his stark light splashed face his silent lips move in cadence with his catechism latin praise thanksgiving supplication he does not remember his long ago whispering at children's mass he thinks saints should visit one of sky blue sea green one of swaying white blossomed corrib river-vine one of song within the coming months he will fall in the farm's stone strewn pen his cracked skull to be found in the hoof churned muck his still body among his milling unmilked herd bellowing in pain next year she will up for holford with a gold ring and a shepherd to wear anew cares she knows of love and husbandry for this present communion the galleon's famous platters hot before them she embraces his restraint with soft words "dad, dad you used to say 'an irishman's delight' and we would laugh" his heart crumbles lets loose his memory run tide of words "twas what your mother said to me, yea know, when first we met" he brushes away a tear the first near welling sunlit steam rises between them prayers of invocation stark against the galleon's deeply shadowed walls

craig flaherty




In a city that was born through the labours of the working man, the resilience of the service women and the settlement of industry; Sheffield is home to the toughest men, women and steel. Now colonised by a generation motivated through the media, individuality and self-expression; factories have been replaced with faculties of art, music and fashion. Spending my whole life in this City has proven to show its many hidden treasures amongst the civilians and their virtues. The art that adorns the streets of Sheffield continues to remind us of those who raised our city; the working class, and that splendour lies in the modesty of the dreamer, the workers and the artist.

isabella barbetta




Home Name Age Race Pffff easy Just look at my face Where are you from Silence Where are you from Who are you Who loves you Where's home Did you like it? Having no one? Moving moving moving Moving on Did you like it Asked as if I know anything else Where are you from Where are you from Home What a simple answer Home What a dumb question Why does anyone need a home If you're just going to leave it But you must have a home Sorry, No home nowhere And you're still waiting Expecting an answer


An explanation Do you want to know In how many rooms I cried How many friends I walked away from Whole lives that went on without me looking I see everything I own nothing Did I like it Did I love it Too late to contemplate it's who I am now anyways Just keep moving Don't look back now because there's nothing Or worse I don't want to know I missed something And don't lie to me It never gets easier It never gets better There's no lack of people I want to love everyone But I keep leaving And they keep living where I left them Where are you from What it really means is Who do you love Who remembers you when you go Who do you know Who has your home Where do you go to be alone Home No town name It's long gone Speeding past too many goodbyes


I'm a drive by victim in too many lives Just stop. Stop feeling sorry for yourself I have The sun and the stars and the moon And they understand me They know what it's like to keep on moving on To see whole lives flash by That truly needed you And meant something And then they go on without you As they should do I can't say that enough And I sprinkled and buried little parts of me I'll never get back But hey, that's okay Because together we'll see this whole world And touch so many people in it Briefly And all I need to remember to do is breathe Because in this world I can go anywhere And I will go everywhere And I'll always be home

grace worm


Desplazada I. De uno Vienes de la tierra del pueblo, creada de las cicatrices de las abuelas. Pero las lágrimas dejadas en las plazas ahoga las mujeres que veo en estatuas de cemento para ti. Pan dulce en la mesa— sus cristales de azúcar brillan en la luna. Pero en mi boca, mi lengua no está satisfecha. Lleva su olor de miel y el acidez de ser dejado. Este sabor corta mis hombros robustos que soportan tradición y agridulce sueños que no son míos. Esperanza. En mierda y gritos con calumnia. Reluciente entre lodo, pero sin embargo, reluciente.


Desplazada I. De uno You come from the earth of the village, brought up by the scars of grandmothers. But the tears left in the plazas drown the women I see in cement statues for you. Pan dulce on the table— its sugar crystals shine in the moonlight, But in my mouth, my tongue is not satisfied It carries its honey scent and the acidity of being left behind This taste cuts my hearty shoulders that carry tradition and bittersweet dreams not my own. Hope. In shit and screams with slurs. Glistening amidst sludge but glistening, nonetheless.


II. To generations. The struggle to till the mountain and the frigidity of the river is left in images of history books amidst the colonies developed in the mind that is born of this land's mother, not ours. Forgive me. Yet I feel the tears that ripped your fortress of strength and fire. Because my pieces are blowing in the the breeze of the beach and the warmth of your table. But also in the foreign places of promise and the jewels shown to tios y tias Only found away from you. Doubts. in diamonds and praise with sweet conversations. but still, doubts.


La lucha de labrar la montana y la frigidez del río son dejados en fotos de libros de historia entre las colonias desarrolladas en la mente que nació de la mama de este lugar, no la de nosotros. Perdoname. Pero yo siento las rascadas que rompió tu fortaleza de fuerza y fuego, Porque mis pedazos estan soplando en el viento de la playa y la calidez de tu mesa. Pero también en los lugares extranjeros de promesa y los tesoros demostrados a tia y tíos que solo se encuentra lejos de ti. Dudas. Entre diamantes y alabanzas con dulces conversaciones Pero aun, dudas.


III. Dialectic No te has fijado en mi árbol? Que está en medio de una ciudad lleno de edificios Que no dejan crecer mi árbol Le tapan el sol En esa ciudad que cubre su suelo de concreto

No se permite que expandan y se afirmen Las raíces de mi árbol.


Has it been obscured to me?

Grayness as earthy to me as the layers of bark and splinters

Because the roots caress my insecurities

To shade me Solidifying, Cracking, breaking, filling.

And it does not let the expansion and solidifying

Of the roots of my tree.

Of our tree

amaris montes


68 72 76 78 80

brandon fisher Breaking (It) Open Breathe‌ (I Feel Better) HOLD UP Untitled Chakra painting How I Met My Wife (Ying meets Yang)

between heaven and earth an interview with brandon fisher


There's an overarching theme of journey throughout your work. Could you give us an overview of the journey your life has taken you on? An overview. Okay. (laughter) I was born in DC. I lived in Jamaica, Miami, then back in DC for elementary school and onward. I loved video games as a kid. I talked a lot. I was in the 97th percentile for math in the country. (Yay!) I went on to high school at T.C. Williams. (Go Titans!) There I found my first true love: partying. So I did that for about ten years. Went to college, left college, went to college, left college, worked in restaurants. Eventually, my dad had an idea for us to open a buy gold business do to the boom (shakalaka) of gold at the time. This was still in DC? Yes, in DC. We built a successful business. I was rolling in dough … and gold. I was feeling my Tutankhamun like woah. … More or less. So when did the art bug get you? The pawn shop went under around the same time I started to go under. And I started to rehab my life, in a matter of speaking. Somebody suggested to take classes at Montgomery College. I did. I took an art class. I liked it. The next semester, I took five. I liked it very much. It made for good therapy. It feels good to start something and finish it. And each time it gets better. You can give what you finish to friends or your girlfriend or your mom. It’s nice.

“I was rolling in dough … and gold. I was feeling my Tutankhamun like woah.”


Did you have any particularly influential teachers or mentors? There was one teacher I really liked at Montgomery named Cristoff. He was a bit wilder and older and would let you do whatever you wanted. But everyone at Montgomery was great honestly. All the teachers taught really well and had really different styles. I was really impressed. Was there something that drew you to painting specifically? So after this time at Montgomery College, I went on to San Fran to finish a degree in psychology and continue art as a hobby. But when I got there, I reconnected with a woman I had met in Brazil that summer. Suddenly I didn’t feel so strongly about school anymore. So I went home, sold all my things, and moved to Brazil. With some clothes and a suitcase filled with art supplies. So what brought me to painting was that that’s all I could really do. It’s funny. In college, I took ceramics, sculpture, wood printing, metal printing. I didn’t paint anything really. Somewhere between San Francisco and reaching Brazil to be with the woman I had met—named Alex, she is my wife now—I realized I wanted to be an artist and I loved art. In Brazil, I didn’t have an art studio, so the only thing I could do was draw and paint. And what came next? I quickly found out that I didn’t know anything about art, and I needed to study and learn to draw. So … I stopped painting pretty shortly after I started. And I started drawing and studying art work, artists, perspectives. Strictly. For almost two years. I didn’t paint. Just some watercolors.


“Painting came back to me when I just got fed up one day of drawing and decided to just let it out.� Did you work with anyone or just on your own? My wife was my teacher. She had studied art in school in England. That worked for only so long. I started teaching myself. Then quickly I started to just let life teach me, to see that every moment is a moment to learn something that could be brought back to art. So that's when painting came back into the picture. Painting came back to me when I just got fed up one day of drawing and decided to just let it out. To stop restraining and constraining myself. I gravitated to painting because it was quick and I loved the results. To mix the colors. I love color. Who were the artists that you studied? Kandinsky was the first. After Kandinsky, I think Klimt, Egon Schiele. Dali, Picasso. And these artists continue to influence your style? I always take from them when I need to. But at this point, I have developed my own style.




How did you go about finding your own style? Making artwork. Experience. It just came naturally to you? Art is a path. It took me years to find it. So, yeah, naturally after I allowed myself to do it. I spent my early twenties hanging out with artists every day. I never even picked up so much as a pencil. It does come naturally to me. It’s freeing for me. It makes me feel good. I studied the colors, I see them. The experience is a beautiful experience for me. It’s my symphony. I pray a lot when I paint. I sing. I cry. I dance. I jump. Jumping is good. Jumping is great! What's your artistic process like? Do you paint every day? Do you wait for inspiration to come to you? These days I am trying to paint or draw or carve something—do something artistic—every day. We live in the mountains of Rio. It’s very inspiring where we live. My wife and daughter of two years, Lily Rose, are really wonderful, supportive, and a constant inspiration to me. My process varies. Sometimes I just feel something has to come out. When it comes to drawing, it’s much more calm, concise, more relaxing than therapeutic. When I am not feeling inspired, I pray for something to come through me. And it does. I moved to Brazil because of my wife, but also because of ayahuasca. I study ayahuasca. I am a member of an ayahuasca church here in Brazil called the Santo Daime. I also do other

“I pray a lot when I paint. I sing. I cry. I dance. I jump. Jumping is good.”


“The world is filled with a lot of darkness. So I feel it’s my part to create light. It’s my story in my work.” ayahuasca ceremonies with indigenous people. Artwork and shamanism go hand in hand. The shaman goes to many realms and brings back some of those realms through his artwork. I am not a shaman, but everything about what I am doing as an artist, person, healer is shamanic. Intention is the key word. When it comes to my process and shamanism, a strong intention is what makes the work. I am just a vessel for what needs to be expressed. My intention these days is to bring beauty, life, love, and light. To bring the heavens to my work. And that intention comes out through you in your art? We live in uncertain times some would say. The world is filled with a lot of darkness. So I feel it’s my part to create light. It’s my story in my work. So it’s not all puffy pillows and fluffy bunnies. (laughter) But through the darkness is always light. It’s a major theme of my work, my life, my existence. People focus on the negative a lot these days. The negativity is what goads us further. It is the fuel for the light of life. Without darkness, there is no light. Would you say that hope, then, is an element of your work? I am going to leave hope to Obama. Well, Obama isn't going to be in office much longer. (laughter)



I believe in something better: in destiny, transformation, enlightenment, redemption. I am not hoping for anything. I believe in something better, something higher. You have to grab the scepter of what you are, of all that is. I took the word hope out of my vocabulary. Something active rather than passive. We don’t have time for passive. Let me be clear that these statements are geared to the inside world of each person not their outside world. The action that needs to be taken is with ourselves, with our mirror, with our family, our community, our tribe. But first, more than anything, ourselves. Forget Donald Trump. Look in the mirror, dog! Personal transformation. Yeah, man!




erin schalk 84 Okinawan Sea, digital print 87 Shinto Cleansing, digital print conor martin 92 photography max perim & nathan treviĂąo 95 Clearance to Destination as Filed 1, mixed media 96 Clearance to Destination as Filed 2, mixed media 97 Clearance to Destination as Filed 3, mixed media joseph tatard 99 Return from the tide, photography



Expatriate Wa ĺ’Œ – on maintaining group harmony, peace: equal proportions of intense desires to please and fears of displeasing, which prompts careful consideration, curating every step taken every word spoken into a field of ambiguity A process of self-erosion underneath awareness slow, subtle, layer upon layer disappearing erasure, missing, until you are left with stripped, infertile ground as you fade in color and substance your image shifting out of focus as you become pliant, excessively susceptible to the environment which shapes you, yourself


blurring, fading at the edges, what was once transparent has been shrouded through condensation like the evolution of memory: a person you have not seen for a long time and when you can imagine nothing more than the outline of their featureless face but in momentary heartbeat flashes of clarity — – the mental click as a transient, past vision resurfaces – and is buried as suddenly as it rose. But it is [you] there. Still.

erin schalk



It was only when the public loudspeaker system woven throughout each town’s neighborhood without its compulsory musical introduction clicked on in the early afternoon rather than the standard 5 PM

02:46 PM | 二時四十六分

Crystalline azure sky the same patterns of wave flow the unaltered rhythm of white-capped swells gently gliding across the Pacific.

12:03 PM | 十二時三分

March 11, 2011 | 東北地方太平洋沖地震


地震 | 断絶 | 余震 | 津波 | 仙台 | 東北 | 損害 | 迷子 | 亡命者 | 死人 earthquake | rupture | aftershock | tsunami | Sendai | Tōhoku | damage | missing | displaced | dead

cracking not because of transmission static —————————— ————————— when we understood . the warning messages . which lasted for . . hours. . . . . .

no longer lilting through her announcements with the effusive use of the politest verb forms

and that the female broadcaster’s voice was no longer cheerful


Stripped tree bark, skimmed topsoil, the deeply-rooted Shinto tenets of cleanliness and purity contrasted with rumors of radiation-tainted food, produce bin signs illustrated with doe-eyed fruits and vegetables, their comforting smiles, assuring customers of their safety through innocent appearances.


March 11, 12, 13 | 三月十一日、十二日、十三日 The Fukushima Daiichi —————


erin schalk

A smoke masking truth and irrational fear.

———Incident . . . . . . . .

Japanese television news anchors and journalists who criticized the nation’s continued reliance on nuclear power never returned on-air.

For protection, Kanae-san taught me to read Fukushima | 福島 on grocery labels. Only later did I learn that the kanji for Fukushima literally translate as 福 | Good-Fortune 島 | Island.

most Maldivians miss the seasons. they tell me it is either heat or rain. though mostly heat. we eat fish for every meal and take boats from island to island. the people are quick to smile most women are covered and there is no alcohol. rauchen rauchen rauchen Umair sings desolation row to wandering melody blind pilot driving we cruise paradise line in hand below the equilateral sun we build and sleep on coral peaks gracing out of deep blue dusted with sand and hermit crabs and palm trees on the edge of nature the soul expands

conor martin


Rocky Mountain Aspens Aspens stand inches close, huddled limber to the slightest mountain wind. Along this sandy slope they drop their leaves, golden coins – blessings for the earth who anchors their short-lived sway. Wait, they do not. Change in place, they do. Framed bare in snow gives way to branch buds popping into green circles. It is with this call-to-spring their trembling leaves call to us. You, too. Right here. Right now. Be still. Plant yourself Between sky and earth.

sidney louise brown


Tourist Attraction A purple tent rises then falls where tourists snap pigeons in St. Mark’s Square. Guano striped commedia zanis, mask-smiles in place, strike their pose, move slowly as they wave away a wing. Decadence breeds in high water, neap and low, when the sun heats stone and tourists multiply like sated doves seven times yearly. Scavengers look for litter, peck at plastic bags tied near piers. Little Napoleons come to roost take the city early, disperse, despite a few set nets in alleys far from souvenir seekers’ seeds.

sandy feinstein




The Green Beans The farmers market falls softly on Sundays in March: near the strip of bricked buildings, sandwiched between a tanning salon and the used bookstore. I inspect a quart of green beans, snap a few at the ends, and tell you about all the things our hands could do them. Measure olive oil. Heat pan. Shake colander dry. Wait. I already see you smashing garlic and peeling its skin on the corner of a countertop where I left a stained coffee ring last week. When we eat them I still want to be able to taste the vine they grew on. I wonder about all that the green beans have seen with their heads peaking out their cardboard container: the boy with his strawberry blonde curls unbuckled in his stroller, or the cane of older man who comes here to remember, or our fingers dangling at our sides, close enough to touch.

mikala rempe


//////////she eats unwashed fruit]]]]]]]]]]]]] ////has meteorological dreams/////////mundanity lit with lightning||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| ))))))))))))))))))))))fall away and who{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{ `````remains++++++++++++++what if????<<< <<<everything is the weather<<<wishes & their ancillaries­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­---------------say your prayer(((((((((((( ^^^^^^^^^^^^no~~~~~~~let the magnets........ >>>>>pull it out}}}}}}}}}}}}}she cuts{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{ her hands========her hair­;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;bends |||||toward yes*************toward toward\\\\\\\\\

lisa alden


I Have The Menus Of All My Favorite Restaurants Saved As PDF Files On My Phone So That I Know What I Want To Order Before I Get To My Favorite Restaurant I am efficient I have what art historians call “Machine Aesthetic” I am a Latina mother riding the escalator in an otherwise completely vacant Von Maur The player piano at the base of the stairs is playing a classical rendition of “who let the dogs out?” by the Baja Men. Whats a wingspan and how can I get one? I have lived a hilariously unremarkable life until I left Glen Ellyn Illinois and Visited the Jelly Belly factory in Pleasant Prairie WI Now dogs like me Now I like me Hit my body at full speed in your Nissan Juke Cyber bully me into kissing you We can go 2 coopers rock In West Virginia We can feed each other pasta And I’ll tell you that Orecchiette pasta is Italian for little ear

jake koch


I Only Like Vin Diesel As A Friend Ugh, watching Austin Powers in my basement by myself AGAIN Feeling the shifting weight of own body Haha what if this room was filled with wasps that would be fucking horrifying Haha I am now playing rock band with Vin Diesel He is playing drums and is not very good I am playing bass and I am not very good We are playing the 311 DLC pack I warn him that if he keeps hitting the drums that hard that they will break Vin Diesel is not a reliable friend We go to cricket wireless and buy go phones and call each other from different aisles at the grocery store We go on the Chicago architectural boat tour and hold hands in front of Eastern European families Did you know that Vin Diesel owns the largest personal pizza oven in the world? Well he does

jake koch


joseph tatard 100 Yellow pollack, photography 110 The Girls, photography 111 Woman seen from behind, photography 112 Escape, photography lee johnson 102 Seattle working, photography chloe j newman 104 Piggish, pen on bristol 105 Beefy, pen on bristol 108 Bird Brains, pen on bristol

lee johnson 116 Keeps moving, photography sandra whittington 118 On Their Backs I, photography 119 On Their Backs II, photography cameron kohji ormiston 120 Lightrail, long exposure photography 122 Shuto Expressway, long exposure photography julio jimenez 124 Work Day, photography 125 Sunset Alley, photography kate e schaffer 128 You Are Here, acrylic on canvas



Saturday in New York You & I walking the high— line, talking funny sketching reason. A concrete chaise. Our heads blown in the white sun. & a unicorn a real live unicorn! Nearby & smiling, you insist he has a smoke & he insists we bob for paper apple aphorisms from his box of slips. I pull maybe you didn’t handle it so well & fold it into my jeans. You pull maybe you fantasize about being an exhibitionist & eat it. We think this means time for cocktails. So we three follow the shade, spectrum of light speak only in parentheses on broken windows & caricatures as we move—pull up to the counter where eighth meets jane, order a round of lemon-drop martinis & bite into the rinds.

kirsten shu-ying chen






The Sound everyone is backlit. everyone is assholic. new crew goes out back & turns to stone. young hair smells like smoke. old hair smells like boutique shampoo, looks like smoke. canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t tell anymore if youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re the rabbit or the snake. pull hair from the drain and toss it in the fire: the sound is hesitation cracking: the spark is permission to spark lisa alden


Tell Don’t tell anyone I said A prayer, it went like Da dum da dum da dum Like your heart, it was So cliché and I couldn’t Stop pouring the wine Into your mouth like my Blood could be sacred like His like yours like my sweat Could come back like your Very own ocean like I’m asking For things to return that I never Even had like the fan can disperse So much like what is turbinado Sugar, my sweet, like what tastes Like God, you’re saying you can Tell me and I’m saying I’m Trying so hard not to know

lisa alden


yue li 132 I'm in Control, ink on paper 132 Submissive, ink on paper 137 Human Bonsai, sumi ink on rice paper jet velasco 138 Untitled, photography harrison atwood 142 Young and Reckless, photography sandra whittington 144 Yung Luv Lust I, stripped polaroid film 145 Yung Luv Lust II, stripped polaroid film 147 One on One, stripped polaroid film



Closet Window So whose skeleton in the closet appears on the ballot today? the dictator wants to know. (He hears itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s in a walk-in overlooking the park.) Train your binoculars and you can find wrinkles in every garment, his advisors say. Dichromats, the dictator orders, use your ears: the primaries are not an issue. The red, green, and blue are not in allegiance. Together they clash. Pragmatics is the issue, his advisors agree, matching is another. On that note: You see the skeleton with binoculars could mean that the skeleton is holding binoculars. Watch what you hear, the citizens whisper, what is left can be right. Even the teeth are considered bones.

jeannie vanasco


FATHER The boy drafts his father in pencil: a generic man. And then the boy draws himself and titles it FATHER (emphasis his). And then the boy crosses out all of FATHER and draws again a generic manâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;except this time he colors the generic man green. The boy has never seen a green man and knows he never will. Will what? What will? The will to know what one will not see, such as: a green man, a father, etc. Now the boy shows his green man to the butcher (the best art teacher in town). The butcher picks up a pig heart, squeezes it, tells the boy, You lack this. The boy looks down at his own dirty sneakers. The boy cannot say, This is my father. Maybe he should have written FATHER again.


When he looks up, the butcher is gone. Titles do matter. But the butcher has not yet taught his young pupils the value of titles. However, in not making himself understood to the butcher, the boy learns himself, or will learn himself. There is some confusion to be ironed out, which supposedly is the mother’s task. Now the boy draws his dad drawing a dog. The act of this drawing lights up the boy’s heart. The boy never will learn that his father was an artist punished by the state. He will feel it. He will know it. He will forget it until he sees it. His father’s body could be green.

jeannie vanasco


Symbiotic love / extended haikus for hope / Leukodystrophy It was entrapment! that woman, with her eyes far flung like calf lassos, heart plump with yesses, teaching me words like drift and serendipity. My honey kills me. (But I, a willing victim have no other choice â&#x20AC;&#x201D;but to stay, she quips) as I help her into bed for the nightly news adjusting her legs she kisses my forehead, says, babe a lifetime sentence.

kirsten shu-ying chen



[A drunk and a lord in a garden, summer] A drunk and a lord in a garden, summer, Mad bad damned mad madmen still, Though some fresh thing has been revealed: What fresh slope of hip or stomach From beneath grey wool pulled down the thighs O yes

Yes sir I have been good, and we, The two of us, we have been sleeping In the grass.

The shadows of grass-blades show on our palms, The colour of grass-stains must be scrubbed from our shirts Because we have been sleeping We have not seen the flowers of ourselves: we open rarely We have not seen ourselves in the glass tipped out, In the pools on the tile of the pissoir, in the steam on the tile of the baths, In honey or the skin of washed berries and waxed fruit

Tip tip tipâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; birdsong, an old song, though Stravinsky says, Low low low, alone alone, cruel. Stravinsky says, A bus is rounding the corner. Low low: hello, â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;ello

In the grass lie circles of blue and green, Here and there blue and green, green and yellow, First this, then the other. Click click click click, Like the war-o-graph, like the magic lantern We think tulips are the boys we meet in Berlin, Or after pills with gin, or when we have had no gin, now The boys are coming out again, we must put them in again, We take the train into Berlin, we are drunk on brandy and schnapps


Forever to be in this country and season! If it could only be the summer before the summer before The hour before the party. The glass before the drink, The drink before the twist, the fox before the view-halloa View-halloa! Darling, darling, quiet. Button your collar: cover your throat, The policeman is passing. Button your collar once you have buttoned your shirt All this buttoning! We light our cigarettes still, we strike our matches We are in the long grasses, The footsteps have gone past the gates. Sic transit. Is it all right now? —Not yet. / Is it all right yet —Not yet. / Is it all right —Not yet. Not yet? though we are a little like the season, late, a little aged, Like the bobby on the beat: sic transit.

—Quiet, darling, the bells of St Margaret’s... Are they tolling? Or not quite yet? —Oh, they are tolling, they have been tolling; darling, darling, quiet

Tip tip tip, low low low, We’ll see each other Soon enough, so— Goodbye, Goodbye, good evening.


(Je mâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;en fous, we have heard in other gardens, Va te faire enculer!) We will go, then, we will go Through the grass and the groves, The both of us, we wretched two, Who have buttoned our shirts and collars. Still youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve not told me the time Have you, excuse me, the time? Lord, but my hair is as long as the grass, My hands are as green as the leaves. We too will go: like the season Down Green Park and half Piccadilly Turning towards the square. Thus passes.

O there has been some pleasure all the same. O we have lain our heads down in the grass. O we have wiped our hands clean. O we have lain....

Tip tip tip tip To-whom, to-whom Tip tip tip To-whom

allen hope


Tungsten A word for wartime goes on, nineteen times denser than water. “Wolf ’s froth,” they call it, often, “conspicuous gallantry.” This way and that we maneuver: the jurisdiction of meaning weans to its end. But we are lit filaments. We remember our blanket-blown bed country.

peter longofono


Love Could Be Such a Thing crumbs and crumbs and piles of sand, simulacra for what remained of her. like the ladybug infestation. like how some beetles are innocuous. love could be such a thing, heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sure and never says, which is the same as love never being such a thing. who takes death on the wall? tiny crawler small because young? or small because from a small family. the vacuum is cacophony when loud is the only remedy for gone. she remembered to take every single thing, except the bits she never remembered were hers.

lisa alden


zarina zuparkhodjaeva 150 Orange Signs, DC, oil on canvas 153 Snow Pile on Parking Lot, oil on canvas omar mohamed battisha 154 Highway Over the Heavens, photography harrison atwood 157 Mexican Cowboy, photography joseph tatard 158 Winter Flight, photography 160 All alone, photography



Mangos on Ashe Street, Key West I. morning / I hear the trees release skirmish of leaves / sweet thud / and sometimes the plaintive rolling across brick II. tree-ripened fruit has a forgiving side pulped / inside its own skin III. this tree has bloomed / twice / first a crown then a skirt waxy / pungent / constellation of buds again and again / the careful boughs unable / to hold their hundred suns

ellene glenn moore


Late Snow monday morning / fast weekend at my motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s house Baltimore / marriage license shoes shower I woke up to blanched windows her garden preserved / in five inches of snow this was March / my flight home cancelled / frost / a clean-smelling crush granite / or sparks / iron-rich blood afternoon / cleaning off her green Volvo with a broom / there it was ozone / sky / my flight down a hill / behind the Capitol building wind biting through / the pink balaclava my mother / tugged / over my nose quick pack of white / at the bottom I suppose it may have happened another way / but how sweet / that toothsome air

ellene glenn moore


Variations in Summer I. olives collect in copper bowls hands / offering up the day / the sun begrudging its own zenith II. how is it we came / here the glowing heads of wheat / spray in the wind and behind a sway-backed fence / a horse built of ribs grulla / dapple III. the road wonders / where it is going the road coddles / the hills

ellene glenn moore


The Harvester for Brueghel

I glare deeper into the pixels, realize these people look just like me. Uniformed in the maze, bent and poor postured. In motion and motionless. But there are grains in the bowl and I wonder how much they eat, if they have saltâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; or sugar. and how far away is that water.

kirsten shu-ying chen


Fool Wise When worse does the world, Do more abound. If alarmed, Be fountains. And however evil grows, Think birds. As time goes low, Then lighter climb. And should hope only dig, Sprout.

hiram larew


thomas hargreaves 165 Parasol's, ink 166 Circle Bar, ink 169 Lafitte's, ink becca schwartz 170 Tubes, photography erika stearly 173 30 E. Main St. no. 16, acrylic and watercolor on paper 174 30 E. Main St. no. 08, acrylic and watercolor on paper 175 30 E. Main St. no. 11, acrylic and watercolor on paper mills brown 176 Aunt Alma's I, collage on canvas 178 Mother's Kitchen, collage and acrylic on canvas 181 Gemstone II, collage on paper 182 Fort, collage on canvas



The Monkey Puzzle Tree The tree grew in a corner of a vacant lot in West Seattle, surrounded by a ten-foot chain link fence. Nothing else, not even weeds, grew there. The swaying trunk was fifty feet tall and covered with a nubbley grey-green epidermis, more like dinosaur skin than bark. Instead of needles the tree produced evergreen triangular scales overlapping like plates of armor, each with a spine at its apex. Round cones, compact and heavy, indicated this tree was a seed-bearing female, though in isolation any seeds it produced would not be viable. The cones rode in clusters on the ends of branches so long and supple that when the wind blew the counterweighted tips caused them to undulate with strange, sauropodian grace. Whenever I passed it I’d linger on the curb, for I recognized it as a perfect specimen of Araucaria araucana: a native of Chile, a living fossil, and endangered. I don’t think anyone in the neighborhood realized we had an endangered species as a neighbor, much less one unchanged since its first ancestor sprang up in the beginning of the Mesozoic. A. araucana existed when the single primitive landmass split, dividing into continents that drifted separate ways. As a child I always imagined this slow geologic change in terms of human time: the quiet land cracking unexpectedly at the feet of prehistoric animals that teetered on the edges as the forests they lived in were pulled apart. Necks outstretched, they cried to each other as they sailed away. I discovered the tree by accident when I moved into the neighborhood after my divorce. New acquaintances in West Seattle – women my age – kept offering their condolences on my husbandless, childless, studio-apartment life, no matter how often I told them: No, I’m fine. Re-


ally. This was true. Though my new life was a struggle I was happy to be free of the restrictions of my old one. Yet every time they expressed their unintentionally toxic sympathy, my new sense of freedom sapped away. I began to spend less of my spare time with them, embarking instead upon long walks around the neighborhood looking for – I don’t know what I was looking for, exactly. But every time I set out, I felt a strange, hopeful anticipation mixed with an unshakeable longing. I was convinced I was going somewhere on these walks, although I had no idea where that might be. Thus, I discovered the tree and soon went to see it daily, often standing in the rain that falls all winter in Seattle. I suspect the tree arrived in the Northwest in the 1960’s, the decade of my own birth. Seattle hosted the World Fair in 1962, and A. araucana saplings were sold there, becoming a brief horticultural fad. The potted specimens were marketed as houseplants under the common name, “Monkey Puzzle Tree” – a name which makes no sense unless one has seen a mature tree’s swaying, prickly branches. They cannot be grasped, and the seeds the monkey desires cannot be attained. Most saplings lived short, rootbound lives and died in their containers. Some trees were transplanted outdoors, but in the shade they either perished from lack of light, or twisted so drastically to reach the sun they destroyed themselves with their own contortions. Yet the tree in the vacant lot not only survived, it was majestic. I liked to imagine how it would look in another forty years. In its eighties, the tree would be even taller and its lower branches would fall away until only the topmost ones remained. The tree would resemble a giant umbrella. I imagined myself standing beside it: an old woman with a little green umbrella standing under the enormous green umbrella of the tree, gazing up. One day I realized the tree had changed. Perhaps there was some


slow-working toxin in the soil of the vacant lot. Or maybe the tree needed soil enriched by the mulch of dropped scales and twigs of neighbors it did not have. Whatever the cause, the tree’s scales became dry and yellow, rattling in the wind. Its trunk, increasingly jaundiced, still moved, though stiffly. These changes never changed my desire to gaze at it, magnificent even in its distress. I went to look at it on the day I moved away. If I were to return to West Seattle, I might not be able to find my way to where the tree once stood. Even when I lived there the old buildings were being torn down: tall cranes on the edges of construction pits stretched toward each other, their groaning engines audible under the louder grindings and bangings of construction. Shining high-rises forced out artists and fixed-income elderly who loved the history and needed the low rent. The place I’d gone to rebuild my life was falling apart. But when I try to recall my old neighborhood and the tree, what I remember is not what I have described. Instead, I see the tree in perfect health: green and graceful, springing up from its barren lot, the light of the evening seeming to shine from within its branches. The chain link fence is gone. If I turn, I can see the West Seattle Bridge – out of its rightful place by many miles. Walking to the hilltop, I do not find the sidewalk to my old apartment, but a ridge overlooking the Waterway, gold and indigo in the evening. Instead of the holding tanks and shipping crates that line the shores below, I see an Araucaria araucana forest, newly sprung up and yet full-grown. Their branches wave in endless, restless taffeta rustlings, glimmering in the lengthening light. Although the rain has stopped, water that clings to their scales shakes loose and falls upon my upturned face – for I am among them now.

rose strode


The Myelin Sheath Note: The myelin sheath is a greatly extended and modified plasma membrane wrapped around the nerve axon in a spiral fashion. Picture this: A hose outside a house in a suburbian backyard. The hose is green; the grass, too. At the crank of a wrist, fresh, clean water sprints up from the property’s subsystem, glides through the casing and pours itself into place. Prior to appearing at the spout, water is an unthought. The ground drinks up. Young trees flourish. Neighborhood kids emerge to make a case for the sprinkler. Note: Plumbing follows the basic laws of nature (gravity, pressure, water seeking its own level)—as do we. Now the house is getting older, but not only this. There has been a storm— a series of storms, near the location of this specific house in this specific suburbian backyard. As for the hose, layers of ply have begun to peel. The reinforcing mesh is deteriorating. A hundred holes leak fresh, clean water. The stream ruptures out of place, alarmingly. And a child sits near the window, inheriting this house, watching the grass run dry.

kirsten shu-ying chen


Bad Decisions I’m not hungry. I’m wearing these shoes. I’ll have another drink. Here’s my credit card. I’m not wearing a bra. I’m not brushing my hair. I am going to be a poet. I am going down this slide.

Jill McDonough




I Said— I blame you for what I have become. Spoiled for choice, for good; quilled mums in the garden, mowing leaves into mulch come fall. She bring you coffee in your favorite cup? Reason enough to stay over, stall. Humdrum. Same old. Everyday new with you, you guys. Texts punctuated with silence, with digital beats. You’ve done everything just right. What’s the secret of comedy? Not emoticons. The Lucky Star to Chinatown, free wifi, free busmates muttering in a thousand tongues. Susan calling to ask if she can wear Dre’s dress. What are you you birds doing? Walking to Jane Street strapped into bags. Then river views, Lackawanna Erie, police boats, light on the water, pilings by the shore. Escargot when you want it, oysters when you don’t. NO, baby, NO, don’t do it! Xmas Eve Pats tix. Only her creditors know for sure. When a guard shouts at me when I’m teaching in prison, I confess that I’m not used to it, tell my students the way I live? No one tells me what to do. We all sit still a second with that wonder: then Dag. She said nobody tells her what to do.

Jill McDonough


The HPV Sonnets We say so much good stuff we write it down on the table, take the table’s paper when we leave. Yale’ll pay good money for that shit I tell them. This is a joke about being a Famous American Poet which sorry but no such thing. Also an excuse to invent and use “Yale’ll.” A sunny day in June at Odeon, Sancerre outside with steak tartare, my BLT. Rosie, Melanie and me on Michael Douglas’s HPV, Melanie’s dad, who says don’t go to the doctor unless your eyes are pussing blood. The man’s a doctor. Pus we like so much we laugh so hard that we get Pus the Magic Dragon, Pus in fucking Boots. In other news, to pus? A verb. A verb for blood. We love pus: its one s, that it’s disgusting, almost but not quite obscene. Melanie finds out that I’m a poet, regrets the low-brow shit she’s said, so Rosie reassures her: she’s got pus in all her poems. Blood and pus and glory, gore a sort of coded language saying you can trust me. I’m here to have a good time. We’re here for hours, days and years of this if we’re that lucky. Thank God. Thank you. We’ll be here all night.

Jill McDonough





contributors lisa alden is a Mensan with Distinguished Graduate Honors and an MFA in poetry from SFSU's Creative Writing Department. Her work has been featured in, among others, New American Writing and The Bastille (Paris). harrison atwood is a young photographer and videographer from the Bay Area who puts forth a fresh perspective in the field of digital media. isabella barbetta is a graduate student of Sheffield Hallam University and a proud citizen of the city since 1995. Her piece is dedicated to the personalities behind and within the artwork, which reflect the essence of the city. omar mohamed battisha is a junior at Bellarmine College Preparatory. When he isn't glued to his viewfinder, you'll find him fencing, debating, dreaming of exotic places, and trying not to procrastinate on his assignments. mills brown is a second-year MFA candidate at American University. Working in a variety of media, Mills is interested in creating strange yet intimate spaces that address themes of home, memory, and childhood. sidney louise brown is a retired English teacher and former adjunct professor living in Alexandria, Virginia.


ryan budd is a recent graduate from UNC-Wilmington. Beyond writing, he currently works for a natural disaster response team. philip carter grew up near Philadelphia in a large family of musicians. He studied violin and piano and later attended Stony Brook University. He now lives in New York, where he maintains a violin studio and performs regularly. kirsten shu-ying chen is a New York City-based poet currently pursuing her MFA at the New School. She founded the artist collective BTP and teaches a creative writing workshop at the Ali Forney Center in Harlem. sandy feinstein's poetry appears in Gyroscope, Praxis Magazine, Really System, Blueline, and Connecticut River Review. Despite the pigeons and the tourists, Venice is still her favorite city. brandon fisher is an American artist from the Washington, DC area, currently living in the mountains of Brazil. In his art, he mixes and matches the spiritual, emotional, physical, and subconscious dimensions that he sees and experiences. craig flaherty calls Boston, St. Louis, and Washington, DC home. As a musician and writer, the spirits of fishermen, farmers, and factions dance in his work. irene gรณmez emilsson is a Mexican filmmaker and photographer based in London, where she mainly works on independent film productions. She is interested in playing and exploring with the possibilities of photography and film.


loralee grace is a lifelong artist and explorer. A muralist with the UICA Exit Space project, her paintings are directly inspired by her travels through the landscapes and cultures of eighteen countries and counting. thomas hargreaves is a Californian native currently living in New Orleans. He illustrates places of personal and cultural significance as a way of connecting with them. It is entirely coincidental that the majority of his work are depictions of bars. allen hope is a queer writer, artist, and aspiring academic. Currently living in Washington, DC, his ideal city would combine the architecture of Paris, the public gardens of London, and the coffee of New York City. #HOTDADJESUS is a 20-something Canadian poet/person living in Atlantic Canada. His film work can be found at Prick of The Spindle, and his writing can be found in Geist, FreeFall, fillingStation, CRITpaper, and Sewer Lid under various names. julio jimenez is a photographer and designer who enjoys being surprised by how beautiful the mundane can be when captured at the right moment. Photography has been a big part of his life, allowing him to see and be more. lee johnson loves to explore and take pictures of anything that captures his eye. He carries his camera everywhere, searching for the next great photo. He cannot wait to see where photography takes him in the future.


jake koch is a poet and artist from Chicago. Although he spends much of his time writing poetry, his primary interests are in visual art and the curation of shows at Gallery 502â&#x20AC;&#x201D;a pop-up gallery he started out of his own apartment. hiram larew, in retirement, helps advise on international food security programs. His poems have appeared in several journals, most recently The Amsterdam Quarterly and Shot Glass. He lives in Maryland. yue li explores issues of immigration, feminism, and poverty through her art. Fear and obsession are recurring themes that appear throughout her pieces. She is currently interested in making sculptures using lightweight, recycled or second-hand materials. peter longofono's poems have appeared in H_NGM_N, fields, Luna Luna Magazine, Public Pool, and Tenderloin, among others. He serves as the Reviews Editor at Coldfront and his chapbook, CHORDS, was published March 2016 by the Operating System. conor martin is an American photographer. Jill McDonough, a three-time Pushcart prize winner, teaches in UMass-Bostonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s MFA program and directs 24PearlStreet, the Fine Arts Work Center online. Her books include Habeas Corpus and Where You Live; REAPER, her fourth collection, is forthcoming from Alice James Books.


amaris montes is a human rights advocate currently based in Washington, DC but originally from the beaches of Los Angeles. She works to recruit foster parents for children and youth in DC who would not otherwise have homes. ellene glenn moore is a writer living in sunny South Florida. She earned her MFA in Creative Writing from Florida International University. Her chapbook The Dark Edge of the Bluff is forthcoming from Green Writers Press in 2017. joseph mulholland is from Albuquerque, New Mexico. His poems have recently appeared in Meridian, The Journal, The Carolina Quarterly, Passages North, Sand, and Notre Dame Review. He is currently a graduate student at the University of Toronto. chloe j newman is an artist working and living in Pittsburgh. Her work in graphic storytelling and illustration experiments with a range of digital and traditional forms across both drawing and printmaking. cameron kohji ormiston is a Japanese-Scottish photographer based in San Jose, California. A senior at Bellarmine College Preparatory, he brings his photography skills to the Carillon Yearbook, Prep2Prep High School Sports, and Quakes Epicenter. katie patrick is currently studying costume design at the University of Hawai'i. In her free time she enjoys cosplaying, watching birds, and dreaming about playing the shamisen.


max perim was born in Salisbury, Maryland. He works in a variety of media, predominantly painting, collage, and printmaking. Max completed his BFA at Carnegie Mellon University in 2014. He currently lives and works in the DC Metro Area. charlotte g phillips is an artist based in Washington, DC. She earned her BFA from Virginia Commonwealth University in 2011, and since then has been working on a range of commercial and fine art projects. andre price, born in Baltimore, educated in Pittsburgh, lives in Chicago. mikala rempe is a poet originally from Omaha, Nebraska. She is currently a student at American University in Washington, DC. Her work has previously been published in American Literary and Lines and Stars. kate e schaffer (BS 2006, MLC; MFA 2016, SAIC) is a painter and writer exploring the fixity and possibility of time and space. Creating nowheres, she shifts the viewerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sense of positionality, generating at once a sense of place and a feeling of displacement. erin schalk has spent extensive time living in and traveling through East Asia, and Okinawa was her home for three years. She holds degrees in East Asian Studies and Studio Art and is currently pursuing an MFA at the Art Institute of Chicago.


becca schwartz is an artist living in Richmond, Virginia studying photography at Virginia Commonwealth University. Her work focuses on experience, documenting irregular occurrences she finds in the world. erika stearly is an artist and educator based in Pennsylvania. Her work has been showcased in recent exhibitions at Wilson College and Penn State University. She is a Teaching Artist in the Banana Factory in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. rose strode received the 2014 “Undiscovered Voices” fellowship from The Writer’s Center in Bethesda, Maryland. Her writing has appeared in The Gettysburg Review, The Little Patuxent Review, The Delmarva Review, and Poet Lore. joseph tatard is 19. Having started photography when he was 10, he shoots photos to make people understand how he sees everyday life. Here are some of them. nathan treviño is a sculptor and designer based out of Oakland, California with an interest in the phenomena and wanderlust provided by interpretations and depictions of the everyday. jeannie vanasco is the author of The Glass Eye, forthcoming from Tin House Books. Her writing has appeared in The Believer, Little Star Journal,, and elsewhere. jet velasco is a 16-year-old photographer living in the Bay Area. He aspires to influence people through photos.


sandra whittington is a storyteller who hails from the east coast and received her BFA from Virginia Commonwealth University. Her work has been featured nationally and internationally, including video installations in Perth and Seattle. grace worm isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t from anywhere (didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you read the poem?) but is currently breathing, writing, teaching, and getting her second masterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s degree in the Bay Area of California. zarina zuparkhodjaeva was born and raised in Uzbekistan. Having maintained a painting practice throughout her life, she initially studied and worked in finance and is currently pursuing an MFA in Washington, DC.




VIATOR n. 2 Winter 2017  
VIATOR n. 2 Winter 2017