|
Artist's Description:
This piece is a Venus sculpture drawn on a vibrant hot pink background. The tropical leaves around her seem to almost cover her body, but it never fully shadows. Nudes have always been the most intriguing object for me to draw, because I think they are the most beautiful thing that could exist on earth. We all should never feel shameful about our curves, and our curved body; the symbol of femininity. And not only women, but each individuals must love their physical specialties. We should all be proud of our natural body. You called me brave
and I smiled to myself, thrilled at the thought of some self of mine as a protector wielding a bow, all grace. I stood with my feet apart clawed my way up out of myself chills spread like flames over my shoulders and faced this straight on. I felt this infinite feeling in the last second, elated nerves running held tight to the fear in my heart. I traded every weapon for a shield and started down the mountainside when the clouds give way to sky and stars shake off their bright disguises I hope you can see them. Loretta knew mountains would clash tonight. She stepped into her living room, startled to see her
guardian, Kenneth, leaning on her two-seater couch, his fingers drumming on his lap. He stood up the moment he sniffed her presence. “Loretta, I hope you know it's tonight?” he said, bowing as though she were some kind of royalty. Although she was. But she loathed it when it was shoved in her face. “I know. I wish I could avoid it or simply prevent it from happening.” her voice lacked the fervency she'd rather it held. Kenneth's regard conformed. “I know you wish that, but if you'd obeyed your parents, everything shouldn't have been the way it is right now.” Artist's Description:
This piece is a depiction of wildflowers that do not exist in reality. The unreal flowers were used to not to limit the imagination of the audience. Vivid flowers are patternlessly arranged on a dark navy colour for a contrast. I wanted to tell that all the brightness of the world can be itself only if the darkness is there, in a more dramatic way. It may be seen as quite depressing and disturbing, but just as how brightness depends on the darkness, it reveals that dark still coexist with the light. While it is very common to only think of just one single thing, and consider everything else as extra complexity of the whole picture, I wanted to find the tranquility under complications. The day I name the way
a maze it begins to own a bit of me, and I lay my claim on a patch of its length that circles an overgrown shrub, the time-eaten wall and a shameless body of muddy water. At one point I feel the desire to leave the maze drying, dying. From hollow in my abdomen an eclipse of moths swirl out. Content warning: allusions to domestic abuse
The screeches we heard at night were pumas, barn owls, and El Sibador. They came when the white men came. My mamá spoke of the Cihuateteo, luring us westward when we did not come home before the sun set. Yamilex scared me with tales of La Llorona when I would stray too close to the waters of the river in the basin, but I know she was more concerned with the Sánchez Navarro men seeing me and becoming too friendly. I chose to become too friendly with one of them before she could catch me, and we were married in the summer of 1935, when I was seventeen years old. He was twenty-four, and a white man. On the night before my wedding, a white man's wedding, my cousin Citlali told me I shouldn't have done it. Yamilex scolded her with her eyes, thinking I wasn't watching, but I already knew that neither of them wanted me to marry this man. But I loved him, and I still love him, in a way. They were older and thought they knew better. It wasn't until I had my own daughters that I understood how they felt. Trigger Warning: Blood and gore depiction
Ingredients/parts
Directions Take out all the ingredients and place them on your counter./I'm lying naked in a labour room. Soak the flowers with cold water./Waiting for my flower to be soaked. Add hot, boiling water to the teapot./I tell them water's boiling, baby, alive. Add apple slices into the pot and chop them with a wooden spoon./They remove my silverskin from ribs. Whisk in the chamomile flowers and 2 cups of boiling water./I can't see anymore, my ba-, do-, ple, ali VVVEEE, pls. Let it steep for 2-3 minutes./They say it's my new life. Pour the tea into two cups and enjoy it with honey./Little do they know, it's the first living funeral of the dead If ever a symbol of us existed,
It would be your car A car made of cursory confessions Stored under seats Pinky promises stretched across our chests, Become the only seat belts we'll ever need The day's insecurities tossed in the back (you think we'd be more careful with our worst fears) Fastest routes are forgotten with a touch to your thigh And this car, your car, A car made of hollowed out Starbucks cups And McDonald's fumes Intertwined with the smoke of bad decisions Has become shelter From the storms slipping through our fisted fingers Because I swore on the Bible that I would tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth, and God always knows when I lie. Because I want to be clean; clean as a blade through skin, a church pew before Sunday service, a wooden rosary worn smooth by years of wandering fingertips. Because the Bible says “respect thy mother and father,” even if you have a father who loves Jim Beam and the crack of a belt more than he loves Jesus. Because the only burning I can stand is the carpeted kneeler in the prison church rubbing my knees raw. Because there is no second baptism. Four-thousand-and-fifty days, five-thousand nights,
A grey-haired woman peers through her telescope, Searching for the moon that wanders alone, Yearning for the shadow that once embraced it. The pitch-black umbra surrounds the moon, A throwback to that starry night of old, When Luftwaffe's flames kindled the flicker, And the face of death shimmered in her world. Two barrage balloons fell from the sky, As thunder roared through angry, black clouds, She glimpsed fragments of a dive bomber's skin, Painting the heavens amidst her bird's feathers. With avocado toast and Americano dark roast
Hot chicken mushroom soup with a cottage tulip vase Made by your mother who now has the vote Soft background music and art therapy All done by your sisters who now have the vote Dime-store perfume and a fat cat All in your granny’s house who now have the vote A few hundred years that Adam was in charge But now it’s Eve too, she has the vote. You look at your mom, smiling at you, and you realize that you will never get to live with her as
a child ever again. The next time you see her, you’ll be an adult and she’ll be old. That’s the pain of loving somebody, you want things to stay the same forever just when it gets good. You look at my mom the moment before you move across the world to be born again. Just this time, it’s not from her womb. You see her smiling face. She used to tell you stories about when she was your age, and one day you’ll tell her the same stories she told you. You won’t run into her in the house anymore. You won’t eat her meals. You wont get to run to her when a laundry problem arises. But you know she’ll stay right there in the same place she has always been, and when you come back, she’ll see how much you’ve grown. We went that day
specially to see her childhood home. We weren’t sure what state it would be in and so we didn’t say anything as the Uber travelled across the city to a very different part that my mother had once known like the back of her hand. My father, at one point, exclaimed – “It is not there! It is gone. Your house. She Was Only Five Years Old And Sweet
Young Naive Damsel And Ambitious I Bet She Had Bright Future And Big Dreams She Felt Comfortable And Safe Around You She Looked At You As Her Hero And Protector What Do You See When You Look In The Mirror What Did You See When You Look At Her What Came To Your Mind When She Cries Are Her Tears Not Transparent Enough To See Pain How Does If Feels Murdering An Innocent Soul In her green dress flowing around
her If I’m dead to you, why are you at the wake? Cursing my name, wishing I stayed I wish I wasn’t dead to you, because you’re still at my wake I can’t curse your name, and I wish you stayed Millions singing along with her, and I hope they relate I can go anywhere I want, anywhere I want, just not home And she falls to the ground, on her knees, desperate You would be my home for as long as I remember you And without you, I’m free but without a home And I wish I couldn’t relate There is nothing more excruciating than rejection. Holding your heart out on a platter, offering it
to one whose soul you see mirrored in your own, only to be told no. No, it’s not good enough. You are not good enough. You are not enough. The sting burrows its way inside, not content to settle just under the skin, but needling deep into the void where your heart used to be, before it was ripped out. That’s what I was reflecting on, anyway, when a voice interrupted my thoughts. “Is this seat taken?” The young woman, about my age, already had her hands on the empty chair across from me. For only the briefest second, I thought she wanted to sit there, but then she pulled towards herself an inch to make clear the chair was going with her. She was stunning. That was the only way to put it. Long rippling black hair that was entirely wasted in this coffee shop—hair meant to be tumbling in the wind on a wild moor. Eyes so bright and wide I could see myself reflected back, blinking stupidly. She wore a loose striped t-shirt, jean capris, and ballet flats, all so effortless I felt clumsy and awkward just sitting there. The only effortless thing in my life was split ends. I had heard of
families that were divided when the borders were drawn. Imaginary lines that became terrifyingly real and put brother and brother and sister in separate lands. sometimes, we marvel at how fast we can run
but not get anywhere; how well we become a period that puts a stop to nothing. wind-legged, time vaults, we watch the gulls peck a name into our bare chests. mother said this is the story of how a home rejects anything with boobs in flying colors: my sister knew instantly that she was not home yet. what home wears his daughter sebum HOT GIRL IS A STATE OF MIND
is what she shouts at me for the millionth time, As I sit here crying over things I can’t change. Sure, it’s pathetic. Sure, it’s unproductive. Sure, whatever you say, but… Sometimes I spend the day wishing to be in the arms of someone else. YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE HOT TO BE A HOT GIRL is what they laugh at me, and sure, It’s not my looks or gender or sexuality that’s Holding me back but, but, but-- Beginning with a line from the Manchester Women’s Aid Pamphlet
on the Impact of Domestic Violence & Abuse on Children Girls don’t become victims just because they saw a parent being abused. They become victims by whatever colour ignites a forest fire in California. If the flare is pink, buy floral frills, name her Daisy. Teach her how to avoid being picked, woven into a chain of missing girls long enough to drape around Venus. That’s where girls are from. Otherworldly, headless mannequins. All girls become victims by age ten, take her to H&M, watch her shrink like the clothing options available to her. Her dreams obscured by a billboard with Kylie Jenner’s face on. |