Sam Heaps

A Father A Son A Market

I tell them. This is the morning I haven’t bought the gun for. They tell me, it is hard for you, but, if you say it again I’m going to have to call the cops or something.

Standing in the shower. Showering two, three times a day. Wishing I knew how to drown. Incompetent even in this want. A painting. Hands over a body in a shower. Baby blue hands. Another painting. A woman reclining, hovering, a crouch and also a rest. Her right breast exposed to the viewer and the paint is thin near the center of the meat so it is like a light comes from inside her. A white figure, bigger, hunching, leaning over, lips extended to kiss the highest arch of the front her neck — which you could slice a wire through. A line of thick black, of empty space, between the man’s lips and the woman’s chin. As though the black touches each of them. As though the space is dense and part of their touching their closeness their want. But, thin enough to taste the space on either side where they are apart. Death. On the far left. Laughing. Death’s hand supporting the slenderest bit of the woman’s back.

And life too, to the right. Headless.

Music to cover the relentless weeping the talking in the mirror for the neighbors. You are here. You are right here. To the mirror. You are here. Touching the body seeing the woman who is you touch the body. You are right here. Cambodian rock from the ‘60s. No don’t think about the torture. The body. The nipples. The lesions. The photos. The bodies. All dead. The stack of the musician’s bodies. The empty spaces in the sounds. The circles of pavement the market. The circles of pavement the market. Aerial view then slipping amongst the pillars running and laughing and you remember the smell of the fish and the heat. Trying to say, in the now, “I am here,” to the streets as you begin to sob by the trash cans. Streets emptied from the virus which remind you of the photos again and then suddenly a man in a mask with a son. I am here. I am here. I am here.

No matter the boy’s age no matter the look of the father. Sweating. Gulping for air that is not wet with you A. Orange robes and hot. And the circles of pavement and the market.

Our last night. When you stand with me in the shower I am so cold and you touch me and you tell me, but no sex I just want to touch and you say, why can’t we just lie together? But I don’t want to get out of the water drinking beneath the hot stream and standing like that I feel the loss of you. The loss at the end of the summer. The sudden black space where before there was.

The thick black line between our faces on the street. The whole world is hot with my want to cross the line to touch.

I will not again use the word love. This is too painful to be love. The way you left me is not love. What you have with them is love. Whatever we had was something else. Maybe just void. What exists before void. When now there is only void. What is before.

And we fight. You tell me, you are impulsive. You lack boundaries and patience. Do you like that she is threatened by you? I beg you not to look below my shoulders.

You ask why I want to punish you. I tell you it is not meant to be torture, but that there are consequences to your leaving.

You tell me to look at how good you have been. You tell me, you have to trust me.

You, touching my breast, and I cannot feel the hand like my skin has turned to callous. So eager to be in the scalding water with me you leave the key in the door. Forgetting.

But we are already dead.

And when I consent and lie with you and touch my hand to your cheek as you cry, as I cry, and you say. Will it help with the pain if I have sex with you? And I say yes when I mean no. But I have been begging for you the whole night, and so you must think you are doing a service. And you fuck my body like it used to be fucked by you. And I am in my body, I suppose I must be. And this too feels like mourning. And I ride you and hold your hands above your head. And you tell me it feels so different. You tell me it does not work for you the way it used to, and I don’t know how to tell you it is because I am not there, that I don’t know how to find a way back into my body after your betrayal. When you are finished you are hungry, not for me but for food. Your body longs for sustenance elsewhere as I have not given it enough.

You leave me like this, lying naked in the bed, and you never return.
And the bed to my left. And the same walls. And the same shower. And I am here every day looking at the gravesite. And I am here every day sleeping in the grave. Too much sun in the windows. Outside endless channels of empty pavement. Grids. But, wavering.

And you leave.

A letter I keep on yellow paper. You sit with me before returning to your child. Why can’t I give you to him willingly when it means you are good? When it is good. I refuse the martyrdom offered me to instead remain a parasite.

The letter is written in all caps on yellow paper. Your wife must know this is how you write, must be so intimate with this writing. A shopping list. A love letter. An apology. A note so you don’t forget. A photo of her sitting on a hotel bed. Young. A shiny sleeveless dress. Brightness between you, the way she looks at the camera. The look mortar.

In the letter you say you can do nothing to help me deal with the pain. But you think of me. You say better, when you mean worse.You leave. And before you leave I am stroking the tears from your cheek.

The skin along your jaw, loose. The tears. And. Your cheek in my hand. Your cheek in my hand. And. You leave.

My own hand to my own cheek. To the mirror. You are here. You are here.

Your neck beneath the cheek. I have spent too little time thinking of the neck that supports the grace.

I am an emerging writer but have published in a few small journals including Entropy, & Of Other Things and Collected. I hold an MFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago where I was the recipient of a New Artist’s Society Full Scholarship and a nominee for the James Raymond Nelson Fellowship. I currently work as a Master Lecturer at the University of the Arts in Philadelphia.

Zebulon Huset

On Tables Named Lack

We were drunk and played the floor is lava
                          while the world outside was on fire. You
              came home and made the bold claim that
                                         imaginary friends are for children like cartoons
              or believing in Santa or eating your vegetables.
Just because flat-packed tables aren’t real wood
                          and they don’t use real screws and we got a real
              gash on the shin. You were essential, selling
                                         houses to rich people. 100,000 have died, we said
              but you said you didn’t want to hear it. Old news.
True, we replied like a Greek chorus. It’s up
                          at least another thousand since this afternoon.
              While some locals fight their facemasks,
                                         last night, a guy kidnapped his three year old
              twins and full-on Duke’s of Hazzard-ed his truck
into the Pacific because his estranged wife
                          was getting the police involved. We won
              with rum and fruit juice and you joined the jumping,
                                         crumpling cheap tables and chairs to the molten
              floor like they were the furniture for paper dolls, lava
everywhere, setting fires and shifting the ground.
                          They said the Yosemite super caldera was overdue
              for a huge eruption—wipe out the dinosaurs
                                         huge. But who’s got the decades to wait on that plug.
              We’re not on geological time here—this
is something different entirely.

Jessica Tyson, Nolan Hutton, Zebulon Huset

Quarantine Exquisite Corpse Project* #1

it was impossible to tell if the neighborhood kids were shrieking in terror or joy
         the siren was like a baby down a pitch-black hall
                     sitting on the back of the garden chair in the rain
 
the Chinese elm tree hissed leaves roiling before
                                                         the exasperation of poverty
and                          is this the peace you seek?
         Only ever                sings for you,         if it ever does.
 
Discovered in Budapest without shoes
the sound of a small motor and metal grinding and zydeco music down the alley
                     as ants carry more weight than any of us.
 
Before the calves got ornery, as they say—
         the pericos, as Pete called them, erupted from the branches
                                                         without a ticket or fare—we proceeded
                 filling the sky behind the siren—
                                         truth that bleeds into the space between your breaths
         he believed that wood milled on a full moon was somehow stronger.

  • A series of exquisite corpses completed by poets online, from their various nests.

Zebulon Huset is a teacher, writer and photographer living in San Diego. His writing has recently appeared in Meridian, The Southern Review, Louisville Review, Fence, Rosebud, Atlanta Review and Texas Review among others. He publishes a writing prompt blog Notebooking Daily and is the editor of the journal Coastal Shelf.

Marie Hervé

Composition pour une longue explication

Il s’agit d’une production de textes et schémas sur un rouleau de papier (15cm X 3.50 m) découpé à la scie, Composition pour une longue explication – un long monologue tentant de donner une réponse à l’angoisse de la page blanche, l’état de vide, de veille, d’immobilité comme possible décision politique.
Scindé en trois actes, le texte développe le monologue absurde d’une femme qui attend, Sieste; puis le Manifeste pour une pratique de la sieste, et finalement une Longue explication sur le fait d’écrire, pour rien.
Le “rouleau”, en phase de traduction vers l’anglais et l’italien, se déploie sous la forme de séquences d’images, de pièces sonore, de vidéos.

Marie Hervé Retranscription Virtuelle Composition pour une Longue Explication


À la suite d’études en hypokhâgne-khâgne, Marie Hervé intègre l’École Nationale Supérieure de la Photographie d’Arles, où elle poursuit actuellement son cursus. Elle y développe un travail d’auto-publication et de mise en espace de photographies, textes et images en mouvement où sont interrogés les usages contemporains de l’image photographique comme fantôme, ruine personnelle ou mémoire commune dégradée; depuis l’archive familiale et l’espace du musée jusqu’à l’image de téléphone portable. Dans le même temps, elle développe des projets personnels et collectifs sur le territoire méditerrannéen, notamment lors de Roundtable #3 pour Lucy Art Residency, Kavala, Grèce ou encore Transformer Project pour Blitz, Malte, ainsi qu’en collaboration avec l’Arthotèque de Vitré. Elle a exposé en France durant les Rencontres de la Photographie d’Arles, à Égine, Grèce ou encore à Lyon.


After a two-year intensive preparatory course for French Grandes Écoles in Arts, Literature and Langages, Marie Hervé entered the École Nationale Supérieure de la Photographie d’Arles, where she is pursuing her studies. Through spacial installations and self-publications, her work interrogates contemporary uses of the image as a phantom, a personal ruin or a damaged memory; from family archives and museum conservation to cellphones images. She is currently developing personal and collective projects within the mediterranean area, during Roundtable #3 – Lucy Art Residency, Kavala, Greece or Transformer Project at Blitz, Malta, as well as in collaboration with the Vitré art space, France. She exhibited her work in Arles during Les Rencontres Internationales de la Photographie, as well as in Aegina, Greece and Lyon, France.

Robert Sheppard

From British Standards:

An overdub of The Dancing Girl by Letitia Elizabeth Landon

this is the darkest time though colour fields                                    I
  flex and shimmer in the retinal pool eyes                                    don’t
    shoot dance through thin surfaces this is                                     want
      a weary world flattened indoors into                                        to
           fresh-faced images of fresher faces seen                                  just
               (as they seem) less clearly for our lesser                        make
                   looking she takes the breath she slices moulds form
               its feeling vibrations in creaking knees she                      the
           lifts the line of poetry to shift the limbs                               plastic
      we open the shutters to let in light                                                 hope
    to sharpen all the hopes to harp-notes                                         of
  and unshackle the air and shape the ear she                                    hope
stretches in crooked space to bend it                                             itself

11th April 2020

Robert Sheppard is a poet who lives in Liverpool, England. His most recent publication is Charms and Glitter (with photographer Trev Eales), out from Knives Forks and Spoons; before that was Hap: Understudies of Thomas Wyatt’s Petrarch. This poem is part of a long project transposing sonnets entitled ‘The English Strain’, this part ‘British Standards’. His selected poems, History or Sleep, is available from Shearsman, which also publish The Robert Sheppard Companion, edited by James Byrne and Christopher Madden: this carries essays on his work. Co-editor of the Arc anthology Atlantic Drift with James Byrne, he is also a critic of contemporary poetry. The Meaning of Form is published by Palgrave, and he has published studies of Iain Sinclair and Lee Harwood. Emeritus Professor at Edge Hill University. Web: robertsheppard.weebly.com.

Anthoula Lelekidis

from Fragments of Diaspora

“Fragments of Diaspora” centers around the theme of identity, migration, and the desire to uncover one’s roots. The lives of diaspora are filled with nostalgia, a deep yearning for home and the need to create a life away from it. By combining fragments of my photographs together with personal family imagery, I reassemble and rework a new collection of memories. My process is not planned or controlled and includes tearing apart prints then combining them again. These physical rips begin to resemble the splitting of families who fled from their homeland due to war or poverty. They depict symbols of cultural traditions and family bonds, while highlighting feelings of displacement and isolation.

The idea of post-memory; a term coined by Marianne Hirsch in her book “The Generation of Post-memory”, is a great inspiration to me. ‘Post-memory’ explains the relationship that the ‘generation after’ has to the collective and cultural trauma of those who preceded them. As a first-generation artist, I search for connections between my birthplace, New York City, and that of my ancestors, who originate in Greece and Asia Minor. These reconstructions illustrate a journey through inter-generational narratives, with hopes to keep custody and deep care of these personal inherited histories. This investigation and the need for an individualized story, act as a meditation between the realm of post-memory and realization.

 

CAPTIONS
01: “A Village Gathering”, Photo Collage, 11×14, March 2020
02: “Two Generations Ago”, Photo Collage, 8×10, March 2020
03: “At the Foothills of Mount Olympus”, 11×14, March 2020
04: “A Memory Relived”, Photo Collage, 8×10, November 2019
05: “Smoke Break”, Photo Collage, 8×10, November 2019
06: “Fragments of Diaspora”, Photo Collage, 11×14, January 2020
07: “A Moment in Between”, Photo Collage, 8×10, December 2019
08: “A Village Gathering”, Photo Collage, 11×14, March 2020
09: “Spring / Fall”, Photo Collage, 8×10, April 2020
10: “Under the Hell Gate”, Photo Collage, 11×14, December 2019

 

Anthoula Lelekidis is a Greek-American lens-based artist who utilizes photography, photographic collage, and mixed media in her practice. Her work navigates themes of personal memory, loss, migration, and the inability to create new memories. With a deep interest in the archive, she alters found family photos to interpret a deeper tie to and uncover ancestral roots within the blank spaces of her recollection. She holds a BFA in Photography from Parsons School of Design and received the Community Fellowship from the International Center of Photography. She was a resident at the Skopelos Foundation of the Arts. In 2008, she earned a scholarship from the Students On Ice Organization to travel to photograph Antarctica.

AnthoulaLelekidis.com
IG: @AnthoulaLelekidis

Christina Alexiou

ΦΩΛΙΑ / NEST

Ζω και εργάζομαι στην Αθήνα. Θα με χαρακτήριζα ως ένα πολυδιάστατο άτομο που επιλέγει να εκφράζει τις σκέψεις και τα συναισθήματα του με διαφορετική μορφή κάθε φορά είτε μέσω του κολλάζ, είτε του illustration και άλλων μορφών τέχνης όπως η χαρακτική, ο πηλός, τα κόμιξ. Πιστεύω στη δυναμική του D.I.Y και της επανάχρησης των υλικών. To "Quazar" είναι το πρώτο μου fanzine και αποτελεί μια προσωπική φωτογραφική συλλογή με graffiti, stencils, stickers από διάφορες περιοχές της Ελλάδας και του εξωτερικού. Instagram: @kri.ctin

I live and work in Athens as a Construction Supervisor. I stUdied in the Technological Educational Institute of Patras at the Department of Renovation and Restoration of Buildings, and have participaded in Eco-Building and Art Therapy courses. I would describe myself as a multidimensional person who chooses to express her thoughts and feelings in a different way each time through collage or illustration, or art forms, such as linocut print, clay, comics. I firmly support D.I.Y., and the reuse of materials as way of life. I love to create my handmade silver jewellery, as well as ‘Quazar,’ my first fanzine which is a personal graffiti photo collection of graffiti, stencils, stickers from various regions of Greece and abroad. Instagram: @kri.ctin

Antigone Michalakopoulou

South

          It was standing there, a few metres from the shore, about twenty centimetres tall, facing the South – the South that always fills me with hope. This time it was hard for me to turn away and just abandon it there. It has never been so hard before. As I was walking away I kept turning my head to have another glimpse of it from afar. At some point I think I must have turned back to it, to have one last close look. Maybe I’m making this scene up, I’m not sure to be honest, but it feels like I turned back just once. Then I left.
          This wasn’t the first little hut I’ve built during my walks here and there in the nature, usually by the beach. This has become a habit almost a year now. But this particular one was made one day before the lock down starts. Since that day I haven’t visited again this place as it’s too far from home. As you can imagine, there is no excuse for me to be there given the circumstances.
          So I grew this affection for this hut. Maybe it was the time of the day, the afternoon light, the deep orange terracotta colour the pebbles I used for the floor had, the cleansing breeze, or the idea of a safe, calming place. I do have the memory of such a place. I remember well the fresh smell of the calm summer sea, the warm pebbles under the naked body, the reassuring shadow a little tree would offer. While balancing the little sticks and building piece by piece the tiny hut, I could imagine the 15 centimetres tall version of myself hanging there. Lying down softly on the orange pebbles, not necessarily alone, gazing far away the South, the South that fills me up with hope.
          As if I needed to bring back and freshen up the memory of that safe summer place, I had my little moment by the beach that day before the lock down, and then I left. One evening a couple of weeks later, I started to draw the hut by memory, like I always do with all the huts I’ve made in the past. This time I didn’t need to challenge my memory or my drawing skills. I only needed to draw it. To watch it unfold in front of me. Each time I would once more pass with my thin brush the diluted ink on the paper, I could feel the afternoon light and the moist breeze on my face.
          Right now, almost one month after that evening, I’m writing this text and I once more feel the sense of this safe, summer place coming back to life. I’m still not allowed to be far from home without a serious reason, given the circumstances. But facing the South, still fills me with hope.

Σπούδασα αρχιτεκτονική στο ΕΜΠ στην Αθήνα (2005), καλές τέχνες στην ΑΣΚΤ (2009) και στο Λονδίνο (St. Martins College), ενώ ολοκλήρωσα το μεταπτυχιακό μου στις Καλές Τέχνες στη Γάνδη, στο Βέλγιο (2014, ΚASK School of Arts Ghent). Έχω λάβει μέρος σε εκθέσεις, φεστιβάλ, καθώς και έχω παρουσιάσει περφόρμανς και workshop στο Βέλγιο, στη Γερμανία, στην Ελλάδα κ.α. Έχω πραγματοποιήσει residencies σε διάφορους χώρους στο Βέλγιο (Workspacebrussels, Kaaistudios, Air Antwerpen, Recyclart Brussels). To 2017, επέστρεψα στην Ελλάδα και τώρα ζω και εργάζομαι όντας σε κίνηση ανάμεσα σε Καλαμάτα, Αθήνα και Βρυξέλλες. Παράλληλα, διδάσκω από το 2009 εντός διαφόρων πλαισίων. Με το καλλιτεχνικό μου έργο διερευνώ τους πολλαπλούς τρόπους με τους οποίους αντιλαμβανόμαστε τις έννοιες του τόπου, του χώρου, του χρόνου και της μνήμης οι οποίες διαμορφώνουν την ταυτότητά μας και τη σχέση μας με τον κόσμο.

I studied architecture in NTUA (2005) Athens, fine arts in ASFA (2009) Athens and in St. Martins College in London, and I obtained my MA in visual arts in School of Arts Ghent (2014) in Belgium. I have taken part in exhibitions and festivals in Belgium, Germany, Greece and other countries with visual works, performances and workshops. I have also followed several residency programs in Belgium (Workspacebrussels, Kaaistudios, Air Antwerpen, Recyclart Brussels). In 2017, I came back in Greece and I now live and work between places (Kalamata, Athens, Brussels). Besides my artistic activity, I practice art education with various age groups and in diverse contexts since 2009. In my work I combine very different media such as performance, video, drawing, photography and installation art, investigating the many ways we perceive the concepts of place, space, time and memory to constitute our identity.

Kiriakos Spirou

Transitioning

 

 

Kiriakos Spirou (b.1984, Limassol) is a Cypriot art writer, editor, copywriter, independent publisher and award-winning composer and pianist. He has contributed art criticism, interviews and articles to newspapers, magazines and online media in Greece, Cyprus, Belgium, Sweden and the UK, and has written for exhibition catalogues in Greece, the Netherlands, Serbia and Cyprus. His curatorial projects include five group exhibitions and a solo show. He has composed music for contemporary dance theatre, and has taught workshops on methodology and interdisciplinary collaborations between music and dance. His musical works have been performed in Cyprus, Greece, the Netherlands, Poland, Sweden, Italy, Puerto Rico and the UK. He is the founding editor of und., an artist-run publishing platform for the development, promotion and documentation of underrepresented contemporary art in Athens and its wider region. Since 2019, he is a member of the Association Internationale des Critiques d’Art (AICA). He lives and works in Athens, Greece.

Hunter Gagnon

Quarantine poem #60 yes mama Ellen I look at Johns Hopkins every day too

1,724,736 confirmed 104,938 deaths 390,335 recovered (April is moving)
503,594 US It takes convincing unfortunately for this
                                                                        to be all it is
                                  the report / the diligence
IN ITSELF a humiliation
              before vast math
                  the required bowing of the human
    but all it is, really is, is
nothing
    required
            for the American: “I’m concerned about russian viral propaganda
      during this pandemic. Their main goal
                        is to lessen trust
        in our institutions. I have tracked the web of this. The prism. The
    lines unfolding
                it is like a flower”
for the American a cigarette in a sunburnt
                                                              hand
                                                  in a crème pickup truck
                          in the grocery parking
                               lot leering at the many-colored masks
                                                                        of walking others
                                                              their
                                              uncertain
                  steps “Uncertainty should be despised. As should any
                        productive action. In this prison. Any action is just labor
                        for the warden’s hand. We only want what dignifies us which
                        is contempt
                        with certainty.” the individual
            is easy
                        to remove the solution
            is easy
                              to doubt
                                          for the American
        play ultimate frisbee outside
              FEMA hq a change
                                            from the menthols and black&
                                                              milds
                  of New Jersey, the superstructure brown + slumping “Our death
                                        is greatest now
                                                                  [10 years late]. This
                                                                                            is the last time
                                                                  we win.
                                                                      Appreciate it.” For
                                        the
                                                              American.

Quarantine poem #18 on how verified facts reach for the day

407,485 confirmed 18,227 deaths 104,234 recovered
49,768 US (3rd place) 3/24/20 in the morning Johns
Hopkins
On wifi signal, then
The day came the night came
It fed on stars
fed itself
and all the wheels of the night
rode the sheep field
the big house threw its glow like copper spears
thudding into the body of the woods
shelter in place more strict as of now
spilling yellow blood
all over
screw in hooks
grab head
walk back and forth
bed not
made in clumsy dark
3/25/20 —,— confirmed Johns
Hopkins be
good go
to work buy
a stock sleep with
your head on the bars it’s a
pillow you funny
animal it
works

Hunter Gagnon lives in Fort Bragg, California where he has worked as a State Park Seasonal Aide, a bookseller, and as a poetry teacher for local elementary schools (before the pandemic). He holds a degree in Philosophy and has served in AmeriCorps and FemaCorps.

Sara Rosenthal

How to Measure Time like a Contemporary Artist

    -Fingernails, like a fragile sculpture made by Mona Hatoum
    -Layers of wax dripped down the side of candles- I’m sure some artists have played with this, more than sure, yes, here for example of course like Urs Fischer’s dripping wax people, ephemeral and life-size
    -collections of dust from each sweeping displayed like medical evidence in a graph-chart along a long gallery wall, like Mary Kelly’s Post Partum Document
    -a roll of ticker tape marked with calendared minutes pulled forth from my premenstrual vagina in a long continuous strand of unending boredom, like Carolee Schneeman and not like her
    -plucked eyebrow hairs, collected
    -shaved armpit hairs, collected
    -scavenged beard hairs
    -vegetable waste
        -(and orange peels and banana peels and the tops of pineapples and strawberries- all the forms of discarded hair and skin)
    -mold
               (L’s tomatoes in the fridge)
    -the fluctuating number of minutes spent on social media, or clicking back and forth between facebook page, gmail account 1, gmail account 2, facebook page, always with the feeling that there was something else you had intended to look at, something much more interesting for you to click on, somewhere….
    -steps taken pacing around the house, back and forth from room to room, recorded, in a chart-graph
    -number of pages read and re-read
    -number of words repeatedly used out loud
    -number of repeated jokes
    -number of re-told stories
    -number of video/phone calls to people in other countries
         (recorded lengths of said calls, recorded number of total minutes since x time spent wearing headphones)
    -picked and dying and soon dried wildflower bouquet
    -cigarette butts, pots full of ash- collected, sealed, strung along a thin silver wire, around the top of the room
    –cups of coffee, preserved in their original mug form. A pyramid of these.
    -cups of tea, see above. A mountain of these.
    -imprints on the bed sheets.
    –number of kisses, measure 1: small and measure 2: long.
    -number of hands grasping the back of a shirt.
    -number of neck cracks (recorded, rhythmic audio track)
    -number of sighs (measure 1: pleasure. Measure 2: boredom, ennui.)
    -increasing doneness of 3000 piece puzzle, tracked and recorded in stop motion animation. (The animation so far lasts .4 seconds, only the hot air balloons.)
    -trips to the grocery store- tracked in an exponential graph with x and y axes
    -amount of chocolate bars purchased tracked on same graph
    -empty beer cans, preserved, flattened, used to build a house, an entire house
    -empty wine bottles, preserved, used to fill the house made out of empty beer cans
    -a palimpsest of to do lists on a whiteboard- make prints of each edition, display the prints on transparencies shown through with light, build the transparencies into a circling sequence of images viewed through a zoopraxiscope, like Eadward Muybridge.
    -take a sculptural relief of the remnants of each meal. Exhibit an immersive gallery of pan scrapings, interspersed with butter wrappings. (There will be many)
    -loaves of bread consumed: marked by one end piece representing each loaf, each preserved in taxidermy goo inside a jar, many jars assembled on a table, a table made of wooden pallets picked up from the street, a pauper’s Damien Hirst
    -number of showers taken: acquire a monumentally large canvas. Partition it into at least one thousand squares. Fill each square with a watery print of soap scuzz and bits of skin- all the detritus that blocks up the shower drain. Each mark represents one shower taken. (Can be adjusted per person inhabiting house, one canvas per person. Compare marks. The fingerprint of water consumption).
    -sesame crackers consumed
    -number of times glasses taken on and off, per household, per capita. Chart rising and falling amounts on days spent in bed, versus days spent in the office attempting to do work, versus days spent reading at the dining table, versus days spent going outside, versus late night puzzle-ing sessions, versus mid-day puzzling sessions.
    -Mark these statistics in a performance, each removal and replacement of spectacles inscribed in a long series of blinks- see: Marina Abramovic The Artist is Present at the Met, see: Marina Abramovic: A Living Door of the Museum (least-appropriate social distancing reference)

    -Number of mornings woken up, sequentially. One after the next. Each day. Even if the morning takes place in the afternoon. Even if it takes place at night. Mark each of these with a trophy. Award that trophy to yourself.

-Cut a hole in your timed schedule. See: Yoko Ono’s Grapefruit. Watch the plants grow outside.

Sara Rosenthal is a contemporary artist and measurer of time. She hails from Los Angeles, California. She has an MA in Performance, Design, and Practice from Central Saint Martins College of Art and Design in London. She has made art on Paros Island, in Jerusalem, in various small towns in Italy, and across the US. She has also lived and worked in Spain, where she researched the art of flamenco. She recently (although time is relative) completed an art residency at Snehta in Kypseli, working with local curator Ariadne Tzika, and presented a solo exhibition called “Vegetal// Flesh” at 2/3 Project Space in Exarchia. Her work can be found here: http://saratrueart.com and @saratrueart

Catherine Chatzidimitriou

Once upon a covid-19



Corps Cake

Faraway

Purgatory

Empty Frames

Virus Diffusion

Infected Playground

Caution Dear

Mind the Trap

I am a visual artist, and I construct dystopic but silent environments to explore women’s social identity, the imprints of prenatal existence and childhood in the present and the meaning of intermediate states. My quarantine, due to covid-19, started on 12 of March 2020. Since then I am in complete isolation. Under these circumstances, and in order to stay creative, I created a playground to escape from reality. More specifically, I am taking pictures from the place I live, adding surreal elements. I also photograph some of my domestic objects, and reconstruct them in order to express my feelings about the pandemic. I’ve named the project “Once upon a Covid-19.” Parts of my reality and parts of my daydreaming are covered in pastel pink color. My project narrates a fairytale in the dark era of corona virus. I give a name to every photo I create, in order to remember how the pandemic made me feel.

L Scully

Study on a Ladybug

During the pandemic you make friends with a ladybug. You watch it waddle across the Spanish terrace and around your fingers, gentle like a girl. You like ladybugs but not for the obvious reasons– you like them because they stop and hold still for long periods of time. They only fly little bits at once. Lucky flies. You think about your unanswered texts. The one from the teacher at the job you quit, how are you doing? Have things gotten better? And the one from the woman at group therapy in Ohio, are you staying safe? Insert a little mask-wearing sick emoji and a blue heart. You think about your walks to get pre-packaged pretzels and hummus from the hospital cafeteria. You rock slower in your wicker rocking chair because you see the ladybug flying around and you are hyper vigilant about not crushing it beneath one of your rocks. You tried to overcompensate with confidence on those cafeteria walks so the doctors wouldn’t be able to tell if you were a patient or just a guest in a fur coat. It’s not about shame, it’s about protection. Sometimes you looked them right in the eye and smiled knowingly, almost as if to say I’m sorry you’re stuck here too, fellow normal person. Except you know from TV that almost no doctors are normal and they all have terrible hidden vices that make for exciting pilot episodes, like cocaine or schizophrenia.
The ladybug rests in a guttery crack in the terrace and spins around a few times like it’s a bumper car. You think about the old amusement park you used to stop in in New Hampshire when you went up to the mountains from Boston. The excitement you felt on those trips because you and your sisters would stay in the same room as a boy, a novel experience of romance and mystery. Didn’t really matter in the end since you’re a homosexual, but all those asking permissions for sleepovers with boys made it hotter than it was. You think about the paintings your ex-boyfriend did of you in his teenage attic room. He doesn’t paint anymore, except on things like jeans and pillowcase masks. It’s a shame really, he was good. Turned to face the wall of your bedroom in your parents’ house is your favorite painting of his, a gift. It’s almost like a renaissance hunting scene, all pinks and sky blues and mustard yellows so the stags and river look like wacky cartoons. You keep it in case he ends up famous one day and you don’t. Then you’ll sell it.
The ladybug stalls diagonal from the edge of a terrace tile, almost in the sun. If the ladybug were in your online design course the instructor would tell it that the mistake of young people is leaving things too close to the edge. If only she knew. The ladybug keeps walking.

L Scully is a queer, nonbinary American emerging writer and artist currently based in Madrid. Their work focuses mainly on sexuality, gender, and mental illness, as well as love on occasion.

Babak Ahteshamipour

An Accumulated Moisture in the Walls

The dawn of a latter forenoon,
Afterwards you have vanquished,
Oftentimes brings you into realization,
The circumstance that you have never existed.

Occasionally asking is more semantic than spelling,
In another occasions the sky casts us out,
Declining,
Howling from the depths of existence.

But,
You are thither,
I am hither,
You are incapable of apprehending me.

Factual marionettes,
Are similar to pins which gravitate towards,
The heart of a black hole,
Where the grenade is, waiting to detonate.

The roaring silence,
& the streaming nullity,
In which they leave you with,
Disintegrating your exoskeletal carapace.

Alike criminals
Having all of the anarchist fun,
Alike the lifeless shirts,
Embroidered by hollow molecules.

 

 

Babak Ahteshamipour (born 1994 in Arak, Iran, lives and works in Athens, Greece since 2000), is a multidisciplinary artist, whose focal point in his research is the organic subject and its interaction with the Real. Meaning, how an organic subject unable to comprehend the universe completely, interprets partially fragments of it, based on a limited sensory system, creating erroneous generalizations and prejudices. Triggering a mechanism of Becoming, transforming individual components of a system through an observatory procedure – which varies depending on diverse parameters – into organs which retain a whole body, rather than being perceived as autonomous and self-referential. He works with painting, video, sound, writing and sculpture. He has participated in various exhibitions, launched few events on his own and has done numerous live performances mostly in small and cozy venues and spaces, and holds a MSc degree in Mineral Resources Engineering (Technical University of Crete).

Oz Hardwick

One Million Years BC

The spaces behind the furniture are the last places to explore,
so I put on my childhood, rope myself to the dining table leg,
and lower myself into the geology of forgotten things. There
are cowboys and robots, a bear with glass eyes, cars with
doors that open and close. There are eggshells and snakes,
dogs scowling behind chained gates, cigarette stubs littering
cinema aisles and the top decks of buses. The air smells of
coal smoke and sour mash, a bleached commode, bubble gum,
and green vegetables boiled out of existence. Deeper down,
there is no light, and I navigate by touch through pencil stubs,
scabbed knees, the raked marble chips on recent graves,
sawdust on the butcher’s shop floor. My knees need patching
and my shoes are too tight, and I feel the rope loosening its
grip. I remember a song about dinosaurs, taste sour meat on
my breath, feel an animal sigh across my soft, pale belly. It’s
too late to reach for watch or compass; too late to pack sweet
tea and sandwiches. There is no land that time forgot; it simply
doesn’t care.

No News

I have turned the television off, silenced the radio, sealed the
letterbox against daily papers. The only tweets are garden
birds. The sun is the same as yesterday, unbroken by aircraft
trails, and the breeze carries the same hint of spring. I am
rereading pulp fantasy for the first time since my teens, and
listening to 70s albums on which I know every word and
intonation. From the next street to the far side of the world,
there is breathless pain and chaos, death and angry dispute. I
cut a simple cheese sandwich into precise quarters, steep a
green teabag for a precise duration I don’t even need to count.
I turn up the music and sing off-key. Today – just today – there
is no news.

Commercial Break

Footsteps in the hall, and the Moon taps on the stiff casement.
The weather’s warming, but we’re letting nobody in, whatever
their gifts or promises. In every room the furniture has become
so familiar that we don’t recognise it anymore, and we leave
the televisions and radios on to keep themselves company and
offer comfort in the dark hours. The street is jammed with
empty taxis vying for non-existent fares, and flour and
tomatoes are lowered by helicopter like a James Bond fantasy
of 60s chocolates by an out-of-work actor disguised in black
PPE. Our cultural references have cross-contaminated, and we
are sit-com and soap, news and nostalgia, adverts for
discontinued products with catchphrases and promotional
badges that we pin directly onto our skin. The Moon is heavy
with refugees from a future that didn’t happen, and the Earth is
remembering how to breathe. There are footsteps in the hall,
and there is more beauty than our eyes can hold, but we’re
letting nobody out, whatever their gifts or promises.

Oz Hardwick is a determinedly European poet based in York (UK). He has published eight collections and edited several more. His chapbook Learning to have Lost (Canberra: IPSI/Recent Work, 2018) won the 2019 Rubery International Book Award for a poetry collection. www.ozhardwick.co.uk