Cristiana Kyung-Hye Baik, Hazel White & Kevin Killian

limen: Amy Rathbone presents an evolving exhibition of cumulative response with some works created directly on the walls, forming a series of individual dedications.

from the chapbook Polaroid (2015)

by Cristiana Kyung-Hye Baik

{ my agency may take me to the simplest of action }
It was a mild day in June, the heat extraordinary. My
attitude of making good to what was, is damaged. It was
of considerable importance, the way the light latticed
through screens, captured from the open sky. A beautiful
lace. As children, you harnessed words, arriving through
their venom, tension, fraught accumulation. Now who will
record this distance, capture this furthering gap’s shadow.
A ledge now burial-aisle. It has become an impossible
task. Wind sluices the window, against the rotted wood’s
slender support. Are you in duress, in this dance of inequity,
as goes the demand, to “get anything something off
your chest?” For you, apologies are aimed to neutralize
behaviors. Signaling in is light’s late flight softly imprinting
my shoulders. I lie in the grass, troubled by this occasion,
this constructional but delicate fault, a what will happen, a
gesture towards broken glass, the tilting of headlights that
fades at last into the emptied promenade, this demolished

Ben Black, Gillian Olivia Blythe Hamel & Matt Shears

OLD GROWTH: Terry Peterson’s kinetic sculptures on preservation and decay, masculine identity and human inheritance, informed by his hometown logging community

Excerpt from the chapbook Artifacts (June 2015)

by Ben Black


I’m looking at all these dead fish, and they’re looking back at me. That look of horror as I slice them down the middle and remove their heads—gets me every time. That’s why I do it here, in front of the window. Something else to look at, out in the yard. That’s why I listen to the police scanner while I gut—I’ve never gutted in silence so I can’t say the fish don’t say anything, don’t comment on what I’m doing. All I hear is static or human voices talking in numbers. Keeps me from hearing the fish’s side of things. What story would a fish tell anyway?

Sometimes it’s too much. When he brings home a full hanger of them I can already feel my legs ache from the time I’ll spend getting guts all over my arms pulling out bones and piling up heads. Sometimes I think I’ll keep the heads—Put ’em in jars on the windowsill, let them see what I see every day. A change of pace. Something besides the dirty river water and the silty river bottom and the ass of the fish in front of them all day long.

And being in the jars will keep them quiet. If they can speak. Maybe I’ll hear a soft mumble, but it won’t bother me much on most days. Today the police scanner is quieter than it’s been in a while. All I’m getting outside of the gentle flow of static is a few staccato beeps every quarter hour. That’s not enough—I could hear a fish speak easy if he chose to. Turning up the volume only sounds like turning on the tap—more static comes flowing out. I’m swimming in it, immersed in a static river piled up with fish corpses. The water barely has room to slide around us, me and the fishheads, sitting together in the middle, looking for a new view.

Claire Becker, Norma Cole & Paul Ebenkamp

New Paintings: work that speaks to the act of painting through programmed strokes, pneumatic drips, self-aware idioms, layered time, and tactile impersonations

Excerpt from the chapbook, Totally Artless (May 2015)

by Claire Becker

When you get here, let’s tuck my body away.

See, I’m in that space between us.

I always thought of asking my parents,

Why did you name me clear?

Through that space you’ll come to me.

You’ll bring it with you, Claire’s body.

By your touch defined.

By my sharp edges delineated.

Drunk off two bourbons

at the neighborhood dive I’m

the only woman.

The only woman here or anywhere,

the definition.

I am suspended.

It’s like the whole town with their sports clothing.

Yellow for the Warriors, etcetera.

Give us something to hang onto.

Clear up our eyes.

Give us something to hang up.

There when I wake up—

you, the emojis.

Today I’m reaching toward you, Carrot.

My job—I work with these carrots

but my hand can’t do like my mind.

I’m not grounded.

No, I’m floored. I’m scraping the dirt off.

Why is it a good thing

to be transparent? What I want—

it’s always over my head.

I want it All fall down.

Like Ashes, ashes

and I can roll in it,

rub my back over it,

breasts, chest in the air.

Nana K. Twumasi, Jared Stanley & Donna de la Perrière

Excerpt from the chapbook The Beekeeper (March 2015)

by Nana K. Twumasi

It’s not a difficult task. The miniscule cameras and microphones are cheap and easily accessible, and, as most men of his generation can do with technological muscle-memory and a good set of instructions, setting up the feed and relaying it to his computer is “no trouble.” In the weeks since their involvement he’s adopted this phrase. Evie has an old-fashioned way about her; even her name is old-timey—he’s sure one of his grandmother’s friends was also an Evie, one of those biddies with fragile hair and false teeth, drinking mimosas in the garden on a Tuesday morning, dropping obscenities and burping like a teenaged boy. His Evie has collected and speaks anachronisms, like “hooray!” when she’s excited, and “certainly not,” or “how dare you;” this last generally said in jest, but Mitchell gets the feeling she’s used it in seriousness, with that old Hollywood vixen emphasis, flashing eyes and mouth drawn into an impenetrable knot, “how dare you?” Maybe less anachronistic and more British, a culture that to him seems antiquated.

“What would you say instead,” Evie asked, when questioned.

“I’d say ‘not a problem,’ or ‘no big deal.”

“Hm. I can’t see how they’re different.”

“They aren’t, I guess. But it’s funny to hear you say things like that.”

“Oh how dare you,” she’d said, and gulped her wine, and scooted a little closer to him, the friction causing the vinyl-wrapped bench they shared to squeal in protest.

In Evie’s apartment he moves quietly and works quickly, having scouted out the most appropriate hiding places before dinner, while she was occupied at the stove or elsewhere. It was their third date, the serious one, she’d said, because she hardly allowed friends into her apartment, let alone a strange man who’d picked her up at the grocery store. And she was cooking for him, on top of all that. She hoped he’d find a good way to show his appreciation. The wine Mitchell had brought was a start, and his backpack, bulky and full. Were there more treats inside it? She hadn’t let him answer. She’d taken his belongings, and the wine, and stashed them away in their appropriate places.

“I’m not a fan of chaos,” she’d said, “ I don’t like things hanging about. I always try to find the order in everything.”

“So you’re not into entropy, then?”

Evie showed him a genuine smile. “Nice ten-cent word.”

*               *               *               *               *               *               *               *               *               *

To do what he does, he has to be good at reading people, and, by extension, gleaning what isn’t on the page to discover what they are hiding, or what they lack. He hadn’t sought Evie out as with the others. She was a surprise, and he feels particularly affectionate towards her because of this. He finds her innocence staggering, the way she looks at him sometimes, hopeless and hopeful at the same time, like he might save her from something she can’t articulate.

Geraldine Kim, David Lau & Andrew Joron

Cringe: a video exhibition of self-reflexive performances, awkward personal narratives, and portrayals of the artist as an alter-ego rejecting social norms

From the chapbook: NO FACE, JUST BOOBS (February 2015)

by Geraldine Kim


Wish it were my clit instead

or just my melting fat

the mess-oh-potamia of it

the unreal red

in hair, eyelashes were looking

I laughed, giggled, whatever

my clit and brownie bits

do not use the term “abduction”

just “fake milk”

Dear Manual,

Listen, nothing ever happened.

She just seemed kind of busty looking.

HIM: When will you stop? (no face, just boobs)

HER: Fat fingers, fat palms.

The best angles: full frontal

the skin we all inhabit

just know how to use tongue

it’s a bow, a bow that’s already been

or, facing camera, you stop labor

(looking down a lot of shirts)

I see your face

Nora Toomey, Angela Hume, Wendy Trevino

MobileInTent: Alta California + Parts Close By, Re-mapping Forms, Trees, Rivers: artists from Oakland, Berlin and Guadalajara push against questions of walls, distribution and ecology.

Tom Comitta, Laura Woltag, David Koehn

EXPERIMENTAL SPACE: an exhibition of scientific phenomena

Cheena Marie Lo

from the chapbook NO FILTER (August 2014)

The physical form talks around an interpretation.

I am floating above my body sitting above two cities, sometimes three when the sky is clear.

The elaboration of community, of a process—unfolds inside an interview, on the Internet, in a gallery.

Movement and relation.

What is happening next?

My horoscope says lean into what is unknown, something about Neptune and water. I’ve been feeling ungrounded anyway.

We have pretty bad luck, huh?

What do we deserve other than luck?

I’m out of practice—writing, being around others.

Notes: skip ahead, no pressure, dead zones, structures, vulnerability, process.

I guess this thing is new.

There are many lines to hold.

Something about the physical form

and talking around an interpretation—

if you move the object it triggers a change

we are unsure of how to interact

can we take a picture of this?

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