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