they made you into a weapon and told you to find peace. - s.z.
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“The Dia De Los Muertos festival is a beautiful display of culture, one that being in southern California is hard to hides its influence on visual arts. In October of 2014, I discovered Krisztianna, a Los Angeles artist that creates incredible Dia De Los Muertos sculptures. Inspired by her sculptures, I approached her about collaborating on a photoshoot. Krisztianna crafted a Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall set and hand painted the models as well as illustrating the portrait designs.
For the incredible vintage styling we were fortunate to work with the talented Julia Reeser. The setting was a stormy day over the recently wild fire scorched earth. The combination of color, destruction and foreboding storm makes a truly surreal tribute to the traditions of the Dia De Los Muertos holiday.” Tim Tadder
Photography: Tim Tadder
Retouching Portraits: Alexey Adamitsky
Styling: Julia Reeser
Face Painting and Head Dresses: Krisztianna
Hair: Dezi V
Josh frowned at the message he had received. In a way, it made sense. Sal had the tendency to be horribly clumsy and usually Josh found that to be very endearing. But still… he had a hard time to imagine the younger to walk into a door hard enough to leave him bruised. It was one of those excuses that he had used in the past. When he had been a child, when the foster father that usually only hit his body by mistake struck his face, which was not as easy to hide.
But he didn’t want to pry. Was scared that’d rather make Sal close off more again. And he enjoyed it that they were both slowly opening up to each other.
[text] You could look like that Pool Guy under his mask and you’d still be the cutest to me.
He had tried to do comic research, wanted to understand better what Sal was talking about and maybe also talking with him. But there were so many, and he had looked them up in a chaotic order that he could only half remember their names and background. But hey, he had tried.
[text] I am offended that you think I only want to see your for your face…
Sal groaned, a reaction that made him grateful that he was alone. Had he had guests over, he would have had to explain what kind of message could trigger an out loud reaction, which was the first of many questions that Sal definitely did not want to answer. To be fair, though, that Pool Guy was a groan worthy response. It seemed like Josh needed more help than even Sal could give.
That thought triggered another groan because he knew. Regardless of how ugly he felt, Joshua desperately needed a proper introduction to the comic world. If he hadn’t put it off for so long, Deadpool would never have been dubbed the Pool Guy. He had a responsibility to the comics to make sure that such an egregious error did not happen again.
Sugar skulls, tamales and spirits (the alcoholic kind) — these are things you might find on ofrendas, or altars, built this time of year to entice those who’ve passed to the other side back for a visit. These altars in homes and around tombstones are for Day of the Dead, or Dia de los Muertos, a tradition on Nov. 1 and 2 originating in central Mexico.
The Aztecs developed the ritual some 3,000 years ago because they believed one should not grieve the loss of a beloved ancestor who passed. Instead, the Aztecs celebrated their lives and welcomed the return of their spirits to the land of the living once a year. That’s where the food, drink and music offerings come in.
Hayes Lavis, cultural arts curator for the Smithsonian's National Museum of the American Indian, says that mourning was not allowed because it was believed the tears would make the spirit’s path treacherous and slippery. “This day is a joyous occasion; it’s a time to gather with everyone in your family, those alive and those dead,” he says.
Decoding The Food And Drink On A Day Of The Dead Altar
Joshua was a master at dates. At dates and what usually came after them. He made his money with both, with fancy restaurants, movies, sweet words and compliments. He knew what type of person enjoyed what treatment and what location. He was an expert, one of the best in the city he believed.
But… this wasn’t a date. It was a non-date. At a comic store. And honestly a few months ago he’d have laughed in the face of anyone saying that he’d look forward to such a meeting. Then again, he’d also have laughed at a person telling him he’d fall in love.
So, back to the topic of the non-date… Joshua Bishop was nervous, nervous and excited and entirely lost about what to wear. Googling “what to wear when going to a comic store” hadn’t really helped. Apparently, most people instinctively knew how to be a normal person. Joshua didn’t. Joshua knew how to be someone’s dream guy, or how to kill someone. Normal was really not his area of expertise.
When his phone vibrated and he looked at the message he was relieved for a second, maybe more time for research, but at the same time he was disappointed and… confused.
[text] I have a hard time to picture you being ugly in any way…
And it was true, he loved Sal so much the younger could become Deadpool and he’d still think he was the cutest. Love made blind after all… or allowed someone to see beyond.
[text] What’s really up? You don’t want to see me?
Sal hadn't expected the pang of guilt that came with Josh's response. Denial of his claim to ugliness? That he had expected. Josh seemed to think he was passably good looking, and usually, Sal wouldn't have disagreed. But the way his face had taken to bruising had made interacting with people these last few days more than a bit difficult, both because Sal was incredibly self conscious and because no one really wanted to be served by a bartender who looked like he'd stopped a bar fight with his facee.
Still... guilt. He hated the feeling. Usually, only a few people could make him feel it -- three, in fact -- but it seemed as if that number had inexplicably increased by one. Four. Four people in the world who could make him feel like the absolute scum of the earth. That was too many. A few months ago, he'd resembled the iceberg that had doomed the Titanic -- frozen, unmoving, and underestimated in a way that usually led to lives lost. Now, though, he was thawing, melting into a pathetic puddle of water, all because a beautiful man with sad eyes had smiled at him. It was disgusting... disappointing. His long dead father was probably rolling in his grave at the thought of how irresponsible his son had become.
And he had promised to take the man in question on a comic haul. Irresponsibility squared. Especially since he still had no idea who his assailant was or where the man had come from. The last thing he needed was a repeat of the park incident. So, no. It wasn't that he didn't want to see Josh. He just didn't want him in pain on account of someone Sal knew, or someone who knew Sal, in this case. But that wasn't something that Sal could explain. Not really. So, he'd opt for the truth, or a version of the truth:
[text] i opened the door w my face now im scarred and bruised. not a pretty sight, i promise.
Ah… ,he thought, …how unfairly adorable this person was.
“Not always, true…” Josh finally replied, kissing the bridge of Sal’s nose, unable to stop kissing him as long as the barkeeper was this close.
Joshua wondered if it’d be that way forever. If his rose colored glasses would come off one day… and part of him was also excited for that. Seeing Sal in his entirety, without some Instagram filter over him. He was pretty certain he’d fall in love with him even more at that point.
“…still won’t tell you.” And with those words another peck on Sal’s nose followed.
“Well, I will at least try. After all, I kind of wish to join into a polyamorous relationship like something with him…” he wiggled his nose as Sal tipped against it and then pouted slightly as Josh pushed himself away and got out of bed. In a lazy attempt to stop him, he reached out a hand, opened and closed his fingers to simulate grabby hands and then let his arm fall onto the mattress again.
With another groan, he to rolled himself out of bed and followed Sal to the kitchen.
“Coco puffs…” he said and held himself back from simply wrapping his arms again around the bartender, and instead let himself fall into one of the kitchen chairs.
“And I had hoped you’d cook for me…”
There were days that Sal allowed himself the time to dream. It was pointless, of course – dreaming of the future when you probably wouldn't have one always was. Still, it was something to pass the time. In those dreams he always owned his own house. It was big and sprawling like the one his parents had owned back home. Neighbors were few and far between, close enough to offer assistance should it be needed but far enough away to not be nosey nuisances. The exact details of the house changed with each dream: sometimes, there were lots of windows that allowed for maximum sunlight; other times, there was a high wooden fence that closed in lots of green space. The thing that remained the same each time, though, was the kitchen.
Sal loved his kitchen. It reminded him of his mother with an apron always tied around her waist and flour speckled across her face, and his aunt, who went about cooking for their small family in a more industrious, necessity driven sort of way. His mother had been a master of cooking and he'd probably inherited his love for the art form from her as his father had never lifted a pot spoon in his life. He was her shadow whenever she worked helping to cut small things, add spices, and taste test. (She'd learned quickly that small hands were much less likely to get in the way if she gave them a task to do.)
This kitchen, though, was much smaller than the one that his mother had loved, not nearly as well equipped as the one he dreamed of, but currently sported some of Sal's favorite things – Josh included. It was strange having someone in his kitchen who was neither his aunt nor his sister, but that could of been said about almost every space in his apartment before Josh.
"I could..." The words trailed off, more a question than a statement, as Sal bent to rummage through his fridge. He hadn't gone grocery shopping in almost two weeks and his fridge definitely reflected that. "If you're up for ridiculously early omelettes?"
Maybe it was superficial but Sal hated the idea of being ugly, and really, there was no other way to describe the bruise that covered his lower jaw and cheek. It had gone from a dark purplish black color to edged in green during the last few days and experience told him that the putrid yellowish color that would come later would be even uglier to look at. At least the cut on his lip had started to heal.
His sister had let out a stream of curses in both English and Spanish when she’d seen him and his tia had spoken in the soft, controlled voice she reserved for employees whose productivity levels needed a bit more coaxing. He’d tried to avoid both reactions entirely but attempting to hide the encounter from either woman would have only resulted in a worse time for him. At any other time, this entire thing would have been borderline hilarious what with their telenovela worthy reactions and his monstrosity of a face. He’d tried to point out the humor in all of it (that he’d been attacked by a stranger who knew something of his family’s past while attempting to spend a quiet night alone in his apartment... what were the odds) but the joke had fallen flat for both women.
He was pretty sure that, within a few days or so, he would be good as new and the experience would be infinitely funnier but until then he was determined to remain hidden from the world. Which meant rescheduling Josh’s introduction to the wonder that was Dick Grayson. Again. Sal wasn’t entirely sure how this event had come to be. It had started as something of a joke when they’d first met and soon grown into a terribly planned non-date. Now that it looked like it would actually take place, though, they’d be forced to reschedule. All on account of a random guy who’d wanted to be acquainted with Sal’s face in a unique way. Without giving it much more thought, Sal pulled out his phone and typed the words: can’t do today, I’m ugly. you’ll meet the husband some other day.
This wasn't the first time that Cisco Juarez had visited New York City. In fact, if his memory served, this was probably his third visit. If even they could be classified as such. The first two had been on business for the boss, but this time was different; this time Cisco was here for a more personal reason.
He'd been watching the apartment for a few days now and he still couldn't understand why the asshole chose to live here. The place was a dump. Not that he seemed to entertain too many visitors. In the three days that Cisco had watched, the man had had only five guests; two of which were his sister and his aunt. Cisco had easily identified them from the photo he'd seen at the boss's place. Granted, the man – boy, really – couldn't have been more than four or five at the time; his sister no more than seven. He'd been seated in his mother's lap, his sister held securely in her father's arms, their aunt standing beside them. They'd all been smiling. At what Cisco didn't know, but he'd hated them all instantly. From the time he'd been ten and heard of the old sicario, the man who had held his father's position before him.
He could still remember the way his father had spat at the mention of the man's name. Most of the men remembered him fondly. A mean SOB who always got the job done, they'd said. The boss loved him like you’d love a prized pit bull whose teeth you'd sharpened so that he could do more damage in the fights. His father, though, had said that the man was nothing more than a good for nothing culero who probably fucked the boss and his wife. How else could they have managed to live in such grandeur while the Juarezes – hardworking people from the start – lived in squalor?
That was why Cisco was here. He'd heard whispers that the old man's son was still around, that the boss had arranged their move after what had had happened and that now the boy was working in the states, expanding on his father's reputation. He'd wanted to see the son, to remind him that the cartel was family and you never left family.
Cisco pushed off of the building he’d been leaning on, running his palms down the front of his jeans, before walking the few steps to the building he’d been watching. At least it wasn’t covered in graffiti or any other unfavorable substances like some of the other buildings in the neighborhood. Still, it was a far cry from his beloved hometown in Mexico and he wondered, for the third time tonight, why the man lived here. Cisco punched in the four digit code he’d seen the other entrants use and waited the few seconds for the sound that indicated that the door’s lock had slid open. A quick look around revealed just what he’d expected – an empty lobby, lit by low hanging lights. The elevator occupied the center position in the room, but Cisco opted for the stairs, quickly climbing the four flights that brought him directly to the apartment’s door. He’d done this a few times over, worked out exactly what he would say and how it would go down in his brain, but now, knowing that this wasn’t just another practice run, he could feel the anticipation bubbling in his gut. It always built like this before a job and Cisco had to work hard to remind himself that this wasn’t a job, just a friendly visit. He wasn’t here to hurt anyone. Fingers crossed.
Fist raised, he rapped. Once. Twice. Three times. And waited. Just as the door opened, he raised his hand again, palm flat and backhanded the boy. The feeling of the ring he always wore connecting with the softness of the other’s cheek brought a smile to his lips, and the sight of the split lower lip drew a chuckle. Cisco reached out, not giving the boy a chance, and forced himself into the apartment. He watched as the other pushed the door shut behind him and spat once. No questions asked. He had to admit that so far El Lobo’s son was impressing him. “El Jefe sends his regards,” Cisco said by way of greeting. He watched as the confusion in the boy’s eyes bled into surprise, raced passed resignation, and settled on anger. Cisco laughed again, running a hand through his hair.
“The States have made you soft, cabron, but no worry. I’m only here to say hello.” He wrapped his hand around the other’s jaw, firmly enough to leave bruises for at least a day, bent his head and ran his tongue across the injured lower lip, licking away the drop of blood that had beaded there. “Don’t go too far. I like to visit.” With that, he opened the door, winked, and stepped into the hallway.
All in all, Cisco could say that things had gone better than even he could have planned. The shock in the boy’s eyes when he had hit him had quickly changed into an anger that had remained there for the entire time that Cisco had stayed. Good. Let it. He had heard interesting things about that anger and he skin broke out in goosebumps just thinking about how much fun they would have. Soon. Very soon.
