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Art: Frontier by Nicholas Kriefall

#art #photography #artist #gallery #art poetry abstractmagazinetv

Art: a change is gonna come by Gary Frier

#art #poetry #black history month

Art: Tangents II by Catherine Eaton Skinner

Art: re-constructing a memory by Paris Sergiou

#art #photooftheday #photography #gallery #artist

Art: UCAV, F-18, F-15 on tarmac, St. Louis, Missouri

Art: Pink Leaf 2 by John Gregory Brown

The Chariot of Roland 1. From the side of the highway with his one good hand to shade his eyes, Roland swings his legs off the bike, nudges the kickstand with his toes. He spins the sun in the heavy spokes hoping it will spark against the flint, light the city aflame behind him. Vegas rises, buildings butting out of the valley like steely cigarettes, shaken from the pack and offered to a stranger. 2. He’s all sevens. The neon stars and twin moons on the marquee overhead flicker in count with the cards. On either side, like svelte pillars, women in striped catsuits, eyes dark with kohl, push drinks, offer crowns in plastic laurels, their voices the vehicle, and the need. On the table in front of him, on a square traced in felt, he sets the kings and ace. Turns. Leaves. 3. The cell phone offers a certain telepathy, like all this cactus linked under the vast desert. He zips the leather jacket. Slips the steel case into the pocket at his hip. Smothers the ember under the heel of his boot. Turns the key. The road is long and ruthless, but precise in where it leads. He is tall and merciless and precise in where he leads.

Abstract seeks fine art in all forms that engages with both the crises and joys of our shared human condition. We seek art that engages the edge of now; we seek to explore a future forward zeitgeist with a respect for the gifts of the past. We are looking for both established and emerging artists across a broad range of genres. Our criterion is quality.

The Lovers 1. You’re twenty-two, kneeling in front of a bookshelf. Albums lean drunkenly over each other, mingle, flirt. And the novels, heavy from too much ink, give way to them. I barely recognize you, blackhaired and smirking. That T-shirt from a street vendor says we loved in London. In the negative space of the graphic, against a screenprinted mountain, a man looks to a woman who, like me, looks to the sky. 2. A woman who looks like me dresses in front of the window. Her back is scratched to tattoo, Mercury and six stars in cygnet. The music is so loud mismatched furniture moves aside, leaves her turning, turning, breasts exposed against a field of chipped and peeling paint. From my voice, you can tell I’m searching for a way to ask how late you’ll be, and if there’s water, or time, where you are. You cradle the phone. I draw the shades. 3. In the mirror, you trace the half-moon of the scar, ask me if I miss the piercing. I lie, and like a cat, nudge your face, go back to bed. We talk through the wall, so thin and yielding for our sake. Me in my skin, counting the cost of these many years’ love. You saying yesterday, at the farmer’s market you saw a man like Raphael, held out by the sun, selling salves for healing. Me, remembering rain and cigarettes, and their way of needing. You, coming back to me.

#poetry #art #painting

Art: Lazuli skies, citrine castles by Alex Duensing Stardust “It’s time.” “Now?” “Yes. You better come now... today... as soon as you can.” It’s Clara. My sister’s voice is unusually soft, unstable. On the plane, the sun has already set and it’s a dark clear night. From my window seat I gaze down at the cities that look like small consortiums of stars – clusters of sparkling jewels. I’m numb, in denial. My body hums along with the sound of the plane. Everyone seated around me is in some sort of trance as we fly from Denver to Minneapolis. It’s February. I think about the outside temperature – how cold it must be at this altitude. As I watch white translucent clouds pass over the city-galaxies, my mind doesn’t allow the thought of him passing. Instead, I focus on the stars and how they meet the horizon and how the lights on the earth, from this distance, make me feel as though I’m traveling to a different dimension. I remember how Dad showed me constellations and how he brought the night sky alive. I land in Minneapolis and call Mom to check in. They’re at the hospital – everyone. I board the flight from Minneapolis to Duluth. In the air, I hear my father’s voice. I hear him tell me what he wants me to do with his ashes. I land in Duluth. I exit the gate and my brother-in-law greets me. He hugs me – a little too long. Then I know it before he says the words. “He’s gone. About an hour ago.” At the hospital, I take the elevator up several stories. It’s quiet. I enter the room where Dad lies. The melody of Leonard Cohen plays in the background. His backup singers sound like angels. I look around the room. My sisters, my mother, and Lara form an arc around his bed. I look at their faces first, then cast my eyes down at the hospital bed. I don’t want to see. I don’t want to see my father’s lifeless body. But, I do. I look down and see him – his chest unbreathing. His body stiff and yellow. Lara, appearing from nowhere, is suddenly at my side. Her long dark hair is neatly braided and lays against her back. Her small frame hugs me. She looks at me with reassurance. Her green eyes try to council me. Her voice is smooth and calm. “He’s still here. He’s right here sitting on top of his body.” I lose track of time. I don’t know whose tears have fallen on my shoulders, who I’ve hugged, who I’ve spoken to in whispers. Finally, one of the hospice staff asks if we’ve had time to say goodbye. Everyone nods. Two attendants approach his bed, then they wheel my father’s body out of the room. It’s near eleven at night. Mom says she’ll take me home. For the first time in my memory, the car ride home with Mom is silent. There’s nothing she can say to alleviate the gravity of this night. From the passenger seat, I notice flares emanating from the horizon. I wonder if I’m seeing things. With one hand on the wheel, Mom places her right hand on my left. “Looks like the Northern Lights are out tonight,” she whispers. Near midnight, at my mother’s house, we step out of the car and look up at the sky. Mom stands by me for a while then says, “I’m going inside sweetheart. Don’t stay out too long.” “I’ll be okay, Mom.” I walk down the snowy driveway, away from the house, to get a better view. Time stops as I stand there. There is no sound except the gentle falling of snowflakes and a tonal vibration like the sound that emanates when stroking the rim of a glass. Ripples of red and blue light unfold before me…each vibrant column turns and twists, transforming itself from one hue to another. Pulsating, the sky seems larger and deeper, carrying more energy than before. Now, blue, green, and purple – violet and silver. I can’t take my eyes away from the flares of liquid color – the live painting. I want to stay up all night and watch the full story. In the evenings that follow, I watch the nocturnal sky. Each night, there is a repeat performance. I think about how in all my years growing up at this same location, I’d never witnessed such a profound display. And yet, night after night, the dazzling aurora revisited. How could it not be him? After my father’s funeral, I have the weekend to gather my things and pack for my return to Colorado. On Saturday morning I long for a proper container for Dad. In a little shop downtown, I find a vintage-style glass bottle shaded with his signature - purple. The night before my return flight, I carefully empty his ashes into the bottle. Mom brings me to the airport and says goodbye. I check my suitcase at the counter then walk to the security screening area. I’m using a large purse as a carry-on. At airport security, I hand a man my license and boarding pass. As I approach the next checkpoint, the x-ray scanner, I notice few people in line. The usual feel of airport rush and anxiety is absent. For a moment, I forget about the purple bottle. Just before the scanner, I approach a woman. She appears to be in her mid-fifties and seems friendly, yet serious. I nonchalantly hand her my bag. With both hands she carefully inspects the contents and pulls out the purple bottle. She looks at me with fascination. “What is this?” Realizing the awkwardness of the moment, I form a soft smile. “Oh, those are my Dad’s ashes.” The words fall out of my mouth easily - perhaps too much so. The woman moves her hands abruptly away from the bottle. “I’m sorry… I didn’t realize.” “It’s okay.” I gently return the purple bottle to my bag and walk through the security x-ray. About the author: Melissa Auburn is an emerging writer and a recipient of the Arrowhead Regional Arts Council grant to complete her memoir, “An American Lotus.” Publications include the University of Wisconsin Liberal Essay Award for her work titled "My Piece of the Web." Recently her prose piece “Stardust” was chosen for publication in Abstract: Contemporary Expressions. Melissa is a member of The Association of Writers and Writing Programs, Lake Superior Writers, and The Loft Literary Center. Melissa has a Master of Education degree from St. Mary’s University of Minnesota and lives in Duluth with her husband and two dogs. Art: Lazuli skies, citrine castles by Alex Duensing In the artist's words: Alex Duensing. Graduate of William Paterson and Columbia? Yes. Ran for St. Petersburg, FL City Council? Yes. Won? No. Stopped Mayan Apocalypse on rooftop with performance art? Yup. Strange but nice fellow? Clearly. Able to create mechanical engines that run completely on the energy a person creates while appreciating a painting? On occasion.

Art: Vets by Caitlin Carter CURFEW When there’s a window in the street, don’t stand near the shooting. Our greatest performance is being still. Not to have fun but to imagine having fun. Yoke on the horizon. Cats hiding food with their teeth, like artists, unable to do things as others do. If you cook, then cook, and don’t think of eating already. A bird grows where the head hurts. I threw my face into the land to assume someone else but the more I am the more extraordinary it becomes. Did you know water would be the end of me? asked the witch. Of course not, said Dorothy. How would I? About the author: My name is Simona Blat. I'm a writer, artist, publisher, and teacher. I have an MFA from Columbia University where I received the Linda Corrente Fellowship. I am the founding editor of the Brazenhead Review which was conceived at Brazenhead Books, and the host of Dead Pete's Society, a monthly poetry reading held at Pete's Candy Store. I was born in Riga, Latvia and live in Brooklyn. My writing has appeared in The Fanzine, The Brooklyn Rail, Hello Mr, Artillery, The Scofield, Two Peach, and is forthcoming elsewhere. I'm the author of the chapbook Funeral (Pixel Press, 2018). Art: Peeking Through a Window by Caitlin Carter In the artist’s words: I am currently working on obtaining a Master of Design degree at the Basel School of Design. My undergraduate degree is a Bachelor of Liberal Arts in Visual Communications Design from Purdue University. While studying, I developed strong problem solving skills through a curriculums structured around design theory and that have fostered my ability to think conceptually in the areas of typography, visual identity, and composition. Through my work experience, I have developed my practical design skills. In my most recent position as a freelance designer, I worked as the Head of Design for the start-up, S4FE. I developed the brand identity from the initial beginning stage, including the logo. I carried out the concept through the creation of the White Paper and Corporate Identity Guidelines. I also lead the design team by delegating the ways to incorporate the brand identity to the web designers. Previously to freelancing, I worked as an Online Flash Advertising Designer with Trailer Park Inc., where I earned production experience working within an in-house advertising agency that created full-scale digital campaigns for entertainment industry clients such as Disney, Sony Pictures Animation, TNT, LOGO, and SHO. I also created flash banners for Toshiba and Keystone online ad campaigns, as well as After Effects X-Men banners. Prior to working at Trailer Park, I was employed as a Graphic Designer with Discovery Communications, where I created print and digital media design work for Discovery’s family of brands, including TLC, ID, and Science. When I was given the project of creating the 2012 One Sheets for Domestic Distribution, I was recognized for my creativity, attention to detail, and ability to create strong page-layouts. Before working at Discovery, I was employed as a Digital Media Designer with Gannett Company Inc., where I fine-tuned my skills in the Adobe Creative Suite. My day to day job requirements included Flash and InDesign online advertisements. I have also completed an internship at MTV Networks, which gave me the opportunity to work with a team of talented designers to create content for MTVIggy.com.

Art: Static by William Zuback RADIO I hope it’s not true that when you grow up your heart dies. I read Faulkner’s letters to Malcolm Cowley where he admits he’s still trying to put it all, if possible, on one pinhead. I go to get my blood drained to test for hormone deficiency, or whatever it’s called when your hair thins, and Dr. Greenspan says it is true, you are shedding confirming that I am a dog. I mean, how dogs suffer quietly, the way some mothers treat their children. What are we capable of in a waiting room? On screen, Benicio del Toro’s eyebrows allow him to be a believable actor and in the movie where a pistol is pushed through his head our idea of beauty changes, and I think I mean what Derrida means when he writes the thing itself always escapes like the speed at which light travels a second behind and never there but a version. I am always undressing because maybe I’ll get to my heart and can carry it out like a radio like when Coco Chanel says before you leave the house, look in the mirror, and take one thing off. About the author: My name is Simona Blat. I'm a writer, artist, publisher, and teacher. I have an MFA from Columbia University where I received the Linda Corrente Fellowship. I am the founding editor of the Brazenhead Review which was conceived at Brazenhead Books, and the host of Dead Pete's Society, a monthly poetry reading held at Pete's Candy Store. I was born in Riga, Latvia and live in Brooklyn. My writing has appeared in The Fanzine, The Brooklyn Rail, Hello Mr, Artillery, The Scofield, Two Peach, and is forthcoming elsewhere. I'm the author of the chapbook Funeral (Pixel Press, 2018). Art: Static by William Zuback In the artist's words: I have been a professional photographer for almost 30 years. I have a BA in photography from Brooks Institute of Photography. My artistic influences began in my teens with my appreciation for great album art of the late 60’s, 70’s, and early 80’s. Additionally, I was influenced by concept albums during that same time period. I liked these musical constructs that extended the narrative past a single song. Photographs and words. Photographs are what I create, words inspire me. What a beautiful union they often times make. I’m known for my nude portraits but I also create many still life tableaux. The majority of my work expresses the identity of individuals, groups, and family. All of my photographs are taken in my home studio, affectionately called BacktotheZu Studios. I’m amazed that all of my images are created in this small out building of approximately 400 sq ft. Half of this space is dedicated to a sitting area where I’m lucky to sip whiskey with many friends and fellow artists. I go back and forth between digital and analog photography. All of these images are digital. I’m not fixated on equipment. Lighting is usually one light source, either natural light through a studio window, strobe, or incandescent. Ideas dictate the technical direction of my photography. I can be reached through my email: [email protected] or my IG account, @williamzubackphotographs. My website is www.williamzubackphotographs.com.

Art: Paper by Çağrı Yılmaz Crepe Paper Golden Coach Tether System —for my H You twist —dancer— that spine of dream into one of those crepe paper chains i used to make. As if not understanding that some other substance would make better chains than treated paper pulp, treated —celebrated— with sizing, then creased by heated Yankee cylinder, its doctor blade, and soaked in water, —like magic becomes base —found- ation —a shun— for Easter egg dye, paper flowers, on those Sunday church hats seeking the majestic and (finding smog base instead, essential black & white) creped ingredient in lipstick and sometimes in tamales, subbing for corn husks, mouth still involved, always mine also even now, saying your name which I can freely do especially where no one hears me, but I hope that you do, whether i say Bob or Robert Chad Geller; no, Kissing you was never like kissing crepe paper, all wrinkly and never smooth, blotter for excess lipstick; nothing between us but the thinnest of space but with the crinkles of crepe paper, there are also folds of other realities of us together and crepe accordions, musics, eardrum tapping and skating on skin turned to icy blasts, but usually not even that for in melding always so close, we are a single entity, and I remain part of that closeness despite how far apart we are physically, those crepe paper streamers, one stretching, all the way from Ann Arbor to Manhattan, functioning perfectly as tether of colorful Love covered with my Kisses linking us permanently, spring flowers springing from crinkled cubes of crepe, nests as crinkled as skin around your neck, also crepe lasso linking us, linking us wherever you may go, eternal bachelor, except that I seem to be the one who has snagged you crepe and all the golden coach it drapes in the luxury of me crepe paper creping all the time —- a poem by Thylias Moss in Collaboration with Mr. Bob Holman About the author: Thylias Moss, a self-employed multi-racial “maker” Thylias Moss Writing LLC, is also Professor Emerita in the Departments of English and Art & Design at the University of Michigan.Author of 13 published books, and recipient of numerous awards and honors, among them a MacArthur Fellowship, and a Guggenheim Fellowship, and many other awards, including several Pushcart Prizes, and multiple appearances in the “Best American Poetry” series and is even included in in the “Best of the Best American Poetry” series, all of this part of her approach to making stuff known as Limited Fork Theory an approach to making and thinking developed in order to assist co-makers and co-learners to become more collaborative in thinking and being. All about how things interact across all boundaries, and encouragement of interaction that becomes more meaningful over time; all have collaborators. Nothing makes alone, and everything makes; there is nothing that exists that does not make stuff in some form, which is also open: any form that becomes possible; invent whenever necessary. “Making” is not static, is evidence of life.She has completed with her primary collaborator, himself a poet, spoken word artist Mr. Bob Holman, with whom she is in a meld, as he said to her, “The Fire will meld us together”, and this poem “Crepe Paper, Golden Coach Tether system” contains that precious word “meld” that defines their Love connection, and is actually a poem from an as yet unfinished collection of poems about his hat, a Golden Coach, as it says on the silken lining. She often wears his hat. She is working on a number of collaborations after her next collection of poetry Shawsheen Memorial Broom Society. Connect with her on these websites: http://www.4orkology.com http://www.midhudsontaffy.com http://www.moxiesupper.com http://www.lex97.com http://www.thyliasmoss-writer.com Cover art by artist Selwyn Rodda Art: Paper by Çağrı Yılmaz In the artist's words:

Art: The Red Stair by Linda Chapman STICKY FINGERS Theirs is a stately home Velvet papered wall purple cushion plumped Can't touch this Golden thread Needled too ornate, a flourish above and beyond Shakespearean quote If music be the food of love Play elsewhere. Back to the paint-chipped xylophone, the squeeze box with its buttons pushed inside And a bread-stick from the banquet Crumbs. About the author: Carol Stewart is a mother and grandmother living in the Scottish Borders. A former freelance editor, she has recently ventured into the world of poetry and her first accepted work was published in 404 Ink. Art: The Red Stair by Linda Chapman In the artist’s words: Linda Chapman is based in London, UK and has worked in photography for a number of years and exhibited widely in London and around the UK. More recently she has decided to concentrate solely on her personal work which is art photography and sculpture. Exploring a variety of subjects and materials and a combination of visual and verbal allusions to trigger metaphors and personal associations, she aims to reinvigorate the lives of everyday things. The end result being often playful, sometimes eerie but always stimulating.

Art: Abstract by Alex Duensing FROM THE TEACHER Whatever it has been said we’ve been, those words shall be shifted in the hearts of others-- as the bread of our days may be only as it’s always been: the nourishment of others; when they recollect us, they but bring their own selves to mind. For in the day of mourning, the wolves are afraid. as neither first nor last are remembered then, and it becomes clear the moon will vanish and even the sun itself must be forgotten like a candle. However, this is neither wickedness nor righteousness but only the howling of ways. Only give thanks in our days, by grace, life was recalled and that our basket remained present in the field enduring equally through shine and ruin-- with a lack that could not be counted. About the author: Alex Duensing. Graduate of William Paterson and Columbia? Yes. Ran for St. Petersburg, FL City Council? Yes. Won? No. Stopped Mayan Apocalypse on rooftop with performance art? Yup. Strange but nice fellow? Clearly. Able to create mechanical engines that run completely on the energy a person creates while appreciating a painting? On occasion.

ART FEATURE: PEGGY D. FARRIS Created Eternal Fire and Water Heron Life within Life Mystic Emerging Passion Phoenix Self Ressurection Secret Places Sky Plateau Utopia About the artist: Peggy D. Farris creates artworks representing each end of the spectrum between Representational Realism and Surrealistic Mystical oil paintings. She is equally passionate and excited in both areas. Although these types of pictures appear to be different from each other, there are many underlying commonalities in their basic design. She begins each artwork with an abstract pattern of shapes, values, and color. From this design, she gradually brings it into either a Representational Realism or Surrealism painting. Soon, her Surrealistic paintings flow into forms that she had not expected. She follows the appearing ideas to create mystical images. Although she uses the same limited pallet color selection along with composition in each style, she achieves very different results. Most resources for all of her paintings are from her imagination, therefore creating an image in either genre that she calls “Peggy’s World.” Her background as a storytelling, inspirational speaker, and preacher influence her art. Her inspiration for the surrealistic paintings began on December 11, 2018. She wanted a temporary release from the details needed for her realistic art and decided to see what would happen if she let go and just felt the movement of the paint on her canvas. She did not know what to name this genre because she had never seen anything like her result. Her longtime art friend recognized it as surrealism, and then she added the mystic description. This style became a permanent part of her style. Most of her paintings that sell directly from her gallery are Surrealistic. However, many of the art that people commission her to paint are the Representational Realism style. Over the years, she has painted murals as well as drilling rig portraits. Because of her oil paintings of specific drilling rigs for many corporate offices in the oil industry, a writer for the Daily Oklahoman featured her in the Parade Magazine section of long ago. The title was “Local Woman Strikes Oil and Doesn’t Own a Well.” Peggy retired from the ministry shortly after her husband passed away in 2015 and she returned to the art community where she has spent most of her life. She has her Doctorate in ministry and owns Whispering Willows Art Gallery at 226 E. Main, Norman, OK. She represents seven artists in her gallery and occasional guest artists as well as her art. Her gallery artists are Irmgard Geul, Enoch Kelly Haney, Gayla Hollis, Todd Jenkins, Kathy Shumate, Eric Spiegel, and Kevin Stark. When she served as Senior Minister, she also preached on a half hour Sunday morning radio show called Living in the Presence of God. She wrote a weekly newspaper column distributed nationwide, published several books and a monthly mystery magazine. She and her husband owned several businesses over the years before he passed away. She owned Peggy’s Arts & Crafts and Peppermint Gallery in the late 1970s. She founded the Mid Del Art Guild in 1974 and the Norman Art Guild in 2017. She tells a story with her art and seeks to draw the viewer into the painting by using depth, perspective, and color. When you view her art and can see the depth and perspective as well as the mystery she feels at peace.

Art: AI Epiphany by Alex Duensing A VISION “What then is life?” I cried— —P. B. Shelley The Triumph of Life (broken off final line) A cross. A mirror. Not much else—silver gray light. Half a face—mine, stranded under bulbs too bright for this room. The cross is a threat, a clue. Flashing. It won’t be solved by eyes that will be closed after the play. About the author: Mark J. Mitchell’s latest novel, The Magic War just appeared from Loose Leaves Publishing .A Full length collection of poems will released next year by Encircle Publications. He studied writing at UC Santa Cruz under Raymond Carver and George Hitchcock. His work has appeared in the several anthologies and hundreds of periodicals. Three of his chapbooks— Three Visitors, Lent, 1999, and Artifacts and Relics—and the novel, Knight Prisoner are available through Amazon and Barnes and Noble. He lives with his wife the activist and documentarian, Joan Juster and makes a living pointing out pretty things in San Francisco. A meager online presence can be found at https://www.facebook.com/MarkJMitchellwriter/ Art: AI Epiphany by Alex Duensing In the artist's words: According to the Many-Worlds Interpretation of Quantum Physics, the version of Alex Duensing that you meet may have successfully utilized a combination of politics, theater, and poetry to create anti-time, bodily free-energy, and a Gordian Knot-Type solution to all Zen koans. You may also encounter him as pure money or as a recent thought.

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