Something almost ineffable stirs in the heart of Leanne Surfleet's photographs, when the strains of life are too much to bear and one finds one's emotional-psychic lifelines depleted, it's as if light itself suddenly unveils a corner untouched by worry, a fleeting piece of musicality hovering nearby with each click of the shutter, like a release of breath once held after the longest passing storm, moments are frozen but also thawed in the embodied capturing of time. There are wafts of Francesca Woodman's ghost in the air of these self-portraits, (Woodman's own Space² holds lasting significance for the photographer,) but I am stunned by what seems like a second presence in these works altogether, light itself. An accompanying companion almost without name, perhaps spoken silently, (but how can this be?) Emily Dickinson partly provides that answer, when she writes: "There's a certain Slant of light... We can find no scar, But internal difference... When it comes, the Landscape listens – Shadows – hold their breath – When it goes, 'tis like the Distance On the look of Death" Internal difference, it cannot be spoken, its scars do not show, but something in us listens for it nonetheless, perhaps our whole lives are made of this, trying to hear (capture) a sound that cannot be heard, but sometimes, don't we almost feel as if we have? Surfleet turns the lens on her self and the extensions of her world, to provide mirrors/containers for feelings, emotions, worries, anxieties, happiness, depression, but in each of these images there is also that companion of light, the unspoken extra layer of the world, untameable-unnameable, but felt and necessary, irreplaceable, wild, pulsing with life. And to these sacred elements of art, Surfleet observes how "it makes us think about things we wouldn't normally or naturally think about, it makes us wonder, imagine, create, be inspired, feel sad, feel happy, feel something at all, creates dialogue, creates communities, encourages well-being and recovery in creation." One couldn't imagine a world or life without it, she adds. Imagine, there is the third element that dances with the light of these photographs and sometimes even softens the edges of one's roughest, most anxiety ridden hours. AHC: What has your own personal evolution towards a life in art & photography been like, are there a series of moments you can recall where this path, this calling, began to become the one clearly marked for you? Leanne: It started when I was 18 and was gifted a camera and encouraged to experiment - I never had any idea I would be so passionate about it when I was younger but it soon blossomed into a slight obsession. I went to college and studied photography and from there gained some valuable skills in analog photography and realised my love for it. I was also exposed to some of my favourite photographers still today and allowed the freedom and time to find my own style. From there I spent a year or two not doing a whole lot, apart from taking photographs and suffering from anxiety and trying to find a way to combat this with photography. I went to university which I dont feel was very beneficial to me as I was already quite sure of my abilities and what I wanted to do photography-wise, although again I benefited from the freedom and time to simply create photographs. Since university I have carried on and pushed myself forward and am still doing so. AHC: Could you explore and expand on some of the motivating ideas at work in your photography and the process behind the making of them? You've described the photographic act, in part, as a calming mechanism which has helped you make sense of and navigate anxiety, loneliness, mortality, has that changed for you along the way, as that calming effect has been nurtured through your art do you find that you feel more more at peace with some of these life struggles, more able to breathe through the art, like a second skin/nature? Or is it more ebb and flow? Leanne: The motivating idea behind my self-portrait photography is to document myself, my life, my feelings, emotions, worries, anxieties, happiness, depression etc. Same with the portraits I take of my friends and my partner, they're all a part of my life and I feel I need to capture these people and hold a part of them in this way, its personal but I also want people to see what I see, and hopefully resonate and relate to these feelings that I'm expressing. I still suffer from time to time with anxieties, not as persistent as it used to be but it still likes to rear its ugly head when I'm feeling at my most content and happy, and photography still helps me to deal with this in certain ways such as planning projects, keeping my mind occupied, making the time to be creative and to feel like I'm doing something worthwhile. AHC: Who are some of your artistic influences? Is there anyone outside of the art/photography world who has had a huge impact on you and your work or who just generally inspire you on some level, writers, filmmakers, comedians, musicians, teachers/mentors, family members? Leanne: Some influences outside of photography are Tracey Emin, Wes Anderson, Larry David, David Bowie, Rik Mayall, Bjork, Patti Smith - mainly for their outlook on life and the passion for their own individual craft (or the passion they had before they passed). AHC: What do you consider, personally, to be the most sacred and enduring aspects of art? How does it enrich our world and our cultural memory? How has it enriched or altered your own life? In your opinion, what does art, at its finest moments, bring into the world that would otherwise leave us more impoverished without it? Leanne: The fact it makes us think about things we wouldn't normally or naturally think about, it makes us wonder, imagine, create, be inspired, feel sad, feel happy, feel something at all, creates dialogue, creates communities, encourages well-being and recovery in creation, it educates, its history, its fact, its fiction. I just couldn't imagine a world or life without art. AHC: What is the first work of art you encountered that took your breath away, that lit a fire in you? Leanne: It has to be an image by Francesca Woodman, most of her work takes my breath away but I can think of one in particular that blew me away, I don't even know why, but I still love it. It's just perfect to me. 'Space², Providence, Rhode Island, 1975-1978' AHC: Do you have any words of advice or encouragement for young artists and other creatives who are experiencing self-doubt in their art, frustration or blocks? What are the types of things that have helped you to move past moments where you may have become stuck creatively? Leanne: I still experience these blocks or dry spells with creativity, motivation and inspiration, and sometimes nothing really helps me apart from giving it time and waiting for that wave of inspiration to flow back to you. I think if you're a naturally creative person it will always come back to you without having to force it. But often I need a bit of a push, my partner is really good at helping me with that to be honest, he breaks things down and helps me get back to basics and think about what I want to do and the steps I need to take to get back on track. Other than this for advice I'd suggest going to some galleries and museums, even if its nothing to do with the field that you create within a good gallery visit can be very inspiring and spark something new within you that you may not have realised otherwise. AHC: Do you have any upcoming exhibits or new projects you'd like to tell people about? Leanne: I'm hoping to work on another solo exhibition this year and try and branch out with locations for the show. I've got a collaboration that will be released hopefully soon when we find the right outlet to share with, and I have some other shoots and collaborations planned for before and during the summer. I'm always wanting to try something new and am hoping to take portraits of new faces this year - so if anyone is interested in test shooing with me and are based between Norfolk and London (UK) I'd love to hear from you. Flickr © Leanne Surfleet For more information, including purchasing prints, collaborations and more visit www.leannesurfleet.co.uk/ Follow Leanne on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. 2/13/2018 Flood by Lisa L. WeberFlood I cry too easily— wish I could build a damn against the flow of emotions that drown my rationality, my sensibility, my composure. And here they come again-- the wild torrents of pain and anger and passion, pushing me downstream pushing me over the falls, pulling me under. And what can I do but give up-- give in, give myself over to the undertow. Let it carry me over the falls-- down, down, into the dark embrace of my own abyss. I wish I could build a damn— wish I did not give a damn, wish I could throw my heart into icy waters, let it sink into the depths where it cannot be touched. ![]() Bio: Lisa L. Weber lives in San Diego with her husband, son, and dog. Her work has been published in the San Diego Mesa Visions Magazine, and online at Anti-Heroin Chic and the Ginger Collect. You can wander with her brain at www.brainonwheels.blogspot.com or follow her on Twitter @LisaLermaWeber. 2/12/2018 Poetry & Photography by Brooke KnisleyI decide to stop editing photos of you. Man as muse is enticing -- But you take that from me too. I pressed my finger tip into Your sternum and felt Along the ridge, wanting to be Closer than our skin could let us. And grasped your collar bone -- My panic handle -- when I felt too much. Bio: Brooke Knisley is a student in Emerson College's Writing and Publishing M.A. program. She assists an Emerson philosophy professor, constructs photo essays, and is always looking for a new album to listen to. The Dangerous Summer – Self-Titled Crusading towards the light is a complex task when darkness infuses everything around you, when it overthrows the shine, when it dominates your every waking moment. Emotion is fundamental, and momentous, in music where guts are spilled, where a mind is filled predominately with feelings of self-destruction. Soured lust is explored, emptiness cries to be occupied. We’re naturally emotional, well if you’re accustomed to crying your heart out when delivering a thoughtful speech or when a love one dies. We’re human, with hearts, with bones that can be crushed, we also exhibit signs of emotion through art. Our souls are a mandatory tool of showcasing sentiment. Music dazzles us, it repairs our broken energy. Through it we can create snapshots in our minds. Pictures which are monumental to us, and those lyrical strands will enforce vivid memories, those words are material, and they’re what binds a song together. Instrumentals are there as a hotbed, they’re important also. Blistering guitars and heavy drums can bombard, but they are significant. Maryland band The Dangerous Summer are one of those act’s that implement thought provoking lyricism to excite but also to inspire. Leading man, AJ Perdomo has fantastic pedigree as a songwriter, pushing his boundless muse to the forefront, excelling himself. And the band have been outdoing themselves since their inception in 2006, broadening their horizons on every release. This stems from immense talent and strong determination. The unit have created 4 albums including their new self-titled record. This effort is a joyous but heartrending affair, built to drag out the emotions. It’s an emo masterclass, featuring intense vocals and subtle instrumentation, offering listeners a chance to reflect on their own life. It resonates too, colouring in the lines, but darkness isn’t too far away. AJ Perdomo isn’t a man who sings about roses. He sings about upheavals and hardships, broken lust and disenchantment. He’s feels disenfranchised, he knows how life can eat you up and spit you out. His lyrics are poetic and highly relevant, wrapping around the music scene like an overcoat of justice. He’s truly committed at throwing his discerning wordplay out there like a million kites. The record holds up brilliantly as a whole. Fire is a song which describes alcohol as a deterrent. Perdomo bellows about craving to be in a room full of friends and darers ‘I wish every person that I knew was in one room right now/We'd drink until we died/I'm talking about all my friends/I talk of the wars we fought back then’ this track depicts a sense of worthlessness and a protagonists downward spiral. Luna is a subtle track. The little tinge of guitar is a wonderful contrast, and Perdomo sings about dreams ‘You were born with your mother's heart/Just stay wild as long as you can cause you are free/And you are the architect to all your dreams’ these lyrics are more upbeat, and it’s like the suffering has settled for a slender while. Valium is a dark contribution, littered with sad descriptions. Palermo opens up the song with these lines ‘I see through holes in your eyes/You wanted to die/The walls were getting heavier/I get high and talk to myself’ It seems to describe a man on the ropes, colliding with cheap bottles of wine, smoking his brains, snorting enough drugs to fill the atmosphere. The blistering guitar parts offer volatility to the unnerving chorus. Like Forever starts loudly, and Palermo bellows about dark moods and a thick fog ‘I woke up one day/With my spirit drained/And the fog came/The mood that we both knew/Isn't exactly how I wanted to leave/Everything was scattered in pieces’ this is an alarming indication of a disturbed cognition. The Dangerous Summer have always been a band of poets. Their work could be perceived as being miserable and negative, but that makes them unique and emotive. New Album out now via Hopeless Records. ![]()
Bio: Mark McConville is a freelance music journalist from Scotland. His work has appeared in print and online. He has written for many music publications. He also dabbles in prose and poetry.
2/11/2018 Poetry by Rebekah Morgancrying, choking, laughing on july’s front porch we wait for the future to see what i can do with a knife natural yoghurt and a silver sun nursery rhyme with illustrations of war dixieland, far beyond the reach of logic someone's mama, not my Mama, fidgets in dainty boots, crying foul in the park who’s dumb hand lays bare the flag conceived by pissants red, white, and blue 2 ½ minutes till midnight and the beers getting warm I’ll be damned if someone didn’t go and shit behind the apple tree an’ look there’s a fuckin’ foot on the lawn encompassing totally the romance of picking through your lovers hair, cumming, with a lice comb glued to yer paw, and the terror of finding the bed bugs quick return we will wait this night forever, sweating ![]() Bio: Rebekah Morgan is an american that lives in Romania. Rebekah Morgan went to Rockbridge co. Highschool. 2/11/2018 Photography by George L Stein ![]() Bio: George L Stein is a writer and photographer living in Michigan City in Northwest Indiana. George works in both film and digital formats in the urban decay, architecture, fetish, and street photography genres. His emphasis is on composition with the juxtaposition of beauty and decay lying at the center of his aesthetic. George has been published in Midwestern Gothic, Gravel, Foliate Oak, After Hours, Hoosier Lit, Gulf Stream Magazine, 3Elements, Stoneboat, Occulum, the Gnu Journal, Iliinot Review and Darkside Magazine. What It Means to Love You With your sharp cheeks and sharp hips I should have recognized your weapons. When you first hugged me, I should have felt the sharpness through my softening flesh. The way they dented me almost permanently. I thought I should watch out for you when I finally felt the stabbing pain, but then you surprised me, and like any fool I hugged you again and again until I was a pockmark a colander a sieve with nothing of note left over with every part of me drained. ![]() Bio: Tiffany Jimenez is from the San Francisco Bay Area. She earned her BA in Creative Writing from UC Santa Cruz, and her MFA from Saint Mary's College of California. Her most recent work has appeared in Hobart, Anomaly Literature Journal, and Door Is a Jar Magazine. Other than being an ardent supporter of the imagination and the art of storytelling, she writes a lot, laughs a lot, startles easily, and loves potatoes. 2/8/2018 Poetry by Emily Blairwine drunk / punch drunk ask me about blood vessels breaking around each veined eye from strain of vomiting until I thought throat might disengage from neck ripped myself, fingerskin, eyelash, clump of hair matted torn from neck nape in too-hot shower two dozen birds enter a box eleven emerge they are the same birds how? sometimes two things are one thing hiding behind one name’s veil look at me and say how sad and funny, dangerous and interesting, fall in love and worry why two dozen? twenty-four sounds harsh what happened to those two other birds? they died sometimes things die like me and also not me like I die and my mirror twin doesn’t like she smiles and I smile and we laugh together and we know it’s so funny, dead birds, with their small bodies pressed to the ground at last like the rest of us it’s a fucking riot fingerskin eyelash eyebrow hair was scab bruise ask me about the joke later and I will not know there’s been so much blood here inside and outside of this one/and body, this existence of want and excess vigil I have killed more men than I can count in more ways than I care to remember in my dreams [not nightmares] I’m me but vigilante against the men who held me between two palms and spit in my mouth I was eleven. I was seventeen. Twenty-two. Should I go on? Tonight in my dreams they come one after another while I’m in the shower, but I swing the metal shampoo rack without a voice that will not appear they look like the men who place soft hands on my lower back while my boyfriend stands only feet away I never scream. In my dreams I don’t need to. I am strong. I tear their bodies apart, blood clogging the shower drain, bathmat steaming with intestines. All this makes me hysterical, violent, a harpy in dark eyeliner, lank haired Medusa, look at me in fear. Don’t look at me, you men I could kill with just these unbruised hands. More men than I can count. More ways than I care to remember. Give me these nightly furies. Allow me revenge. they ask why I cry about middle school when whisky drunk call me ship watcher joking, because we are landlocked and I stare over western ridge with the intensity of a widow on her walk on her roof with one last hope that someone will come home to hold her close and everyone is safe enough silence and people begin to think you cannot hear or see how their disregard I’m a houseplant I’m a wall hanging I’m hanging in there joking for six months after a boy my age told me I’m going to rape you every day for weeks and weeks and I didn’t know what it meant I thought it was violent I knew it was a desperate plea for anyone to know and see and feel his own abuse much later. much later I knew I should forgive him but I didn’t. Eleven, if you’re wondering I was eleven and he was eleven and he told me he would rape me every single day and I was left speechless – throat clogged in case I had asked for it The Observer Effect I drink beer more like our fathers than mothers not slowly reclining down the night so much as full-body immersion my first girlfriend Rhea was an Alcoholic, capitalized, seething, passing blame for all that rent her a dead dad and me both for being immalleable I get a job at a wine store the clientele is old rich traveled once to Italy my first fight with wine at age twenty in Southern Switzerland I puked so violently that blood vessels burst across my eyelids purple blotches staining my face for days (this is only an admission, years removed, a not-at-all-tragic anecdote) Rhea hung her father’s gun above the mantel but had no shells for it she tells me about writing her father’s biography in Greece, where her mentor found Bud heavy for them to split her father’s drink of choice I found that cruel but she loved it I guess that says everything I drink vodka, beer, press against bodies on throbbing dance floors, quiet what asks and asks and I drink beer fall in love with gaps in other people Rhea had no shells for it I drink like our fathers he died in his sixties but who am I to focus light on havoc high-water marks only touched by edges of great pulling tides ![]() Bio: Emily Blair is an Appalachian poet and college instructor living in Charlotte, North Carolina. Her first chapbook of poetry, WE ARE BIRDS, is forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press. Her recent work can be found in Boshemia Magazine, Punch Drunk Press, Vagabond City, and Figroot Press, among others. 2/8/2018 Poetry by Merridawn DucklerEverything ends, but not everything begins When the sun drops it’s a rout, a slam, outside the park, inside the lines, no contested down, nightfall. But what brings day? “If you keep looking, it’ll never come,” my family liked to say, in unison, as charcoal lights lost their margins to reveal the night-covered oak on the river, a visible fact. The sky went gray unnoticed, like a loved one’s beard. Moon backed away as I tried to remember the chip name that matches that color, but while my eyes were shielded not only the oak tree but the very leaves on the ground grew clear in outline as cat paws. And all at once—how did this happen?-- conceived before it was written: astronomical, nautical, civil, bright, it was day. And the cocoon for new lovers and those at the bedside of the dying, fragile slice of the long passage, had come and gone. Dawn. Let us pray. imitatio dei When I want a world, I want it yesterday; at parties, I’m awkward but believe my absence is felt. At work, out of nothing comes something but I have no confirmation of this, only the great jade waters slipping on the surface of the world like a marble, only the sky, blue canvas over the world mix of all colors or a jar of school paste under which blues seep, and my eyes were two light switches when I was a kid, lying in bed, making the trees roll off my fingertips, painting with shadows where I’d hidden a charcoal briquette under a large rock, since I’d read this was how diamonds are made. Bio: Merridawn Duckler is a poet, playwright from Portland, Oregon. She’s the author of “Interstate” forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press. Recent work published or forthcoming in Ninth Letter, Juked, Jet Fuel Review, Disquieting Muses Quarterly, the anthologies “Climate of Opinion: Sigmund Freud in Poetry” and “Weaving the Terrain” from Dos Gatos Press. Fellowships/awards include Writers@Work, NEA, Yaddo, Squaw Valley, SLS in St. Petersburg, Russia, Southampton Poetry Conference, Wigleaf Top 50 in micro-fiction, Southampton Review flash contest. She’s an editor at Narrative and at the international philosophy journal Evental Aesthetics. Triggers and Leather Belts I’m often given To contemplating objects, Memories, And death. I suspect That there are connections Between these things. I’ve never been a fan of keeping The ashes of dead loved ones. Some people like to string them About the neck Like a choke hold of memory, But I always thought such a thing Would be far too heavy to carry that way. Grief writes its own scars upon you Without permission, Leaves long, unwanted keloid love letters Between freckles. So I figure, Why give bad memories excuse to stick around. But, sometimes I still pull the bullet Out of my pocket For old time’s sake I guess. I almost took my life with it that day. I don’t even remember the date, But I do remember the make and model of the gun, And I do remember missing dad, And all the things that died with him, And how alone I felt. And how tears can sometimes taste Like battery acid, And how your heartbeat can sometimes feel Like the clink of metal rings On chainlink fence. I do remember How the words “Home” and “family” Seemed like such a sick joke That I wanted to vomit them out of me. And I was offended at how my dead, dumb tongue Couldn’t seem to form them Or understand their meaning, And how people just couldn’t seem To understand me, And how God couldn’t understand Such a simple request. Just give me the strength To pull the trigger. But instead I got guilt And more unwanted gifts Like life, And eternal self-loathing For my pathetic weakness, And more time to count my scars, And pick up some more From lost friendships and homes. I can hear my mom’s ever so loving words Rattling around in my pocket With the bullets and loose change, “You just want to be miserable,” And, “I’m glad he’s dead.” From the mouth of babes. Forgive them, Father, They know not what they do. I remember the hollow, lonely clinking That bullet made When I dropped it over the side of a cliff On another day. It was the same sound the wind made When I threw Dad’s ashes Over the side of that mountain. And the same sound my footsteps used to make Down the hallway in high school. I remember spending days calculating The physics of my body weight And ceiling fans, Versus the tensile strength Of leather belts. I remember how some days my bones ached With rot and overanalyzing so much I couldn’t even get up off the bed. And how sleep reminded me too much Of sorrow to rest, So I played mind games with myself To pass the endless empty hours Between school and emotional abuse. I remember when I would twirl that bullet Between my fingers, How the cool metal reminded me Of the trigger guard of my rifle. How it was cold like ice, But much harder. I remember how my lips felt The stern chill of the barrel As they crept up and over the end of it, Like the newborn fawn crept into the meadow, Peered its little head over the hood Of the blue Chevy that one day In Debeque. I guess we are more similar than I realized. Stop. I can’t seem to stop the flow of memories Like those ashes never seemed to stop Drifting down the mountain, How sand in the hourglass never ceases Its tumbling down Colorado shale slides. Stop. And how the cold snap Of your leather belts In my palm Stings like winter snow in the mountains, And how gunpowder Drifts like those ashes and, Stop. Just stop. I love poetry the same way I love rivers that can drown me, Bullets that could kill me, Not wearing seatbelts on freeways, And wearing leather belts As reminders While I walk, Because these days are treacherous, Filled with memory, Traps of smell, and sight, and sound, And fall, But, I do get up out of bed And my smile is a tattered, dog-eared page In my favorite book I somehow keep coming back to, But I always remember To carry my scars with me, Like notches on a belt, Counting times when I should have been dead, But I’m still here. ![]() BIO: Emily Warzeniak is an artist, poet, and scientist currently attempting to survive the unforgiving climes of the New Mexican desert. |
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