Alien
 
Light me up,
Beam me,
As a spotlight, color me,
With lights, reds, blues,
Sounds, your
Music,
Look at me as if I'm
A crop circle
Mysterious, beautiful,
Touch me,
Make me feel
Alien,
Make me feel
Human.
 
 



Memories

I might be a little tipsy
Nothing’s been the same since you…
And for some reason
Some shitty reason,
You know,
The thought of you
Comes creeping back to me,
A ghost, ball and chain,
I laugh,
Remember my laugh?
They say hell is real
A place for the sinners
The killers, liars, cheats,
Gee the last two sound familiar……
They never talk about
Though, they never talk about
The hell
Memories are,
Do,
For the living.
​

Bio: Joe Russo has been published in Linguistic Erosion, Farther Stars than These, Leaves of Ink, Typehouse Magazine, Door is A Jar Magazine, Spillwords, BoySlut Poetry Magazine and Centum Press’s upcoming antholgy 100 VOICES AT CENTUM. You can find him on Twitter - Josephrusso8 or on Instagram - Joerusso8.​

Whales in the Clouds
(for Megan Bell)

Whale semen circles the cream
spirals in a cup of smiling barista
coffee as fresh as sudden family
death. A sweet black cigarette
twins with pulverized beans from
Java where whales roll & growl on
sunny saltwater beds, a whole body
french-kiss, shredded by aluminum foam.

Under the ocean, whales
squeeze & deflate like fat milk
cows. Whales, full lungs behind
Ahab's rib bones, stand upright,
bent by the wind in the water.

They are spiders spitting
out handfuls of bouyant
strings. The whales & spiders
sink screaming fishing boats
with bulk, webs, & hatred.

Angular wing fins flap up & bubble,
but all hands on deck, now impregnated
by whale sperm fucked into their asses,
sink. Ahab smiles like an infant farts.
He's hooked by kelp ropes. Wrapped
in the leafy arms of a last nurse, tiny fish
snip at his purple & yellow bruises. Ahab
pisses ink like a battling octopus, yet it's his
blood rather than a defense mechanism
shading his position, smoking like a large
black flower. No love is necessary for
birth or for death. No alternative terrestrial
emotion globes Ahab nor his bloated crew.
There is no mercy for failure. Soon, the 7
seas will contract & solidify into dirty vaseline
thickened by drips of whale come. Spun
coffee: the grinning barista: sanity
is extreme. 






Logical Madness

Everybody's gone,
& I'm too old to jet
excess DNA all over

the nude backs of
sexy palm trees, to
procreate again.

Miraculous microbes
curl up, sour, & burrow
into holes filling with
blood on the tops of my
feet; gagged demons fuck
yodeling angels in midnight
alleys, in soft dumpsters of
death. A beach bonfire
evaporates like God at dawn.

I mean EVERYONE'S gone.
What do I do with their eyes
waking up in my brain? Their
faces twist like cotton ghosts
inside the complicated network
of cellular mammalian veins.

The dead unfurl skeins of time
soaked with sight & life plasma.

The face of a flag snaps in humid
space, & slaps that growing
grin off the sun.






The Fourth of July in the Early 1960's

in shadow & dew on the side of my dad's first garage, black
dirt, talcum dust, hubcap rust, bone nails, & broken wood;
oily, fingerprinted cans, plus a new olds 98 hold summer
heat warmer than afternoon inside; I have a pack of matches
& a mangled firecracker lattice in my back pocket.

I'm not allowed to do this. Never set off firecrackers alone.
It isn't safe. I push, like planting plants, gunpowder-rolled
paper sticks, blue star ones, red star ones, deep into raw soil
along the shadowy edge of the garage. Fuses show like gray
hairs of grass, but bent like thick tiny branches. They cheer as

fires touch & spark them. I'm fascinated by a whirl of smoke
like a thinning ghost in exploded dirt. My mother yells my name
from the back door, then she adds volume & my middle name
& emphasizes our same last. She's serious. I step from shadows
into sunlight, & a mean, loving, concerned face asks,

“What do you think you're doing? Don't you know that yr father
is sleeping?” He works 7-day swing-shifts in the east end steel-mill,
he's young, chews Italian dog-turd cigars. I grumble, & kick up
the backyard sidewalk. Mom widens the door. I scowl. I sulk stairs
to my hollow sun-soaked bedroom & fall across a boyhood bed.

I want to blow up everything.






Why We Matter

Shadows melt over sunlit bricks at dusk.
The shadows burn a cursive word into my
neighbor's northern wall. My neighbor's
house is full of curdled thoughts, dead
cranky cats, & 16th -century disgust.

Scripted by a soft elm tree branch, tri-
angulated by leaf & movement,
[LIFE] is spelled out, shivering, by the last
of the sun. I suggest Ann sits in my chair & sees
the etched miracle from this perspective

across our alley. “Look!” she shouts
before reading the bricks, “a lightning
bug! 2 lightning bugs!”
(Please read the shadow word, sweetheart.)
“Unbelievable, LIFE!”
​

Bio: Ron Androla is a poet living with his wife, Ann Androla, in Eerie, PA. He's the author of CONFLUENCE (Busted Dharma Books), 2015, available on Amazon, FACTORY FABLES (Pressure Press), 2016, along with many other books. He's been writing & publishing since the late 1970s.​

What The Metal Holds Too Long Is Consumed By Fire #31 

It’s lovely
& significant
that the metal
 
is intractable,
but in the dark
the squeeze
 
happens
without
happening.
 


 

What The Metal Holds Too Long Is Consumed By Fire #32

& after that,
the jostle
is a search
 
for the half-
error that
has lead
 
to the play
of shadows
against
 
the animal’s
flanks.
In a good,
 
ruining fire,
you can
watch
 
a terror
of a movie
that way.





What The Metal Holds Too Long Is Consumed By Fire #33

Thrust upward
& shooting out
onto the gravel
 
the inelegance
of the final dance
is dramatic,
 
but it’s of no use
to the vulnerability
of a land
 
that was once
so hard
with actual growth.
​

Bio: Darren C. Demaree is the author of five poetry collections, most recently "The Nineteen Steps Between Us" (2016, After the Pause). He is the Managing Editor of the Best of the Net Anthology and Ovenbird Poetry. His poems have appeared, or are scheduled to appear in numerous magazines/journals, including the South Dakota Review, Meridian, New Letters, Diagram, and the Colorado Review. He is currently living and writing in Columbus, Ohio with his wife and children.

(Paintings for Satellites/561 Grand, Infrared-Reflective Coating on Roof, 2010, 6000 sq. ft. Aerial photo of rooftop painting at 561 Grand Avenue, Brooklyn, NY in conjunction with CoolRoofs NYC. The image represents the NYC harbor after a 7 meter rise in sea levels. The blue is the water as it is today, the brown is the land that would be left after such a rise and the white is the new water line.)  

AHC: Can you tell us a bit about your process, themes & inspirations?

​Molly: I'm curious about things that invisibly motivate our actions. My specific interests range from phenomena in the physical world - hydrogeology or weather patterns - to human-built structures such as trade routes or new technologies. This began with making Paintings for Satellites, paintings on rooftops and street surfaces to be seen on Google Earth when it was a new tool.

(Oakdale/Carver pool, Masonry paint on concrete, 2012, 40,000 sq. ft. Painting for the Oakdale Pool, once a segregated public swimming pool, with an inlaid outline of the Carver Pool, the once all black pool in Salina. ) 


In the beginning I needed to get a handle on making something on a large scale, and understand how materials would behave exposed to the elements. After I understood how to do that I began thinking about the history of the sites I was painting. For a long time now I’ve been looking at traditional mostly textile patterns as method to investigate and communicate these histories.

​In the past couple of years I’ve been thinking a lot about global trade, both in how it shapes human behavior and in the materials it generates. Although it’s very efficient, all this production generates a lot of waste that, here in the U.S. ends up in landfills. I’ve been using those excess or obsolete materials to create sculptures with vernacular techniques – braiding, whittling, sewing – to establish a personal link to this system of global trade which at this point is so pervasive that it’s impossible to avoid. It’s a way for me to understand the world.
​

(Fort Industry, Masonry paint on cinder block, 2015, 20,000 sq. ft. Mural project for a city park department building to be viewed from I-280 in Toldeo, OH. An updated version of dazzle camouflage, used to disguise ships in World War 2, combining patterns from the Bauhaus school with historic Native American decorative motifs from the Ohio Valley. The design gives a nod to close ties between Toledo and European industrial production, but is built on the visual architecture of pre-European traditions.)



There is really no short list of inspiration for me, but recently I’ve been thinking a lot about the 2013 exhibition Interwoven Globe: The Worldwide Textile Trade, 1500 – 1800 which is a beautifully researched education in how trade was established. I just saw a very nice Shelia Hicks show at the Joslyn Museum in Omaha and I’ve always been a Stuart Davis fan so his show at the Whitney was a pleasure.  

 

(A to Z, 2016, dimensions variable (work in progress) A series of sculptures to develop a taxonomy using vernacular techniques with materials from the waste stream.) 



AHC: What first drew you to art? Was there a specific moment in your life or turning point where it became clear to you that you were being called to create?

​Molly: I grew up in the Midwest making a lot of crafts, studied art as an undergrad and at some point decided to go to grad school for art. There was never a eureka moment, it was more of an interest that grew deeper the more I studied and worked, combined with a disinterest in choosing a more pragmatic life.
​

(Ghost Acre, Masonry paint on concrete, 2013, 8’ x 2’ x 60’. Pillar in the garden of The James Hotel, New York, NY Painting for the pillar in the garden at The James Hotel. Named for extraterritorial land annexed for production, the work incorporates iconography from the site (Avenue of the Americas at Canal St.) and Caribbean countries whose land contributes to the GDP of the U.S.)



AHC: Who are some of your influences?

​Molly: My influences are a combination of contemporary artists and works from history. If I’m feeling stuck I can go to the Met and look through thousands of years of human problem solving. I really love the work of the sculptor Virginia Overton, and am a huge fan of Ann Craven. I could look at Kuba textiles from the Congo for the rest of my life and never be bored and I’m currently fascinated by this very uncharacteristic Morris Lewis painting at the Philbrook Museum in Tulsa.   
​

(Time Present, Painted aluminum, 2016, 10’ x 50’ x 3’Sculpture for the 40th and Airport light rail station, Denver, CO Inspired by contemporary nanoscience research at Colorado School of Mines and experimental dome building in Trinidad and Gardner, the metal relief sculptures for the 40th & Airport station honor the experimentation, innovation and future problem-solving that are critical to the culture of Colorado.)




AHC: Where do you find the inspiration for your pieces?

​Molly: My work is always a feedback loop between the research I’m doing and the work in the studio. Sometimes the research starts with a location, and sometimes with a topic that leads to a location. Often one body of work bleeds into another when research from one project becomes relevant to the next.  
​

(Flag State / Greenwood, installation)

 

(Cool Water, Hot Island, Ride-a-Way on street surface, 2010, 5 blocks/50,000 sq. ft. View looking south from the 47th Street. The color palette of cool swirling blues alludes to the historical geography of midtown, especially the Great Kill stream that once flowed near contemporary Times Square. The cool colors were chosen to make the plazas more calm and comfortable for pedestrians, and to contrast with the reds and yellows of the neon billboards.)
​

(Flag State / Greenwood This project, to be installed between the anniversary of the May 31 Tulsa Disaster and Juneteenth 2016, will mark historically significant sites with flags in the Greenwood District of Tulsa, OK. The 1921 Tulsa Riot, often referred to locally as the Tulsa Massacre, saw the complete destruction of one of the wealthiest African American neighborhoods in the US.)




AHC: Do you have any upcoming exhibits or new projects you'd like to tell people about?

​Molly: This year I installed my first permanent sculpture in Denver, at the 40th & Airport light rail station. Some of my Flag State flags are installed at the Oklahoma Contemporary Showroom at 11thand Broadway in Oklahoma City through the end of October. The flags will also be at the I Dread to Think exhibition at the Boston Center for the Arts in January 2017.

​In September 2017 my permanent installation for the Portland State University School of Business will open. My painting Ghost Acre can always be seen on the column of the James Hotel on Canal and 6th Avenue in New York.
​

(Studio wall painting, acrylic, gouache and colored pencil, 2016, 12’ x 20’ (work in progress) Painting for the wall of my studio in the Tulsa Artist Fellowship based on signage of businesses destroyed in the Greenwood District of Tulsa during the 1921 Tulsa Massacre.)
​
 

(Flag State / Red, collaged sailcloth, braided cord, fiberglass pole, 2015, dimensions variable. Installation at Respond, Smack Mellon, Brooklyn, NY. Made from excess materials that are the byproduct of modern production, these flags are both abstract compositions that refer to symbolic forms of language and resistant co-optations of signs of state and corporate power. The flags are installed to mark temporary autonomous zones where discussions of state power, ethics and labor are encouraged.)
​
 

(mall pattern paintings 2014 – 2016, gouache and acrylic on photo paper, 4” x 6”each A series of paintings researching non-gridded decorative patterns, to be used in future commissioned work.)
​
 

(Small pattern paintings detail)


To find more of Molly Dilworth's work and for further information visit her website at www.mollydilworth.com

                                                   THE CALMING DISORDER OF 
IRRATIONAL TENDENCIES 

                                                                                           Isolation
                                                                                           has that telling that
                                                                                           never begins.
                                                                                           Reaching the weekend 
house
                                                                                           would require similar 
restraint.
                                                                                           Little piles of rocks
                                                                                           benches of 
contemplation
                                                                                           nonsense dragonflies.
                                                                                           A dirt road when
                                                                                           it departed gradually,
                                                                                           then another rock trail
                                                                                           zigzagging
                                                                                           crazed.

                   

Bio: Colin James has a chapbook of poems, DREAMS OF THE REALLY ANNOYING,
from Writing Knights Press.​

Her Hungry Eyes Make her so Appealing
 
she was the failed engine of the war-machine
but she became the better demon
 
she was the slick seductress of the linear accelerator
and her tongues slithered so gently on cool metal tubes
 
she was the crucifier of the oppressive patriarchal matrimony
that steered towards oppressive dehumanization
 
the ultimate dance of mystery had started
dangerous people were tonguing the subway windows
 
coveting feminine silhouettes breathing slowly softly
brazenly evaluating each orgasm for effectiveness
 
proselytizing the scourge of drug trafficking
 
all wrapped up and ready to go vividly blowing kisses
the slaves encased in leather had episodes of tight panic
 
they were just the receptacles
it’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to
 
the Asian midget in the Nycmta uniform read from
a clipboard the names of stations on non-existent subway lines
 
the high nasal voice infected the passengers but
those who were encased in animal skins started to twitch
 
(cool it baby)
 
intimate diaries were extinguished
 
a privilege for hungry lips only
the background was composed of faded Ektachrome taped to the cracked plaster
 
the editors of pleasure reconstructed the sound of a
distant door closing accented by a heart-stabbing dull thud
 
she pulled her dress over her head to display the secret
markings etched in electricity the digital files were processed
 
(just don’t lay there)
 
 
wheezing bulb hard splintered flash
burnt air tumor-memories of the polaroid SX-70
 
violent after-smell
washed out billboards
recollections of distant serial killers
total radiation exposures
 
watch and participate in the back behind her in all directions
 
end of the line
 
in that area where the somnambulist paused to kiss each of
her breasts and buried each eye in a kaleidoscopic cervix
 
she submitted to the lips of chance and annihilated the touch of skin
 
gams a-quiver in pressurized time
 
she noticed that there was a flushed face on the other body
it was spasming and jerking a cock until a kiss on the cheek was received
 
thrilled by building recollections of destroyed families
they had started living inside forests of cracked glass one upon the other
 
on the Coney Island beach at 9 pm just as the sun kissed her goodbye
it all fell down again in mid-July
 
she smiled as she drew sigils in the wet sand using the tears she had gathered
red-designs of unknown origins were created to be gently washed away
 
when she had finished
she started once more
chanting the tunes of malocchio
 
“the dead are gone, the living must die.
i was busted by the hammer of
christianity, this nation has spit on us. america brought
us a subjugation.”
 
Sexy Sadie spoke her final word: “amen.”
 
when trapped by the joy of injustice and the lack of remorse structures frightened her
the sleepwalker had decided to no longer continue as a murder-weapon
 
dehumanization was seen in the act of love
 
a cleric passed by disappointed in the lack of fucking opportunities
no more victims as he wallowed in memories of past crimes
 
condensed desperation defined their lives
wandering on glass roads creeping
 
the naked corpse admitted victory
as limp figures became praying hands
 
gazing lovingly at targets
 
she was the failed engine of the war-machine
but she became the better demon
 
gazing longingly at targets





Midnight Tattle-tales:
A Diary of a Short Painful Hypnosis 
 
5 minutes in:
she was tired of her body
and the touch of humankind
a good time is nothing unless sexually taboo
conversational illustrations of people
adventurous under flayed dreams
quivering in the warm July breeze of a fallen nighttime
 
domesticated in the brain but not the heart
she had acquired sets of reactions
a blood curdling few seconds
squeezed herself into fantasies
with desires to leave the b0dy behind
visibly shaken by the circling predators
she knew she had fetishized herself but “that
was the point, wasn’t it?”
 
25 minutes in:
her body vibrated uncontrollably
vivid and entertaining 3 repair mechanisms;
she leaned out the window and whispered,
“i see you! i see you! peek-a-boo!”
3 persons viewed at the end of the block
 
they licked each other and then they spit on the pavement
before hiding under smoke and oil around the corner
next to the bodega next to the pelicula
trading 1 pain for another
in a bone deep ache joint fire sting
 
55 minutes in:
next to the film underneath a stage where
her secrets were whispered and not given away freely
going towards nude in the stop motion animation
 
$5 a peek-a-boo
a feature film
just die in CGI
 
“she’s got the good stuff. keeps it
deep down there.”
a lowered basket through a
 
hole in the ceiling. her friend got
sick. yellow puke-shot – white froth. coughed up
shit. oh. baby. go hide go
hide go. oh. baby. oh.
here’s his
head and some other body
parts: my mommy and
daddy nailed to a steel wall.
the jets scream above. shrill chemtrails
we’re beaten down.”
 
in a bone deep. ache.
joint fire sting
the taste of nettles
colored her eyes ebony and
outside in the front yard objects covered with fur
suffer internal bleeding spit up red
they talk to her
 
1 hour 10 minutes in:
skies broke into blue
provided illustrations
and she screamed at the
archive of torments
this light is too bright
 
[in between brackets
 
she sucked up the clouds]
 
now zero:
general mind/body interaction. 
in her moans were revealed the secret: she had changed from
shadow to substance
have it now,
tasting the fixation
followed by eyes closed
watch her
 
she says things back to them
 
just touch me
just fine





Pickup Alley (Girl of the Year)
(based on actual events in Show World, NYC 1980)


Or them.
 
Those bodies enjoyed the veneration of the insanely devout
It’s time to generate a performance under dark under sunlight in between
 
Want to be free of this shit (born under progressively rapid fire)
This was a platform for wild visuals whimpering at the exquisite hips,
pressing another face against forgotten wishes
 
even more heroes are cowards. These were the films that spoke.
 
She repeated herself. "I want you to use the strange
electricity conjured from within,
confident we will continue as 2 still lives.”
 
Just trying to promise the elimination of creative control
fingers were directing this first feature spotlighting tummies and thighs.
 
1st phase of a parallel divinity so she said, after cumming so far in fractured therapy
Chastised with the belladonna leather corset the bodies were electrified
 
She realized that this atmosphere had become so stimulating so deadly kiss me
Energized by mutual pain they hid in the dark doorways unable to talk
alert today for a dead tomorrow
 
she performed research with the human remains from Neolithic eras
fueled by cannabis and LSD darkness
 
she screamed not out of fear but as a result of tactile pleasures
she stared at the skull and felt herself breathing in a distant region looking back upon herself
 
robbed of her clothes by the random hands she smiled to herself
reborn she watched the crowds disappear
the intracranial fists were beating from sweet trepanation
 
“did you wish to cum?” she asked
She was greeted with quizzical stares
 
“I wished I was kissing me.
I put the car in drive and went back to see the
guys tied together, because the next thing I
knew it was finished.”
 
she speeded. lost in the moment
 
“suck on it. a real rush to see what it’s like.
a real bitch,” she stated for the record
 
beauty book such a bore
thrown back into her tortured faces without getting the heebie-jeebies
 
purpose none
 
Historian and philosopher of the dead,
tumbled backwards from the setting sun
 
Focusing her bleary eyes on my bleeding smiles she asked to hear my confession.
 
“The first bullet missed me,” I said.
“The second bullet went through my upper arm -  a clean shot. Still hurt like fuck.
 
Codeine was needed. A single stream of clouds passed in front of the moon, as unfocused as
your attention. I felt dizzy, so I sat down, leaned my back against the wall.
There was blood in the glasses of milk, no mothers were feeding.
 
I fashioned crippled Madonnas from these pieces of glass and those rusty nails gathered
at the shore. Inside each sculpture I left a black pearl for you. That’s why I did it. No.
That’s why I did it. Morphine was required.”
 
She sighed silently and said, “Afterwards, we gambled for his clothing.”
 
we moved around a drive-by shooting
crept in and when we were finished we were holding her firmly
pushing it twisted.
but she’s not mourning
the knife pierced through a Gideon bible flaccid on the nightstand.
A sound of almost bursting echoes
 
accused
accused
 
You now,
relaxing so easily,
happened all by itself. talked about it with you.
 
on the ceiling.
 
That’s the suggestion that was meant
 
just for her.
 
a relaxed state.
 
You can see you. We’re attached to it.
 
Or them.
 
Leave them grunting and filling her with need as she ran away,
as that smile that hid a wet real her.
She couldn’t get him hard.
Live sex show. He was ashen white. His blood on the peep show glass. Needle dangling
From vein.
It flopped around in her mouth.
 
Too too fuckin’ high.
Junk numbing crappy climaxes.
 
A neon vase contained a sublime pain.
Leather patchworks populated the skies. Or them.
 
                                          (the glass walls of the peepshow were cleaner than usual. i was on the
                                           outside, she had opened the door for a break so we could talk.
 
                                           i started first. “you like it in there?”
                                         “yes i do, i did my 2 bags up and all is fine. the viewers don’t matter:
                                           it’s very far away.”
 
                                          she had the somewhat thick voice of heroin that was simultaneously
                                          frightening and lust-ridden. she was dressed in a black leather corset.
                                          there was laser light trapped under her flesh.
 
                                          her eyes rolled back a little. her eyelids, clad in black, fluttered slightly,
                                          then she regained her composure. she laughed.
 
                                          “did you see that skag try to blow her boyfriend in the circle? he was so
                                           high his cock just flopped there. i stole his syringe later. came in useful.
                                           those patrons were ass-fucked. no show today.”
 
                                          she turned slightly and leaned into the booth. i saw a little puke shoot
                                          out. hardly any odor. only slight coloration. it was that clean effortless
                                          vomit that heroin gives us.)
 
Pain had the task of keeping us together. Created associations of cunt and loss.
9 notes relaxing.
 
evil energy continues perfect boyfriend/girlfriend
literal meaning is stupid.

​

AHC: Can you tell us a bit about your process, themes & inspirations?

Bren: One main inspiration is the socialization of American men to be violent and my attempts to navigate this socialization. This violence can be physical, verbal or spatial. An example of spatial violence is the taking up more than one’s fair share of space, such as “manspreading.” Here’s an article about manspreading in the New York Times: www.nytimes.com/2014/12/21/nyregion/MTA-targets-manspreading-on-new-york-city-subways.html 

My feeling at odds with this socialization is a key theme in my work, and I use the cross stitch sampler form to reflect back on my life and how I’ve been educated to be a man. Historically samplers were used as part of the education and training of girls to be proper women, so the sampler form fits in with my reflections on my education.

 

Sampler #1: linen, cotton; 19.75"H X 15.5"W (Framed: 25"H X 20.5"W); 2008; Photo: Allison Tungseth


Sampler #9 recounts my first day of first grade, when I showed up at school with a lime green floral lunchbox. I quickly learned that boys should not have flowered lunch boxes. To my parents’ credit, they allowed me to select the non-traditional box.  
​
 

Sampler #9: cotton; 88"H X 60"W; 2011; Photo: Kiny McCarrick


I currently have an exhibit at the Bellevue Arts Museum, entitled Strategies for Survival                                                                           www.bellevuearts.org/exhibitions/bren_ahearn.html  in which a few of my samplers and active shooter pieces are featured. The curator, Stefano Catalani, is an eloquent spokesperson for my work and notes the following about my samplers:

​“Bren Ahearn reclaims this craft to transform each of his samplers into a page from a personal and intimate diary filled with the awkward moments, defeats, and discoveries which are the result of dealing with our culture's gendered expectations.”

In addition to gender, there are some other themes, such as my work history, in my samplers. For example, I have samplers exploring my gendered feminine work experience (e.g., secretary, receptionist) and how I’ve wasted time at work. I explained a bit about these two samplers in a recent interview with Dan Crowder on textileartist.org www.textileartist.org/bren-ahearn-spin-me-a-tale/ so perhaps readers who are interested in more info about those samplers could take a peek there. My most recent sampler explores jobs, legal and illegal, that do not appear on my resume.
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Sampler #18: cotton; 88"H X 60"W; 2016; Photo: Miles Mattison


Additionally, I’ve been exploring death with my death samplers. These samplers are based on times in my youth when I may not have exhibited the soundest judgment, but I was lucky and am still alive. In the samplers, however, I recall a parallel history and was killed or died. This series was inspired by nasty, judgmental comments that people leave at the end of tragic online news stories. It makes me sad that some people blame the victim.
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Sampler #12: cotton; 88"H X 60"W; 2014; Photo: Miles Mattison


Another main recent influence is the active shooter situation in the United States. To me it’s crazy that the situation is so normalized that there’s even a name for the situation: an active shooter situation. When I worked at the University of California, Davis, we were called into the auditorium and trained on how to stay alive if an active shooter arrives. We were given a handy card at the end, and I stitched a larger version:  
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Active Shooter Directions #1: cotton; 42"H X 60"W; 2011; Photo: Miles Mattison


Recently I’ve been creating stripped down versions of the three main things the US Department of Homeland Security instructs on what to do in these situations. I’ve been making these in different fonts, and they’re my next generation sampler, since they’re part of my educational process. I’ve made about eight of these so far.
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Active Shooter Directions #3, 4, 5: cotton; 39"H X 59.5"W (each); 2016; Photo: Miles Mattison


Finally, life in general is a big influence. An artist friend told me a while back that his gallerist (or someone in a career-dealing capacity) told him that he shouldn’t have another job other than artist (or announce the fact that he has another job). I guess this was so my friend would appear to be a “real artist.” For me, I’m grateful for the non-artist jobs I’ve had, as they’ve given me rich content for my work (e.g., active shooters and jobs not on my CV). They’re part of my story.

I feel that this censoring of my artist friend’s other jobs minimizes the fact that in the US it’s difficult to make a living as a fine artist, and many artists by necessity have other jobs or patrons or sugar daddies. (As a side note: My husband’s name is Doug, so when I was in school, I called him my sugar
Dougie.)

In terms of process: This is a rough sketch of what I do:

a. An idea comes into my head.

b. I write down the idea in my notebook.

c. I think a bit about the idea; I get inspired to create or I sit on the idea.

d. If I get inspired to create a sampler, I start designing the sampler in Stitches for Mac, a cross stitch program.  
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Sampler 16 Chart

Sampler #16: cotton; 60"H X 40"W (approx.); 2015; Photo: Miles Mattison


You’ll notice that on the above chart, not all of the addresses are filled in. Sometimes I don’t fully design the piece because it’s tedious. This often leads to mistakes, which I like, and are more in keeping with traditional samplers.
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e. I typically use 14-count AIDA cloth (which is cloth woven with 14 holes/inch in the vertical warp direction and 14 holes/inch in the horizontal weft direction, thus resulting in a grid I can use as a guide) that is starched, so I don’t need an embroidery hoop. One thing I do, though, is to start from the outside edges and then work my way in because the more I handle the cloth, the more the starch wears away, and the fabric becomes soft.

Here are 3 in-progress shots of Sampler 16. In the third shot, you can see how I’m working from the bottom up in the left-hand address column. Please look beyond my sub-optimal photography.  
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AHC: What first drew you to art? Was there a specific moment in your life or turning point where it became clear to you that you were being called to create?

Bren: In that textileartist.org www.textileartist.org/bren-ahearn-spin-me-a-tale/ interview, I described a bit about my upbringing and creative family. I won’t repeat that text in case there are overlapping readers. One thing I’ll add to that narrative is that as I have become more confident in my skin, I’ve incorporated more of myself in my artwork.

A key moment of this self-incorporation came when I was in school. A visiting professor assigned the class memorial projects in encaustic. I decided to do a memorial to my coming of age during the 1980s, when AIDS was at its height. There was a lot of fear, name-calling, etc., and I didn't quite know how to navigate life. When I presented the project to the class, I started crying. My class was very sympathetic; they said they understood that I was mourning a lost coming-of-age. Later, in private, the professor told me that I should not create "gay art," but I instead should just make "art." I am so grateful to her, as this galvanized my direction. Prior to this point, I was floundering about what to do. I saw that my life experiences had made her very uncomfortable. I then knew that this was good and that I should pursue the telling of my microhistory (which is the history of the individual common person, rather than history with a capital H).

So, for my next project for the class, I passive-aggressively sewed pink lamé to the inside of an army tent and sewed on images of stereotypically gay things. Here is a photo of the model of the tent, which I actually like better than the full-sized final tent. Sewn on the outside is a photo of Aiden Shaw, who was a British gay porn star in the 1990s.
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Tent #1 Model: mixed media; 5"H X 7"W X 13.5"D; 2008; Photo: Allison Tungseth


My presentation of my story has gotten a bit more subtle since this tent. The piece was a fun dalliance, though. The only thing that would have made it more fun would have been to have had the real Aiden Shaw in the tent.

One thing I learned from this experience is that people either tend to love or hate my art. I would rather have it be this way than to have someone just be neutral about my art.



AHC: Who are some of your influences?

Bren: In that interview at textileartist.org www.textileartist.org/bren-ahearn-spin-me-a-tale/, I listed a few influential folks over there.

Of course, I forgot a bunch of folks in that interview. So, I think I’ll just quit while I’m behind.

I would, however, like to give credit to the folks in the San Francisco Loom and Shuttle weaving guild. I started my adult textile life as a weaver, and the people in this guild encouraged me to push myself and to try new things. They provided me the foundation to explore. Thanks to them all!




AHC: In your work you deal with the conflicting messages of masculine expectations, deconstructing what lies behind the term "manhood" and exploring sensitivity in a cultural landscape which tends to devalue this quality in men, could you talk more about your own personal and artistic negotiation with these things? And also about the important role embroidery has played as a means of confronting these issues?

Bren: Back in June 2016 I gave a gallery talk at the Bellevue Arts Museum and talked about this notion that American men are socialized to be tough and to have their emotions in control. One of the attendees noted that it is different now than when I grew up. I acknowledged that this is true; however, I often come across examples that make me wonder if this assertion is really true.

​For example, after I presented on a panel at a conference in 2010, a woman came up to me and said she would like to introduce her grandson to my artwork. She thought that her grandson might be gay and that her grandson's parents were not accepting of him. She thought that my artwork might encourage him to see that there are others like him. It was then that I realized that I can make a difference in people's lives with my artwork, and this inspired me to go on. This also reminded me of feelings of isolation in my youth. I wonder, though, if most people feel isolated and awkward in youth.

In another example, in June 2016 I attended a banquet at which a man received a very prestigious award. He was very moved and was crying when he received his award. Later, a woman recounted the incident and she had a smile on her face when she relayed the fact that the recipient was crying. I don’t know if her smile meant that she was mocking him or that she felt uncomfortable or that she felt compassion for him or something else. To me, the smile seemed as though something was amiss. In the moment, though, I said nothing about her reaction. What caused me to say nothing? Was it fear of being an outcast? Was I not wanting to make waves? Was it so she could save face? Whatever the reason is, I regret not yet having said anything. I’ve been meaning to ask her what she was thinking. One of my friends has pointed out to me that it’s OK to go back and revisit an uncomfortable topic with someone for closure.

In another example, I was on a light rail train in New Jersey, USA about 5 years ago, and a man was on the train with an infant boy. He was play-slapping the baby and telling the baby to hit him back and be a man. The baby was giggling at the play, but something didn’t sit right with me. It seemed at though the man wasn’t fully playing and was socializing the boy from infancy to assert his masculinity. I didn’t say anything because I was concerned the man might have a gun and kill me.

As a means of confronting these issues -- embroidery, which currently is gendered feminine in the USA, in conjunction with the feminine history of the sampler form, allows me to invoke stereotypes in order to question stereotypes. (That’s a highfalutin sentence, isn’t it?)  
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Sampler #13: cotton; Framed: 25.25"H X 20.75"W; 2014; Photo: Miles Mattison


AHC: Do you have any upcoming exhibits or new projects you'd like to tell people about? In terms of new projects, I see exploring some 3-D projects, but maybe not until Doug and I move into a new space. Our current space is 480 square feet (44.5 square meters), which inspires me to continue making flat pieces or things that can be rolled up.

Bren: I would like to continue with the stripped-down active shooter directions pieces in different fonts. I could see a whole room full of them.

I also would like to revisit some of my blueprints. A few years ago I had a show in a space with a lot of skinny, irregular wall areas. I didn’t have enough framed small samplers for the small areas, so I printed off some of my charts with white Xs and a blue background, in order to evoke blueprints, another antiquated form.
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Sampler 5 Chart: digital print, variable dimensions, 2013


About shows:

As mentioned above, I have the Bren Ahearn: Strategies for Survival show at the Bellevue Arts Museum in Bellevue, WA, USA until mid-January 2017. www.bellevuearts.org/exhibitions/bren_ahearn.html 

Here is a link to a review of the Bellevue show: www.seattletimes.com/entertainment/visual-arts/artist-confronts-gun-violence-gender-roles-through-embroidery/ 

I might have a few pieces in the show at the annual Mid-Atlantic LGBTQA Conference at Bloomsburg University in Bloomsburg, PA, USA if I can get my act together and do the submission, and if I get accepted.

I will have a piece or two in the Loom and Shuttle show, Woven Together: Experience and Expression, at the Sanchez Art Center, Pacifica, CA, USA, January 13-February 12, 2017.

​I will have a few pieces in the Social Fabric/Moral Fiber exhibit at Gallery West, Grant Campus of Suffolk County Community College, Brentwood, NY, USA, February 14-March 30, 2017. The curators are Leila Daw and Michaelann Tostanoski, and I will post info on my website.

Here is my website, where I’ll post info: brenahearn.com/ 

Thanks for this opportunity to chat about my work!

​My hair has grown whiter and whiter.
The paintings have become smaller and darker.
I am inexplicably drawn to the landscape after years of colorful abstraction.
Mysterious, foreboding - is the light fading or is it the dawn of a new day?


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Distant Lake, acrylic stain on birch panel, 10 x 10


AHC: Can you tell me about your process, themes and inspirations?

​Isabel: This body of work began when we downsized to rural Sonoma, CA. Due to a lack of studio and storage space, I decided to restrict myself to black acrylic paint on 10” x 10” birch wood panels and, then, to see what would develop given those restraints. Initially the paintings were abstract compositions, but then a horizon line began to emerge and I thought to myself, “These are landscapes.”  I have always been drawn to the in-between times of dawn and dusk, misty, foggy times when colors and sounds are muted and the world seems still. As the work progressed, the fields and hills around us seemed to seep out of my subconscious into the work.

Hello Rollo, acrylic stain on birch panel, 10 x 10


In terms of technique, the paint is thinned with water and applied in washes. The acrylic acts as a stain on the raw wood, so there is just one shot to get it right. I think the wood grain showing through adds a mysterious element.

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Nearby, acrylic stain on birch panel, 10 x 10


AHC: What first drew you to art? Was there a specific moment in your life or turning point where it became clear to you that you were being called to create?

​Isabel: My grandmother and great grandmother painted. We had their work hanging in our house so I was used to being around art. In the 5th grade, the art teacher at my public school (this was the 1950’s) was so impressed with my painting of a daffodil, that she called my mother to tell her about it. That recognition was a turning point.  My art teachers and professors continued to be an important source of validation and encouragement.
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Memory, acrylic stain on birch panel, 10 x 10



AHC: What are some of your influences?

​Isabel: I’ve been influenced by Minimalist artists like Robert Ryman and Brice Marden and the stain technique of the Color Field artists such as Morris Louis and Helen Frankenthaler. I love Richard Serra’s black works on paper.  I also admire the Tonalist landscapes of the early 1900’s. One of my all-time favorite paintings is Twachtman’s  Arques la Bataille at the Met for its sense of quiet and calm. All of these disparate influences come together in the work.

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Dark Ridge, acrylic stain on birch panel, 10 x 10


AHC: The specific themes of light and dark, dawn and dusk and mystery are very prevalent in the work that you are doing now. Can you talk about the inspiration behind these works?

Isabel: Beyond recreating the beautiful atmospheric conditions of dawn and dusk and fog, I think these works could be considered a meditation on loss, loneliness,  mortality, or foreboding seen in the fading light and encroaching darkness, a theme that is echoed in the old, falling down barns and loss of ranch life here in Sonoma County. 
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Old Farm, acrylic stain on birch panel, 10 x 10


On the other hand, the light could be seen as the misty dawn of a new day, the sun coming up, a new life, a spiritual awakening or the resolution of some dilemma.
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Rise, acrylic stain on birch panel, 10 x 10


AHC: Do you have any upcoming exhibits or projects you would like to tell people about?

​Isabel: My big project at the moment is to get in better shape so I can hike and kayak locally - really be in the landscape. 

Hillside, acrylic stain on birch panel, 10 x 10

To view more of Isabel's work and for further information visit her website at www.isabelwyatt.com