Tag: Splinter Generation

Action in Art

by Ariel Baron-Robbins

In my drawings and photographs, I continue to explore how to depict movement; I want to know what the process of drawing looks like visually from the outside. I turn my body into the drawn mark and use its dance-like motion as an abstracting tool to discuss new interpretations on figure drawing. In my short video pieces, I eliminated the marks but keep the physical action because I want to focus on body movement. The mark itself is essentially only a by-product of action, but the action is fleeting, unless trapped by some sort of recording device. If I don’t make a mark, I can still make an action and perhaps that action can stand in for the mark.

Rooming with Your Bones

A poem by Heather Gustine

When they asked at the post office what you wanted
with a skeleton, you said you were studying
the human form. When they said, What?
The girlfriend’s not enough? you laughed,
and now request that I take care of it

Obsequies

Poetry by Joseph Kampff . . . who (while the band-a discourse community-dawdles) attends the whispers and the screams-sonorous harmonic discordances of the Silvertone* . . .] (. . .) [It’s obvious what’s going on here1.] “Omnia mutantur, nos et…

Duality

Fiction by Rae Beatrice Nelson

I ran my hand down her ribcage that night. I counted the vertebrae in her spine, there were too many. Collarbones begged to be forced through, to give her some blood for her efforts there.

An Interview with Walt Staton

…(T)he courage of people to migrate is a really inspiring thing, but it’s tough in a lot of ways because there isn’t a whole lot we can do. I mean, we are out there as medical people, and with food and water just to–– I guess if you find someone in their worst possible state, if they’re in real medical distress, then we can take them to a hospital or something. But the hardest part is realizing there is not a lot we can do. We can’t drive people places. So you meet these really amazing folks who are making a very powerful statement with their feet, you know, and you are just a little blip in their longer journey.

On Photographing My Mother

Nonfiction by Sara Dailey

In the few pictures there are of her as a child, her smile is a fixed gleam, tongue swallowing both sun and her father’s secret, how a wolf could wear the clothes of a man, his rumpled shirts and scent of farm, have the same big hands that killed chickens and crushed berries into blackberry wine. Looking at the oldest of the photos, taken when she was only five or six, feels to me like staring at a ghost. That girl has gone from her—like a chameleon might shed its skin, this second self has also been shed, like she’s tried to shed all traces of her rural upbringing, her knowledge of farm life and poverty in equal measure.

Personal growth

Poetry by Rick Hale

It began with a lemon tree.
I broke its pot and put it outside
right next to my house.

A whole jungle lunged up around it.

I used to be able to recognize it
in the jaguar shade of the tree line.

Homecoming

Poetry by Ginger Ko

I was whistling for Mint to drive the goats back to the pen,
Brushing off mud splattered on the back of my legs
When your father called to tell me you were coming home.
Two weeks later I flew in and drove from the airport
To Jefferson and 55th, mounting and dismounting
The freeway clover knots in the warp and weft of the city.

Neptune Frightens The Children

Fiction by Wythe Marschall

The order went: Rico said he saw it, then Jamie, then Jameel, Malika’s cousin who lived in Maspeth. Over the next month, they talked to each other about it—at Minny’s or the Hacienda or Jamie’s house—and confirmed the details, so they figured it must be true. For one, Rico never lied, not to them, not about paint, and for another, the yard was close to Queens, so it figured Jameel would’ve seen it—he was obsessed with geography, with the good walls and the spots no cops would drive by. They had all just found about this new yard, and Josie hadn’t gone yet. They all wanted to tell Josie about the problem right away, but it was just too hard, because Josie’s whole life revolved around paint. He was like the little ball-bearing inside the can that shakes up the paint, that lives forever in paint. He didn’t just write ZEUS—he was ZEUS.