essays on artists and writers

National Aboriginal Day is coming up soon (June 21) and I can’t wait to see all of you on here! Here are some suggestions for what you can post on this day:

1. Selfies / Photographs of yourself, whether it’s casual or in regalia or something else (sports uniform, cosplay, graduation cap and gown, etc)

2. Photographs of family events, ceremonies, powwows, celebrations, etc.

3. Video of powwows, celebrations, etc.

4. Photosets/gifsets about your favorite Indigenous / Aboriginal actors, writers, poets, artists, etc.

5. Poems, essays, songs, stories, or personal accounts about being Indigenous / Aboriginal

6. Art, drawings, paintings, mood boards, photomanipulation, any kind of visual media that inspires you. 

And more! This is a means of celebrating who we are and where we come from.

And of course, this means ALL Indigenous and Aboriginal people. We are all in this together. Let’s show them what we’re made of!

Essays in Existentialism: San Francisco

oooooo prompt: indie painter/artist clarke and bohemian writer lexa. basically i just wanna see them as hipsters. possibly living in san francisco.

The notebook exploded into dozens of pages against the wall, like a sad, lonely kind of firework. The cat wasn’t even bothered, blinking slowly and turning its head to the side after adjusting slightly. Not even the stalking owner of said notebook and semi-owner of said cat, huffing through the room, shoulders hunched and hands gripped, face stoically full of wrath, bothered the feline who had grown accustomed to such things. 

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I once loved a painter. She was sin and magic; both I couldn’t control. There were times when I catch her staring at me a little longer than normal people do, as if she was committing to memory every detail of my face. I remember during her birthday, she wouldn’t ask for anything, no small dinner party or a lavish string of pearls, and lucky for me, a man who had come to understood her deeply and climbed over her wall of thorns, all it took for her to smile was a trip to the forest where she could see the deers satisfying their thirst by the pond. God, her dirty blonde hair was a mess. I would always scold her to put it up, because a.) I liked seeing her in ponytails b.) she looked so beautiful when there were no curtains of hair in front of her face. My painter likes the moon a lot. She would pick the lone moon over the promising sun without a doubt. She had this habit of rustling out of bed at two in the morning, and even to this day she doesn’t think I had no clue about it, but I had, that she comes and wraps blankets around her and walks to the balcony barefoot to watch the moon in her every phase. I would love to join her in those times, wrapping my arms around her tiny waist and we would watch the moon together, naked and the stretched definition of art. It was a flourished dream of every man. But my lover was a painter, and we weren’t an ordinary couple. I knew she needed time alone. I didn’t like it when she came out to the moon, as if talking to her, because in the morning, she mourns. The moon made her feel alone. Those moments I knew there were things about her I could never know, and a dark side she would never want me to know. For every artist, whether a writer or a photographer, a theatre actor or a singer, a graffiti artist or a sculptor, will always take pain something more than hurting itself. Her fingers are so graceful it was as though they have a mind of their own. Whatever she does, her fingers moved in an effortless manner that sometimes it aches me she couldn’t touch me the way she did before. God, she was beautiful. It took a long time before she completely opened up to me, but when she did, it changed me. But she doesn’t know how much of an open book she was. I knew when she’s mad even if the words coming out of those thin lips that I miss say otherwise. Her body language was awful, awful but beautiful and it’s one of those little things that I noticed about her, she would touch your body like she was painting it. Her eyes would give out everything.
—  by a.s., this is for nymphery
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looking for writers & artists to submit personal essays, photography, paintings, sketches, collages, ramblings, poems, etc to our magazine’s second issue! SUGAR is a print magazine run by 3 young women. we are looking for moving, thoughtful, and previously unpublished work (work published on your own blog or website is OK) by survivors of trauma/assault, those in recovery or currently fighting mental/physical illness, those who are lgbtqia+, POC, young women, nonbinary folks, men, you, all of your friends, anyone who has a story, you, you, you, you. this is a magazine for us. this is a magazine about art, writing, healing, + empowering others.

any questions, you can contact me at lydia@thesugarmag.com!

I am running through the blackest tunnel, like blood through the vein, in white glamorous clothes. With great eyes of innocence, I bit my lips, bloodied mouth, thrilled by fear.

Suddenly I fell to my knees, on the black sand, with my hands on my chest, peacefully scared, I took my bow, I’ve cut my veins.

In front of a statue, a wicked goddess, I knew it was bad, it was mad, the Kali, the Persephone, the Medusa, in front of these women I took my scarf off, saluted my angels, and I let my dream to eat me alive.

Eight years later, I am the goddess of misbehavior.

And almost nine years later,
I’ve cut my own cords and fell in love. ’
Bad blood, good heart; I love you.

—  The Eleventh Level Of Mad Bad by Royla Asghar 
Call for Asian Solidarity

In light of the recent US election, OCEAN-BLIND is opening submissions for all Asian-Pacific writers, living in America or elsewhere. 

Queer Asian voices, undocumented Asian voices, Muslim Asian voices - we are here to listen. Tag your words with #oceanblind, or submit here

Non-AP friends - please recommend us writers, artists, poems, essays. Send us anything you think needs to be seen

Right now, we need your voices. We need your stories. We need solidarity.

Stay strong. Keep creating.

We’re here to support you.

Love, O-B.

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In response to the scarcity of information about the artistic and theoretical production from Central America and the Caribbean, TEOR/éTica is launching a new series of monographic, collectible, bilingual books that compile key essays and articles by brilliant writers, artists, philosophers, historians, architects, curators, and thinkers from all over the region. These texts present some of the most important critical accounts that have been shaking up the contemporary art scene throughout the last three decades: 

Their socially engaged reasoning has created new possibilities for reflection and dialogue in societies fragmented by social inequality, political conflicts, and gender-based and sexual violence.

Learn more about the project — and support their work! — here

But baby, I did love you. I know how you liked your breakfast; tea and scrambled eggs. I know how old you were when you left your drunk father. I know how bored you get when we go out with my friends; what your opinion is regarding today’s government officials. I can describe all the flecks of color in your eyes. I know the lines on your hand better than you do yourself. I happen to know how badly broken you are, and I love you so much more for it.

Remember when I took you to see Carl, the homeless man who sleeps under the trees outside your apartment? I didn’t tell you that whenever I wait for you, he’s the one who keeps me company. He knows your name even when you’ve never introduced yourself because I tell him how crazy I am for you. I hope you don’t forget that you’re the only one whose hand I hold and kiss while I drive- as though it’s my lifeline. Your art consumes me in the most terrible way. Your fingers formed a nuclear bomb inside my body because the feelings are just too much to bear and my bones, my muscles, are completely done.

There’s just a way with which you draw lines across your canvases; the way you hold your brush. It’s how you transform into a different person, a more intense, dangerous version of yourself. There are times when I see you age fifty years in less than fifteen seconds, and there are times when I see your face light with that damned innocence in just three. Your gaze are sharper than a lion’s teeth, your knuckles tainted with a plenitude of faded colors. I noticed it, you know. When we’re separated, even just for a few days, the paintings you make are completely forsaken. They remind me of abandoned children in the west, never really finding their way home. Then right the second I land in my homestate, your messy apartment is where I long to be.

It takes you more than three days to realize I’m back home, with you. Are you hearing voices again? Are they telling you that I’m nothing but a mist in the autumn morning? Because they keep you farther from me than I could ever tell you. I hate how everything you do affects me. When I read and your head rests sleeping in my lap under the drowning sun… it’s an escape from real life. The way your fingertips lightly spring pirouettes again and again on my skin. That was when I knew that it was not only you who was passionate for art, but that your easels and canvases and scrapers loved you too. And that you loved them so much more than you loved me.

It was nice having you as my lover, though. I don’t let the bitterness corrupt me. Because all I remember when people readdress my past relationship with a deluded painter is how we took showers with each other in the most virtuous, innocent way possible. You, soaping my raw neck. Me, exposed to the world’s most beautiful painter.

—  Addie S. “the painter has soft skin”
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Where You Are, like most of Visual Editions’ titles,  isn’t a book in the traditional sense of the word. It has no pages and chapters; rather, the publishing house’s newest offering is a box full of artwork and essays that tell the story of artists, writers and thinkers in map form. “We asked 16 writers, what is your personal idea of a map? recalls Iversen. “And we got 16 different expressions of that.” The resulting book is meant to be opened, spread out on a table and delved into like you would an atlas before a road trip.  In other words, Where You Are is a distinctly Visual Editions experience.

[MOREA Book of Experimental Maps Designed to Get You Lost]