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YAREAHMagazineIssue 22. March 2012
Art: is month Penelope Przekop and Xavier Landry’s paintings, and the special collaboration ofFrancis Piep and Rinat Shingareev.Literature: Short Story by Bobby Fox ‘e Dog Shit Incident’ and Michelle C Eging ‘A goldfish isn’tthe only one living in a fishbowl’.Poetry: Morning War by Michael Pacholski; e Feast of Preserved Emotions by Tatjana Debel-jacki; ‘What Makes a Grown Man Cry’ by Kim Wilson; and ‘Another Love Story’ by ierry Sain-tine.Opinions: Charles Kinney Jr., Martin Cid, Isabel del Rio, John Glass, IZara, ISartosa and MichaelJ Metcalf.is issue has been dedicated to Frederic Edwin Church.
Where I am supposed to goby Penelope Przekop
Liberation Figurative by Xa-vier Landry
Sea and Trips
LiteratureYAREAHMagazine
ome people spend their lives
obeying rules, some others wi-
thout questioning their dreams;
Jack London always put his thoughts
into practice.
Jack London was born in the sunny Ca-
lifornia (San Francisco). We know his
mother (Flora Wellman) but his father
is unknown, also to him (maybe the as-
trologer William Chaney). Therefore,
from the beginning he had to confront
the biggest problem for a child: where
are my roots? And, also, the greatest
shame of the 19th century: to be an
illegitimate child.
Poor and autodidact, he spent hours in
public libraries. One day, he read the
novel ‘Signa’ by Ouida and he identi-
fied with the main character: an illite-
rate Italian farmer who got success as
musician: he could get success as a wri-
ter.
Then, all of his life he tried to go to the
University. He gained some money
working as sailor and travelling to
Japan, he attended to the Oakland
High School and entered in the Univer-
sity of California in 1896, but he had
to leave it soon due to economic pro-
blems.
He was a pirate in his
own oyster boat (it
seems he had stolen the
money to buy it) and
after the ruin of the
boat, a decent drunker
oyster fisherman in
other boats.
Constantly, he had pro-
blems with the law. We
know he spend 30 days
in the prison (in Erie
County in Buffalo), as an
industrial worker and so-
cialist, he participated in
numerous violent protests, and he was
accused of plagiarism several times.
However, when he started to earn
money with his books, he bought a big
wonderful rancho in Glen Ellen (Cali-
fornia) and started to behave as a lan-
downer and to study agronomy (he had
interesting ecological ideas).
Contradictory to the end, Jack London
is the author of some master books:
‘The Call of the Wild’, ‘The Game’,
‘The Valley of the Moon’, ‘The Mutiny
of the Elsinore’… but in his last years,
he
produced silly novels or short stories,
only to earn money and worrier to his
rancho than to the quality of his texts.
Even, his elder daughter, Joan London,
recognized this point.
He married twice because, of course,
he had to know the pain of a divorce
and he died in strange circumstances,
victim of a strong medication or be-
cause he committed suicide.
He is buried beside his second wife,
Charmian London, in Glen Ellen. Only
a green stone signaled the place.
Jack London, a trav-
eler By Michael J Metcalf
What could we say of a man who knew all of the good and bad things ofWhat could we say of a man who knew all of the good and bad things ofthe life? What could we say of a restless spirit who looked for peacethe life? What could we say of a restless spirit who looked for peaceand for fight at the same time? What could we say of Jack London, auand for fight at the same time? What could we say of Jack London, au --thor, wanderer and pirate? Nothing…thor, wanderer and pirate? Nothing…and everything, since he had to knowand everything, since he had to knowthe essence of humanity.the essence of humanity.
S
Niagara Falls. Frederic Edwin Church
YAREAHMagazine
Literature
was nine years old when I trave-
lled by ship for the first time.
It was a tanker and it was in Huelva (a
port in the South of Spain). My father
was the Captain.
I lived in Madrid with my mother and
brother. My father was always on
board, going around the world or so-
mething (in fact, I saw him only once a
year), but my mother used to go to
meet him the few times that his ship
docked in Spain. Usually, I stayed in
Madrid with my grandma but this time,
it was Christmas and I didn’t have to go
to the boring school.
The tanker was so big that it couldn’t
dock in the port (insufficient depth)
and it was at some distant: a small boat
took us to it. The idea was to see my
father only some hours since they had
to continue to the Canarias islands. All
was perfect but when we had to return,
it started a big storm and we couldn’t
disembark. I was excited since I had to
go to Canarias (a great experience for
me… or at least that was what I
thought).
A ship is boring, more for a child, more
than the school. From the first minute,
my father banned me almost all. I could
only be in the cabin or in the playroom
(fortunately, it was a big ship with a
playroom) and I couldn’t even go to the
deck (you know, to see the wonderful
sunsets and so). Apparently, all of the
children who had disobeyed before,
they had suffered serious accidents and
my fathe-
r’s des-
criptions
were so
eloquent
as to be
closed in
the se-
c u r e
cabin (at
least, for
s o m e
d a y s ) .
Further-
more, my
mother in-
sisted in the bad words the sailors said:
my mother has been always a little eso-
teric and she thought I had mental po-
wers too, since at this time I only spoke
Spanish and the crew spoke (including
the bad words) in whatever other lan-
guage (maybe English, I didn’t know).
I was really bored. The playroom was
usually empty. One day a sailor took
pity of me and he tried to teach me to
play ping-pong. Bad result: I was
clumsy and I have disliked ping-pong
forever.
Other sailors give me sweets. Bad re-
sult: I have always loved salt meals.
Even another one showed me his tat-
toos: yes, you know, I was not interes-
ted at all.
However, in the cabin of my father,
there were a lot of books. On the co-
vers, illustrations of cowboys or gangs-
ters (no high literature precisely) but:
good result, I was really intrigued about
their plots.
Days later, in Canarias, my mother
asked me if I would like to buy some-
thing, a Christmas present. I said
‘books’. ‘Books?!!,’ she was surprised.
‘What kind of books?’ ‘Books of sai-
lors, I answered’.
She bought me Lord Jim by Conrad
(well, a children’s version) but I was de-
leted and afterwards, I kept on asking
for books of sailors.
This issue of Yareah magazine is titled
‘Sea and trips’ and, of course, dedicated
to travel books: Jack London, Steven-
son, Jules Verne, Salgari, Pio Baroja,
Henry Miller… all of the authors that
I loved from my first trip by ship.
I hope you enjoy the issue so much as
I’m going to enjoy its preparation.
Travelers on board and good riddance!
Travelers on board
and good riddance!
I
The iceberg 1891 Pittsburgh. Frederic Edwin Church
By Isabel del Rio
he trip of Pequod is an injury in
our religious hearts… the crew
looking for the sense beyond the
whales, the man looking for the sense
beyond the Humankind and the words
of prophets. Moby Dick is the end of
this travel and the beginning of the
man’s longest journey to eternity. Moby
Dick is the final fight between Human-
kind and Mythology, between
old religious stories and
new beliefs… the most
wise man in a ship that
contains all types of disea-
ses a man could imagine.
Moby Dick is the animal
memory, the greatest fish
ever written and the sligh-
test forgotten dream ever
told… Moby Dick is the
sleepy beast who lives in all
of us, the sensibility that
lives in every war and the
man who dreams to reach
the infinite with his wasted
hands of his lost years.
Great White Whale who
still waits for us, Great White Whale
who still obsesses us, Great White
Whale who will live with us forever.
The beast is here now, he can see it.
Now, we are ready. We have our harpo-
ons in our wasted arms, we have our
illusions pending on the madman’s
good sense, pending on the end of a
trip that began with the beginning of
times and the Creation of Man. The
winds breaks our faces, we need to
close our eyes trying not to see the
image beyond the mirror, the secure re-
flect of the whale who dresses a mask
with our won faces, who dresses the
mask of all human sins.
Call me Ishmael, call me Moby Dick…
call me God.
The meaning of Moby
Dick by Martin Cid
If someone forces me to choose within all my favorite books, maybe IIf someone forces me to choose within all my favorite books, maybe Iwould choose Melville’s book Moby Dick. Any reason? Of course I findwould choose Melville’s book Moby Dick. Any reason? Of course I findmany of them every time I read this fantastic epic book, this awesomemany of them every time I read this fantastic epic book, this awesomeadventure travel, this heroic story about a tragic character hiddenadventure travel, this heroic story about a tragic character hiddeninside his obsession. Capitan Ahab is the madman who convinced ainside his obsession. Capitan Ahab is the madman who convinced awhole crew that the madness is the same as the good sense, that thewhole crew that the madness is the same as the good sense, that themadness is the only way to find the wisdom at the end of this road wemadness is the only way to find the wisdom at the end of this road wecall life.call life.
T
Frederic Edwin Church
YAREAHMagazine
Literature
LiteratureYAREAHMagazine
ince I knew
Yareah next
issue is going
to speak about ‘Trip
and Seas’, I thought I
had to speak about Pio
Baroja (my favorite au-
thor) and ‘Pilots of
High Seas’ (my favorite
book).
Pio Baroja (don Pio, as
usually Spanish people
called him) was a Bas-
que writer: therefore,
he became of a land
full of sailors, adventu-
rers, and incredible sto-
ries (maybe legends).
He has a prolific work:
novels and more novels by an author
who was not very worried about gram-
matical problems (he has been critici-
zed for his grammatical mistakes) but
for the impact of his plots and charac-
ters.
And yes, his novel is absolutely impac-
ting. It tells the story of two Basque
sailors on a slave ship (Embil and Chi-
mista). The route was the usual: from
Basque lands to Gulf of Guinea (when
they took the slaves) and afterwards, to
Cuba (to sell them).
Most important: with the profits, they
returned to the North of Spain to fi-
nance the Industrial Revolution (same
England did 80 years before).
However, at this moment, England
didn’t want slave trade (it didn’t need)
and the main characters are a lot of
problems.
It’s a bad trade in a bad world with ho-
rrible people. White men (Pio Baroja
shows all of the different nationalities)
are not soul and they only think on
money but black people is not better,
some of them help white men with the
same materialistic intentions.
No concessions and fantastic descrip-
tions and a complete lesson of History
about how first factories got their
money.
Better to return to the countryside and
to start being peasants again.
Books by Pio Baroja avalaible in En-
glish:
•The City of the Discreet (1917). A.A.
Knopf
•The Quest (1922) A.A. Knopf
•Weeds (1923). A.A. Knopf
•Red Dawn (1924). A.A. Knopf
•The Lord of Labraz (1926). A.A.
Knopf
•The Restlessness of Shanti Andía, and
other writings (1959). University of Mi-
chigan Press
•The Tree of Knowledge (1974). Ho-
ward Fertig
•Caesar or Nothing (1976). Howard
Fertig
•Zalacain the Adventurer (1998). Lost
Coast Press
•Youth And Egolatry (2004). Kessinger
Publishing
•Road to Perfection (2008). Oxbow
Books
Pio Baroja: Pilots of High
Seas By I Zara
Frederic Edwin Church
S
YAREAH LiteratureMagazine
1.- Don Quijote by Miguel de Cervantes, 1615
2.- The Jungle Book by Rudyard Kipling, 1894
3.- Odyssey by Homer, end of the 8th century BC
4.- Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad, 1903
5.- The Call of the Wild by Jack London, 1903
6.- Michael Strogoff by Jules Verne, 1876
7.- The Travels of Marco Polo, 13th century
8.- The Road to Oxiana by Robert Byron, 1937
9.- Anabasis by Xenophon, 5th century BC
10.- The Conquest of New Spain by Diaz del Castillo, 16th cen-
tury
11.- Zalacain the Adventurer, by Pio Baroja, 1908
12.- The Innocent Anthropologist by Nigel Barley, 1983
13.- Out of Africa by Isak Dinesen (Karen Blixen),
1937
14.- Tuareg by Alberto Vazquez-Figueroa, 1980
15.- Treasure Island by Stevenson, 1883
16.- The Good Earth by Pearl S Buck, 1931
17.- Voyage of the Beagle by Charles Darwin, 1839
18.- The Road by Cormac McCarthy, 2006
19.- Journey to the Alcarria by Cela, 1948
20.- The Colossus of Maroussi by Henry Miller
Best Travel BooksYareah Magazine
LiteratureYAREAHMagazine
e just loved the
scene with helicop-
ters and Wagner
(of course, we didn’t also
know anything about Parsi-
fal’s author)… Years passed
and all of us watched the
film again… Now, with
years, the movie had con-
verted into a true reflection
of human heart, with Mar-
lon Brando representing
the end of all, the end of
guilty and the beginning of
the human-god.
At Conrad work Heart of
Darkness, the trip is the se-
eking of the sense of life…
one human that tries to find
in other lands its own land.
Land is in the novel the
birthplace of conscious and
the beginning of a new
man that found on prosaic
lost words his own kind of
madness. In film, Brando is
perfect for this role: Kurtz the wise
man, Kurtz the criminal, Kurtz at
the end of his way.
Adjectives are photograms in films
and the Storaro’s photography was
a true combination between realis-
tic and baroque, the perfect mix to
create a metaphoric canvas about
paradoxical human condition.
Book talked about a man without
country, film talks about a man wi-
thout the human condition.
But Coppola was an intelligent guy
when he moved the movie action
to the Vietnam War. Apocalypse
Now is not the faithful adaptation
of Heart of Darkness, is the film
inspired on the Conrad’s novel.
Kurtz is based on Kurtz, of
course, but Kurtz’s novel is not the
Kurtz’s film. We needed to masters
to make two different pieces of
art, to make together a reflection
about the wise work of making
movies, of writing books, of ma-
king true art.
Coppola vs Conrad:
two cultures into the
same story by Ignacio Zara
W
ome of us saw Apocalypse Now when we were just children. Some of usome of us saw Apocalypse Now when we were just children. Some of ussaid that child typical phrase ‘boring, so boring’. said that child typical phrase ‘boring, so boring’.
LiteratureYAREAHMagazine
he sticks her hand in the bowl’s
water. Her goldfish rubs its nose
against her finger. Bernice woke up
three days ago knowing from the
numbness in the left side of her face
and the stiffness in her left hand that
her fish was dying. What she doesn’t
understand is why the fish fell ill to
begin with and why it’s taking so long
to die now.
Bernice hears panting from a few in-
ches away and opens her eyes. One of
the dogs sits in front of her, wagging
its tail and lolling its tongue. Bernice
doesn’t know much about breeds. She
can’t remember the last time she ever
touched another animal besides her
goldfish. Her limp arm presses the fis-
hbowl against her stomach and she sli-
des her free hand to her knee. Her
fingertips brush the dog’s whiskers. Its
moist breath smells like
carrion. The dog’s wet nose smears
across her knuckles.
It has been eight months since she last
touched another human being: her bro-
ther, whom she hug-
ged good-bye before locking the front
door. He had whiskers too, that scrat-
ched as his wet lips brushed her cheek.
He gave her the fish.
A Goldfish isn’t the
only one living in a
fishbowl By Michelle C Eging
S
Bernice sits with her fishbowl in her lap, her eyes closed. The WaitingBernice sits with her fishbowl in her lap, her eyes closed. The WaitingRoom smells like wet fur and urine, preventing her from taking deepRoom smells like wet fur and urine, preventing her from taking deepbreaths. She counts to ten and back again, her bouncing leg trying tobreaths. She counts to ten and back again, her bouncing leg trying towake her left buocks. Two dogs bark at each other. Another whines.wake her left buocks. Two dogs bark at each other. Another whines.Bernice judges from the pain in her right ankle that the whiner brokeBernice judges from the pain in her right ankle that the whiner brokeits leg, probably from chasing a car. The pain searing from forehead toits leg, probably from chasing a car. The pain searing from forehead toneck comes from the cat two seats over, who had been on the wrongneck comes from the cat two seats over, who had been on the wrongside of a feline brawl.side of a feline brawl.
Help. By Penelope Przekop
YAREAHMagazine
A fish she still hasn’t named even
though she talks to it every day.
The dog sticks its nose up her skirt. She
slams her knees together. Both she and
the dog yelp. She pinches the bridge of
her nose as her ears begin to ring and
her temples throb, wishing the recep-
tionist would let her sit in a separate
room, one without bleeding cats and
intrusive dogs.
It’s not a poodle, she decides, scowling
at the pest as it trips over itself into its
owner’s arms. She thinks of 101 Dal-
mations and the opening montage
comparing different dog breeds to their
owners’ personalities. She looks at her
goldfish, which leans against her finger
so it doesn’t have to flap its left fin.
What did owning a goldfish mean
about her?
“Bernice Polowski,” the nurse says. Her
jowls hang to her collarbone and three
inches of brown roots betray her dye
job.
Bernice stands, smoothing her blouse
and skirt and rearranging the muscles
in her face so they won’t twitch. She
notices she skipped a button on her
blouse when she dressed that morning,
making it bunch. Is that why the recep-
tionist made her sit in the crowded,
smelly Waiting Room? Bernice hobbles
towards the door, clutching the fis-
hbowl against her chest with her right
hand while her left hangs limply. One
of the nurse’s thin eyebrows arches as
she takes the fishbowl.
“Follow me,” the nurse says, holding
the fishbowl away from her body as if
someone had smeared it with STDs.
The nurse must have noticed the but-
tons too.
Bernice doesn’t look back into the Wai-
ting Room. She keeps her gaze on her
feet, humming to drown out the whi-
nes emanating from the Exa-
mination Rooms. Her gait
evens with each step away
from the pet menagerie. The
rake of pain fades from her
face. She avoids crashing into
anything breakable, and the
nurse closes the door to Examination
Room 7 behind them.
“What brings you here today?” the
nurse says, placing the fishbowl on the
Examination Table.
Bernice licks her lips and swallows a
few times. The receptionist at the front
desk had been the first stranger she’s
talked to face to face in three months.
The woman had an infected paper-cut
on her index finger, spurting pus, no
doubt, onto her keyboard. Bernice rubs
her fingers against her palm, wondering
if the woman would need a shot.
“My fish is dying,” Bernice says. She
doesn’t recognize her voice. It belongs
to the owner of a mouse, not a gold-
fish.
The nurse presses her lips together,
scribbling on her clipboard. “How long
have you had your, ah, pet?”
“Six months.” Bernice places her hands
on the bowl and drags it towards her.
Yesterday, she called the Pet Store
where her brother bought the fish. The
manager told her to flush it down the
toilet. Bernice presses her eyes shut as
water pours into the Examination
Room, swirling round and round, cat-
ching her in its grasp. Coating her eso-
phagus, filling her lungs…
“Ms. Polowski?”
The nurse touches her arm and Bernice
pulls away, her eyes opening. The water
is gone, only florescent walls remain.
“Ms. Polowski, what are your fish’s
symptoms?”
“Numbness in the left fin,” Bernice
answers, running
her index finger
around the fis-
hbowl’s rim. “I think she had a stroke.”
“You think?” the nurse says, her jowls
quivering.
“What else would explain the numb-
ness?” Bernice says.
“Of course,” the nurse says. “Well, the
doctor will be in to see you soon.” She
hurries towards the door, her shoulders
shaking.
“Don’t you need to weigh her?” Ber-
nice says.
The nurse doesn’t reply. She just closes
the door.
Bernice wraps her limp arm across her
stomach, curling inward. She shouldn’t
have come. They were going to turn
her in. She wants to go home. Surely
she missed something on the Internet.
Surely someone has had this problem
before and blogged about it or posted
a question that a real vet responded to.
She just has to keep searching. She
picks up her fishbowl to leave.
The door opens. Water sloshes onto
her blouse as she halts.
The doctor smells like vinegar, repe-
lling Bernice back several steps. Her
right arm hugs her fish to her chest as
she swallows.
“Hello, Ms. Polowski,” the doctor says.
He’s balding and spit build-up crusts
the edges of his lips. He’s wearing a lab
coat and Birkenstocks. Even though
he’s a foot shorter than she is, her
palms begin to sweat.
Literature
Michelle Eging received her Bache-lor of Arts in Humanities from Brig-ham Young University. She is theCopywriter and Social Media Expertfor Five Star Franchising andspends her free time working onher novel and trying new recipes
Michelle Eging
Michelle Eginghttps://plus.google.com/u/0/1159113634
24601214957
LiteratureYAREAHMagazine
She nods her
head, eyes fixed
on the door. She
moves the bowl
to cover the
bunch in her
blouse, hoping
he hasn’t noticed
it yet.
“I hear your fish
is dying,” he says.
She nods once
more, still swa-
llowing despite
her dry mouth.
He glances at the
fishbowl. “May I
take a look?”
She shakes her
head, backing up
a few more steps.
She wants to go
home. She
shouldn’t have
come. What
made her think
she’d find ans-
wers here that
the Internet
didn’t have? She
should have been
more diligent.
Should have kept
looking. There
must be an alter-
native to drow-
ning. She counts
to ten but can’t remember the way back
again.
“What breed is it?” he asks.
“Tosakin,” she says.
“Do you know how old he–”
“She.”
“–she was when you got her?”
Bernice shakes her head. Her right arm
r e -
laxes a bit.
“The nurse said you think it’s a stroke.
Did your fish begin exhibiting unusual
behavior before its symptoms emer-
ged?”
“I don’t know. I woke up three days ago
and she was like this. The pain is unbe-
arable.”
The doctor tilts
his head to the
side. No ex-
pression passes
across his lips
or eyebrows.
“Interesting,”
he says. “How
do you know it
was a stroke?”
Bernice nibbles
on her bottom
lip. A trap. Her
right arm resu-
mes its grip on
the bowl. She
wants to go
home. She
shouldn’t have
come. She
needs to leave.
Now. The doc-
tor reaches into
a cabinet and
she backs into
the far wall, her
bottom lip
trembling. She
said too much.
She shouldn’t
have come. She
counts to ten
but makes it to
five before star-
ting over. “I’m
not sure how to
treat a fish for
stroke,” he says, turning around with a
small, bright-blue bottle in his hand.
“Here’s an antibiotic for fin rot. The
instructions are on the label.” He pla-
ces it in her right hand. “It was a plea-
sure meeting you Ms. Polowski. I wish
you and your fish the best of luck.”
The doctor holds open the door and
Smile Until You Feel Like Itby Penelope Przekop.
YAREAHMagazine
she scurries through, keeping her eyes
on her feet. More water sloshes onto
her blouse. She zips through the Wai-
ting Room, pain crackling through her
side from a big dog’s dislocated hip.
She steps into the fresh air and pauses.
Onetwothreefourfive. Sixseveneight.
Nine. Ten–
–the big dog’s agony sheds away—
Tennine. Eightseven. Six. Five. Four.
Three. Two. One.
Her face and arm settle back into their
now familiar numbness. Her goldfish
looks at her, its nose poking out of the
water. She sighs.
The antibiotics won’t work because it
was a stroke. The Pet Store manager’s
laugh echoes in her head. There has to
be an alternative to drowning.
She walks across the parking lot and
down the sidewalk, her fingers white
against the medicine bottle, the breeze
cold against her wet blouse. Bernice
has heard of stroke victims surviving,
often with permanent neurological da-
mage. Her brother gave her a goldfish
because they can’t feel pain for more
than a few minutes. Now she’ll spend
the next seven to fifteen years with a
frozen face and immobile arm.
What if the fish becomes worse?
Bernice trips on the sidewalk, catching
herself before she falls. A kid laughs
through the open window of a passing
van. A dog from the yard beside her
barks, tugging against the chain tied
around a tree. She pictures the ten
blocks she has to walk, six straight and
four to the left, and for a moment, she
can’t move. She considers leaving the
fish on the sidewalk and sprinting to
her townhouse. She wouldn’t have to
go far to regain use of her left arm and
the left half of her face. People would
blur past, their troubles glancing off
her skin.
S h e
looks down at the fish she still hasn’t
named but talks to every day. The fish
looks back.
It had been overcast on her walk to the
vet, but now the sun shines on her
scalp. Bernice hasn’t felt unfiltered sun-
light since the day she locked her door.
Taking a deep breath, she hugs the fis-
hbowl to her sternum. She can’t aban-
don a creature that upheld its end of
the relationship with perfection—it
isn’t the fish’s fault it had a stroke.
She continues walking, this time with a
slight limp because her ankle rolled
from catching her balance. Who will
she talk to when the fish dies? Plants
don’t offer the same companionship,
they’re too busy sipping sunlight and
photosynthesizing to listen. Fish have
a small universe. Their existence con-
sists of swimming in circles and forget-
ting
that circle every three-seconds.
Bernice jumps off the sidewalk as a te-
enage boy in tattered jeans skateboards
by. Her heart thumps against her ribs
as he jumps and the skateboard flips
underneath his feet. The bottle of me-
dicine slips from her fingers, rolling off
the curb. He could have crashed, could
have busted open his lip or broken a
bone. Mindless of the possibilities, he
continues forward, leaving a trail of
aquatic-smelling cologne behind him.
Bernice leaves the medicine where it
landed.
With each footstep, she thinks, “There
must be an alternative to drowning.”
She almost walks past her townhouse.
She lingers on the stoop’s top step for
a moment, the door partially open. The
sunlight makes the skin on her face tin-
gle. She wants to stretch and suspend
Literature
I never meant to upset you. By Penelope Przekop
LiteratureYAREAHMagazine
in that light, to breathe it in and out. A
little girl holding a pink balloon totters
by, her Grandmother close behind.
Across the street, a boy rides his bicy-
cle, the training wheels still on. For a
moment, she loses herself in their ela-
tion. For a moment, she forgets why
she locked her door eight months ago
and never looked beyond it.
The pink balloon slips from the little
girl’s fingers as she wobbles and falls.
The balloon rises into the air and the
girl begins to cry. Bernice turns away
before the boy can do something im-
pulsive and wreck his bike. Shaking her
head, she enters her home, setting the
keys on their hook and locking the
door behind her. She looks down at her
fish and knows what she must do. She
slides to the floor, resting her head
against the door.
“At least you’ll have a proper burial,”
she says, placing her finger in the water
and rubbing the fish’s dorsal fin. Fin
rot, what a hoax. Her fish has the most
beautiful red fins, curling from its body
like smoke.
“Celia,” she says, unsure of why she
didn’t think of that name before, wis-
hing she hadn’t thought of it now.
She could put something in the water,
like soda or a sleeping pill. She pictures
the toxic water slipping through the
goldfish’s gills, hitting the heart and
brain; pictures it convulsing, its mouth
gaping, confused by the water’s betra-
yal.
No. Poison would take too long.
What if she puts the fish in a blender?
That would be quick, the pain minimal
as blades puree bone and scales, blood
smatters against glass.
Her stomach shoots into her throat
and she swallows it down.
She could cut off its head. Her hand
goes to her neck as she thinks of the
light leaving those black, mysterious
eyes, eyes that remember God molding
the universe with his hands.
What about the freezer?
Sure, it might feel discomfort at first as
the water temperature drops. A slow,
euphoric death, as the cold seeps
through its scales, arresting its fins and
tail before claiming its heart.
Would it feel pain then? Would it stare,
confused, into the dark space? That
would be no different from leaving
Celia on the sidewalk.
There must be an alternative.
“It’s nothing personal,” Bernice whis-
pers. Tears splash into the bowl of
water. “Anything is more merciful than
living in constant pain. You’ve been a
good fish. Always listening. Never
complaining. If it weren’t for this mis-
hap, I’d keep you forever.”
She runs her finger across Celia’s dorsal
fin. A merciful death means no vio-
lence, no mutilation. It means no aban-
donment. There has to be an
alternative to drowning.
Bernice swallows a few times. Her dry
tongue traces a stinging circumference
around her lips. She counts to ten and
back again once, twice, three times. She
cups her hand in the water and scoops
the fish from the bowl, draining the
water between her fingers before pla-
cing the fish in her mouth.
The fish wriggles on her tongue, thras-
hing back and forth, choking on car-
bon dioxide and saliva. She can feel its
lungs expand and contract, its pulse
race through its skin. Although Bernice
breathes deep through her nostrils, her
diaphragm still convulses for air. Her
heart ticks behind her nose. Her eyes
bulge. Arms shake. Body collapses.
Legs kick. The ceiling turns fuzzy, dar-
kening into sepia. Tears snake into her
hair.
Slower. Slower.
Hula-hooping in the sun, hair in braids,
the backyard green with grass and lea-
ves.
Her tongue cradles the fish against the
roof of her mouth. It tastes like fish
food. Celia’s florid tail hangs limply
against Bernice’s chin.
Droplets of salt water hit her face as
sand surges and disintegrates beneath
her toes. The smell of sunscreen min-
gles with that of primordial fluid.
Slower. Slower.
Stubby fingers ripping iridescent wings
from dragonflies while she pleads for
mercy. Hands shove her against black-
top, skinning open her knees. Blood
drips down her legs. Pebbles indent her
palms.
Slower.
Her mother’s white teeth and shiny lips.
Slower.
Spelling “Appalachian” and winning a
blue ribbon.
All goes dark. All goes still.
No tunnel of light greets her. No aqua-
tic god welcomes her into an eternal
school of flashing silver.
She awakens, her eyelids heavy, snot
dripping from her nose. Her throat
hurts as if she’s been screaming. Celia
lies limp in her mouth, its body oddly
cold, oddly heavy on her tongue. She
flexes the corners of her lips. Flaps her
left hand. Both move with sluggish
dexterity.
She buries the fish in a pot of ivy, kis-
sing its drooping fins before placing it
in store-bought dirt.
From her window, she can see a group
of girls playing jump rope. The plastic
rope hits one of the girls in the mouth.
Bernice closes the blinds.
LiteratureYAREAHMagazine
I was about to go down my fa-
vorite slide for the 8th time in a
row when I saw him coming in
the distance: Johnny Perkins. This kid
was trouble from the moment he sho-
wed off a comb disguised as a switch-
blade knife in the 1st grade. With this
in mind, then it should come as no sur-
prise that Johnny Perkins later went to
jail for stabbing somebody in a bar
fight. The victim survived. Johnny did
his time, which wasn’t much. It was just
a flesh wound – nothing a large Band-
Aid couldn’t fix. Besides, it’s likely the
victim deserved it. Then again, if I le-
arned a thing or two about Johnny Per-
kins, his victims probably rarely
deserved it. Then again we change over
time, don’t we? Morphing out of one
experience and into another. If so, then
it should be no surprise that Johnny
Perkins ended up doing time for having
sex with a 17-year-old at the tender age
of 25. It may have been consensual.
But why any woman would give Johnny
Perkins consent for sex is beyond me.
Although I’m sure he’s tapped more tail
than I can ever dream of. Assholes tend
to have the easiest time getting laid. At
least, that’s my impression.
But I digress.
As I was saying, I was prepa-
ring to slide down my favo-
rite slide for the 8th time that
day. After much debate, I de-
cided to go down on my sto-
mach this time around, just
to mix things up a bit. Plus,
my ass was getting sore from
going down so many times.
It needed a break. As I pre-
pared my descent, I looked
out into the distance. There
he was. Heading in my direc-
tion. And although I couldn’t
be certain, I knew he was co-
ming for me. I quickly aver-
ted eye contact and
pretended that I didn’t see him coming.
Half way down the slide, I got stuck,
giving Johnny more time to greet me at
the bottom of the slide). The moment
I landed, he grabbed me by the scruff
of my neck like a helpless kitten. Of
course, my teacher was nowhere in
sight. It always seemed to work out that
way. She was probably somewhere in
the bushes, nailing the gym teacher. Or
maybe the band teacher. After all, he
was in far better shape than our gym
teacher, who dropped dead of a heart
attack the following year.
“What’s up, Bobby boy?”
“Nothing,” I said in return. It was the
best I could offer.
“Come with me,” he demanded.
Weighing my options, I realized there
were none. So I allowed him to lead me
toward a patch of grass not far from
the slide – my one and only loyal recess
friend. But unlike a real friend, this
playful tower of metal was of no help
to me now. It did not have my back.
Nor would it ever. Then again, I’m sure
if I had real friends at the time, they
would have scampered off by now in
fear of what may happen to them. Su-
The Dog Shit Incidentby Bobby Fox
S
The defining moment of my childhood took place on a cold, winter day,The defining moment of my childhood took place on a cold, winter day,on the playground of my elementary school. I was in the 4th grade. Iton the playground of my elementary school. I was in the 4th grade. Itwas mid-morning recess. And I dreaded it. Most children can’t waitwas mid-morning recess. And I dreaded it. Most children can’t waituntil the recess bell rings. But when you have no friends, recess canuntil the recess bell rings. But when you have no friends, recess canbe a lonely, frightening place.be a lonely, frightening place.
Bobby Fox is the award-winningwriter of several short stories, plays,poems, a novel and 15 featurelength screenplays. Two of his scre-enplays have been optioned toHollywood. He is also thewriter/director/editor of severalaward-winning short films. His re-cent stage directing debut led to an Audience ChoiceAward at the Canton One-Acts Festival in Canton, MI. Foxgraduated from the University of Michigan with a B.A. inEnglish and a minor in Communications and received aMasters of Arts in Teaching from Wayne State University.In addition to moonlighting as a writer, independent film-maker and saxophonist, Fox teaches English and videoproduction in the Ann Arbor Public Schools, where heuses his own dream of making movies to inspire his stu-dents to follow their own dreams. He has also worked inpublic relations at Ford Motor Company and as a news-paper reporter. He resides in Ypsilanti, MI.
Bobby Fox
Bobby Foxhttp://foxplots.com
YAREAHMagazine
rely any friend of mine would be a tar-
get for Johnny Perkins. But I didn’t
even have those kind of friends.
“Get down on your knees,” he com-
manded, years before I ever saw Deli-
verance.
As always, I did as he asked of me. And
that’s when I first laid eyes upon it: A
frozen, pile of dog shit, staring me
right in the eyes.
“Lick it.”
“Please, no.”
“Lick it. Before I make you eat it.”
I froze in terror, like the frozen turd
pile that laid before me.
“Lick it or eat it.”
By now, a small group of classmates
stood around to watch. They watched
with morbid curiosity. They weren’t
there to cheer him on. But they weren’t
there to help me, either.
“Do it!,” he shouted.
But I silently refused. Something deep
from within compelled me to do some-
thing I had never done before: I resis-
ted a bully. And this is what it took.
Johnny placed his chubby hand on my
neck and whispered seductively into my
ear:
“If you don’t lick this poo pile, I’m
going to force feed it to you. Do I
make myself clear?”
“My teacher, my teacher, why have you
abandoned me?!” I cried out in my
mind, holding out hope that Mrs. Fitz-
simmons would come to my rescue at
any given moment – after finishing off
the band teacher. Or was it art? In any
event, she had forsaken me. Yet, again.
Since I knew there was no way I would
ever tattle on Johnny, my only saving
grace was for her to lay witness to one
of my daily tortures. Once would be all
it would take. But it wasn’t going to be
that day. And I wasn’t going to bank on
the next day, either.
“Last chance!” Johnny
warned. But like a de-
termined fighter, I re-
fused to go down for
the count. I held my
ground. But no matter
how much I resisted, I
was rewarded with ha-
ving my face slowly
lowered toward the
ground.
Inch, by inch, centi-
meter, by centimeter,
he lowered my face
toward the frozen
turdsicle. Textures
and colors of the like
I’ve never seen before
began to reveal them-
selves to me. A layer
of frozen crystals co-
ated the entire surface
of the turd, sparkling
in the sunlight, only to
lose their vibrant lus-
ter when the shadow
of my face extinguis-
hed them. Or was it
the warmth of my face
that melted them from their glowing
existence? As my face was pushed
lower and lower toward its frozen
brown target, I continued to resist with
all my might, but Johnnie persisted on
pushing my face toward impending
doggie-doo-doom.
“Open your mouth,” Johnny insisted,
as he applied more pressure on my
neck.
But I refused. Nothing he could do
could get me to open my mouth.
Johnny Perkins could take away my
soul, but no matter how hard he tried,
he couldn’t make me open my mouth.
What he
ultimately could manage was shoving
my face against the shit. Despite my
best efforts to withstand the growing
pressure of his hand, when it was all
said and done, the turdsicle certainly
grazed more of my face than I would
have preferred: the tip of my nose, my
cheeks, my forehead and ultimately, my
lips. But due to my sudden burst of
stubbornness, grazing was all he could
manage. Sure, the texture scratched the
surface of my flesh a little, but I was
fortunate nonetheless. It’s a good thing
it wasn’t summer. If I had my druthers,
I would much rather have my face
Literature
Manipulation. By Xavier Landry
LiteratureYAREAHMagazine
scratched by poo, then smeared by it.
And no matter what, I did not open my
mouth. I would never succumb to that.
It was my victory.
As a sidebar, incidentally, it wasn’t the
first time my mouth and poop hooked
up. It had just been awhile, that’s all.
The first time was my own doing, per-
haps preparing me for this moment se-
veral years later. I was two. My parents
were getting ready for church and I was
waiting in my crib. Apparently, I got
tired of waiting. At the same time I had
a bowel movement. When my parents
walked in to retrieve me from the crib,
I greeted them with a giant shit-eating
grin on my face. Literally. My teeth
were smeared with my own excrement.
Only God knows why. Or perhaps not
even God does. Looking back, it cer-
tainly prepared me for this moment.
But I digress once again.
When Johnny decided that I had
enough, he warned me: “If you tell
anybody—“
“You know I won’t,” I confidently in-
terrupted him, sealing my fate that this
vicious cycle would live to see yet ano-
ther day.
Satisfied with my response, Johnny ran
off to join his friends in a friendly
game of tetherball. And I returned to
my one and only friend in the world –
my favorite slide, filled with a sense of
pride that I survived yet another
Johnny Perkins attack, relatively unsca-
thed. Deep down, I knew that I was
going to be okay. And that Johnny Per-
kins probably wouldn’t be. Looking
back after all these years, I realize now
that I was right.
Pastourelle. By Xavier Landry
YAREAHMagazine
Literature
Tatjana Debeljački, was born on23.04.1967 in Užice. Writes poetry,short stories, stories and haiku.Member of Association of Writersof Serbia -UKS since 2004 andHaiku Society of Serbia – HDS Ser-bia, HUSCG – Montenegro andHDPR, Croatia. A member of Wri-ters’ Association Poeta, Belgrade since 2008, HKD Croatiasince 2009 and a member of Poetry Society “AntunIvanošić” Osijek since 2011. Deputy of the main editor (co-operation with magazines & interviews).http://diogen.weebly.com/redakcijaeditorial-board.htmlEditor of the magazine “Poeta”, published by Writers’ As-sociation “Poeta”-Union of Yugoslav Writers in Homeland and Immigration– Belgrade, Literary Club Yesenin – Belgrade.Up to now, she has published four collections of poetry:“A HOUSE MADE OF GLASS “, published by ART – Užice in1996; collection of poems “YOURS“, published by Narodnaknjiga Belgrade in 2003; collection of haiku poetry “VOL-CANO”, published by Lotos from Valjevo in 2004. A CDbook “A HOUSE MADE OF GLASS” published by ART in2005, bilingual SR-EN with music, AH-EH-IH-OH-UH, pu-blished by Poeta, Belgrade in 2008.Her poetry and haiku have been translated into severallanguages.
Tatjana
Debeljacki
Tatjana Debel-jacki
http://debeljacki.mojblog.rs/
Tatjana Debeljacki.
PoemsLost in the grey loneliness.
Cognition intruder – rustling from the mind.
Unclear thread, passionate, cruel, is awaken.
The fruit is not conspiracy.
The lunatic, genius of silence!
Get closer to the unspoken.
The analysis of reason- slavery!
During walking, visible shame!
Exciting autonomy,
Opened door, the windows,
Draft!
In the mist the stairways
Leading to heaven.
Paralyzed conscience,
Portable mirror.
In the plural against the fluency,
Conducting, behavior,
And admit the guilt.
The line connecting,
The road to the spacecraft.
We walk on by in dishonor.
Bronze woman,
Brass man!!!
To-uncaring
Truly stunning, sometimes careless,
I crave silently and far away!
Naked, filled up with perfection,
I am attending enjoyment!!!
Where there is trust there is always glee.
He never painted my passion,
Dreams from the color to the word,
Without suspense and shivers.
The moment of light strikes me.
Pressing Japanese air onto my face.
April is slowly spilling its colors,
above duplicate shadows dancing away.
Japan in April
Ridiculous Anger by Penelope Przekop.
LiteratureYAREAHMagazine
Women and men whom are accomplished, as you weather the storm trying to build a nest,
but being mediocre and plain, to explore your creative ideas would be insane.
A role model is a strong black achiever, but in you your family is not a believer,
so the act is to disappear, and instill in them a real fear.
Martin Luther King spoke, “I have a dream” out loud, a dream that drew an enormous crowd,
that day still rest in my mind, though the facts are sometimes hard to find.
All Afro-Americans are great and notable, a grown man cries when his life is unsuitable,
caught in a world not innocent, sometimes omitting what’s flagrant.
Aiding in providing for the essential cause of the family, you think the world owes you something,
you’re taking a gamble see; for what once stood for respect of the next man, now stands for less for the
blessed at hand.
What makes a grown man cry,
is what makes a grown man lie,
soon makes a grown man die,
some resort to getting high,
on whom can they rely.
Poems by Kim WilsonKim Wilson is an original deep author from San Antonio (TX). You canKim Wilson is an original deep author from San Antonio (TX). You cannow read two by Kim. Enjoy them! Kim goes directly to you heart.now read two by Kim. Enjoy them! Kim goes directly to you heart.
What Makes a Grown Man Cry
No one told me about her. By Penelope Przekop
ForetoldAdventurous Silence
ADVENTUROUS SILENCE
What can they mean?!
Watching, Waiting, Living, Dying.
Reckless Innocence
RECKLESS INNOCENCE
Now tarnished unclean.
Crying, Praying, Aching, Bleeding.
Noble Pretense
NOBLE PRETENSE
False domestic scene.
Mending, Defending, Blending, Unending.
Spontaneous Vengeance
SPONTANEOUS VENGEANCE
Why is your makeup so mean!
Enslaving, Betraying, Displaying, Portraying.
YAREAHMagazine
Literature
All she rescued out of the storm
is a ten-year-old disaster playing to happen
and a pair of boxing shades
He updates his MySpace page, forgets his image
He calls his daughter collect,
confuses his tangerine suit number for her mother’s cell
She survived her high school scaffolding
but tripped over life after college
She ordered the combo: child-long distance father
He goes to his firstborn interview, dressed late
He rents his daughter for the weekend,
Another Love Story
Thierry Saintine is the recipient ofan MFA from the City College ofNew York. He’s currently workingon a collection of poems. His dreamis to continue working to keep cre-ative writing and thinking aliveand a necessity in the worldaround him.
Thierry Saintine
Thierry Saintine
quotes his late pick-up fees
She subleased her pillow to midnight friends
to eat morning flakes in bed
with her daughter slipping into adolescence
He wheels his mother to church, smokes a sin
He drives his sister out of her car,
picks up a friend’s twenty to life
She reminds him of the promises
He replies he had all the pieces.
They met many sorrys ago
on her way to the library.
by Thierry Saintine
Thierry Sainttine.
Poems
Frederic Edwin Church - Broken column The Parthenon 1869
AARRTTSSYAREAHMagazine
rederich Edwin
Church (May 4, 1826
in Hartford – April 7, 1900 in
New York) represents both
kinds of trips. He was a cen-
tral figure in the Hudson
American School, artists cen-
tered in landscapes and fond
of traveling to know and love
what they would paint.
Frederich settled in New York
soon (he was 19 y. o.) and
every year, from spring to au-
tumn he travelled sketching,
often by foot. He returned
each winter to the city to sell
his work.
But he wanted to go far and
from 1853 to 1857, he went to
South America: Heart of the
Andes, in the Metropolitan, it’s
his most known work of that period
and a complete success at this time. He
married and had family, but his children
died soon of diphtheria.
Frederich Edwin Church was a fighter
and overcoming this tragedy, he had
more children and together with his
wife (Isabel Carnes) travelled to Eu-
rope and to the Middle East (Lebanon,
Israel, Palestine, Syria, Jordan and
Egypt…).
He knew and painted all of the colors
of all the regions: from the bright gre-
ens of the Northern Lights to the
warm oranges of holly lands; from the
pale blues of high moun-
tains to the strange yellows of forgot-
ten flowers… He painted East and
West, North and South, and his pain-
tings reflect the thoughts of a calm hu-
manity who wants to know its reality
but who wishes to fly always higher, to
progress and to arrive someday to the
Heavens.
My favorite Edwin Church’s painting is,
no doubt, Broken Column. In the fo-
reground, broken ancient stone: stone
of the Parthenon, the temple of wis-
dom, which represents all of the pro-
blems that people have during his life
and which sometimes break their he-
arts but, beyond, the
Greek sky, the sky of the hope, the sky
of a promise made for centuries: if you
are strong enough you will go always
farer.
Frederich Edwin Church had rheuma-
tism, what adversely could affect his
work. No problem, he was a traveler
and started to paint with his left hand
on a slower pace but always happy and
smiling.
Other artist of the Hudson American
School:
Asher Brown Duran:
http://yareah.com/?p=256
Frederich Edwin Church
Yareah magazine next issue (22) is going to be titled: Sea and Trips. We would like toYareah magazine next issue (22) is going to be titled: Sea and Trips. We would like tostudy travel literature (Stevenson, Conrad, London…) but also artists who have reflectedstudy travel literature (Stevenson, Conrad, London…) but also artists who have reflectedthe feeling of a trip, maybe interior or perhaps exterior (first cannot be without secondthe feeling of a trip, maybe interior or perhaps exterior (first cannot be without secondand vice versa).and vice versa).
F
By John Glass
By Frederic Edwin Church
AARRTTSSYAREAHMagazine
an der Wey-
den, Raphael,
Greco, Ribera,
Murillo, Rubens…
and of course, Ve-
lazquez and Goya.
Great artists who
got to move the rea-
lity into a frame, a
window opened in
front of the viewer
as a perfect movie
which manages our
imagination, the
imagination of an
active admirer…
Complete worlds,
frozen in time, spe-
aking of eternal sto-
ries, stories with
background.
However, in the last
years I have been
presenting art exhi-
bitions by young artists, heavily influenced
by the expressiveness of Ethnic Art or by the simplicity of
Eastern Europe icons, interesting influences which should
not make us forget our achievements.
Then, when I interviewed them about the meaning of their
pictures, they usually answered ‘No meaning, it’s only optical
effects, color and shapes’. Definitively, they had only a de-
corative intention, beautiful but not very deep, and without
any interest in three dimensions.
I normally was silent hearing those explanations but thinking
‘yes, Picasso (looking for meanings and subjective perspec-
tives) was the last Classic... a pity.’
Nevertheless, last week I saw Xavier Landry’s works and I
feel relax: ‘At last someone has inherited the ancient kno-
wledge and he has been able to evolve and to mix with cu-
rrent meanings, foreign influences, and personal dreams.
His ‘Ophelia’ is (as classic Ophelia by Millais) talking about
Social Sickness by Yareah
main artist: Xavier Landry
I’ve studied Art History in Madrid and the Prado Museum was my second home duringI’ve studied Art History in Madrid and the Prado Museum was my second home duringsome years. The best pictures of Western Renaissance and Baroque paint are there, withsome years. The best pictures of Western Renaissance and Baroque paint are there, withtheir best achievement: incredible realism, perspective and deep narrative.their best achievement: incredible realism, perspective and deep narrative.
V
by Isabel del Rio
Ophelia, by Xavier Landry
YAREAHMagazine AARRTTSS
Liberation Figurative, by Xavier Landry
the ephemeral beauty but with a Baroque expressiveness and current
brutality (TV cruelty). His ‘Liberation figurative’ is Pop but it’s much
more, it’s the Baroque movie of a new virgin going out of her icon
to dramatically change the world with American colors. His ‘Pas-
tourelle’ has the great technique of Flemish old painters and the
true spirit of African artists (any concession), and ‘Manipulation’
encloses a complete novel: art and literature marching together, as
it must be, as it was and new artists will make.
I hope you can take time to think of Xavier Landry’s paintings. They
are not painted to decorate the living room or to sell any product.
They are not quickly painted to earn money without effort. They
have been painted to reflect our great truths: time and death, the
two big subjects of any master piece.
Congratulations, Xavier.
My work is a kind of religious inter-pretation of Canadian and Ameri-can pop icons with a hint of darkhumor, decrepit pity and paranoidsocial engagement delirium. Justlike a drunken ride in the woodswith a Six Flags abortion queen,eating plastic, petting dead pets.The images that I create are ofteninspired by current events and by what I could call « socialsickness ». I mix up themes in an interpretation deliriumand the result tells a story. The magic is that themes seemto stick well together and keep a truly serious meaningthrough humor and stupid looking characters.
Xavier Landry
Xavier Landryhttp://xavierlandry.c
om/
AARRTTSSYAREAHMagazine
ifferent relatives, teachers, friends,
unfriends, neighbors, burglars of souls or nurses of
broken hopes will include new shapes and colors…,
and one incomplete day, we will feel tired of so many layers
of strange paint: ‘My back is breaking’, someone will claim.
‘I need help’, some others will shout.
I still remember that day, ‘Where I am supposed to go?!’,
when I ran away with my little bag, looking for my personal
canvas and rejecting the bizarre one which other hands had
painted. ‘I was born this way’ but I forgot the flowers
around me and now, I must forget the silly rules of the grey
school: ‘No one told me about her’.
Fauves=wild beasts, ‘Ri-
diculous anger’, they ca-
lled to those painters
who felt the subjective
intensity of colors at the
beginning of the 20th
century. Today, a hun-
dred years later, we need
sometimes their
strength to paint our
own self-portrait, to
make the difference
with other portraits but
to learn of them too
and, like in a clean mi-
rror, to project our new
image full of past me-
mories and opened to
the future: ‘I never
meant to upset you’.
Artist Penelope Przekop: I
never meant to upset youA person is the sum of a map of people. At the beginning we are a white canvas, usuallyA person is the sum of a map of people. At the beginning we are a white canvas, usuallythe first color is painted by our mother using the brush of her own mumthe first color is painted by our mother using the brush of her own mum
DI was born this way. Please stay, by Penelope Przekop
Penelope Przekop is an emergingartist able of creating interiorworlds where everybody can see itseyes… and smiles.Her work has been shown inNew York City, Philadelphia, Ca-lifornia, and Italy, including anexhibition focusing on HumanRights sponsored by AmnestyInternational.
Penelope Przekop
Penelope Przekophttp://www.penelo-
peprzekop.com/http://www.aberration-
nation.com/
AARRTTSSYAREAHMagazine
s a successor of Pop Art, he uses the daily images of
famous and powerful people, which appears in news-
papers, adverts and TV (our current icons), to approach
them to unknown and ordinary viewers, who admire (and
sometimes fear) those personalities so far from their envi-
ronment, so influential in their decisions.
But Madonna (at home) is not different to our neighbor and
even Berlusconi can result friendly in Rinat’s canvas.
We are mankind, we all have our dreams and fears: Does
Berlusconi want to be a Roman emperor? Does Madonna
to be a nun? Do you want to be the president of the United
States? Who does not?
Everybody has wanted to be the King Arthur in a sleepless
night (others, a little crazier, Napoleon).
With his technically perfect portraits, Rinat Shingareev wants
to question people role in society, because nobody is so dif-
ferent if you see them with new colors in a new dimension:
from Elisabeth I to Elisabeth II of England only a dress and
a smile is the gap (maybe the glasses too, the older queen
would use a monocle) and from the prince Charles to a
young in jeans only the fringe makes a difference.
Rinat is looking for unions, he dislikes disagrements: only
positive emotions.
See more:
http://shingareev.blogspot.com/
www.facebook.com/thebestartistalive
www.youtube.com/LuxuryartMilano
Artist Rinat Shingareev:
only positive emotionsGraduated in Fine Arts in Russia and Italy, Rinat Shingareev has a cosmopolitan vision ofGraduated in Fine Arts in Russia and Italy, Rinat Shingareev has a cosmopolitan vision ofour world, so busy and noisy that only a brush of saturated colors and a mind of electricour world, so busy and noisy that only a brush of saturated colors and a mind of electricthoughts can imagine. thoughts can imagine.
A
Lil Wayne, by Rinat Shingareev
By ISartosa
Prince Charles, by Rinat Shingareev
AARRTTSSYAREAHMagazine
Baruer Trilogy by Francis
Piep
Three cities, three cultures,Three cities, three cultures,three stories, many links in comthree stories, many links in com --mon, neuralgic capitals of Europemon, neuralgic capitals of Europeand the world, marked by very reand the world, marked by very re --cent past, bridges of culture andcent past, bridges of culture andart, future and imagination.art, future and imagination.Parts of an idea formed in theParts of an idea formed in the80’s and a finally signed trough80’s and a finally signed troughthe links by author of Baruer.the links by author of Baruer.Fraternal ties in part, otherFraternal ties in part, otherparts art and above all driven byparts art and above all driven bythe union of the creative spiritthe union of the creative spiritthrough that triangle connecthrough that triangle connec --tion.tion.
BARCELONA – BRUSSELS – BERLIN
58x86x13 cm. BRUSSELSFrancis Piep
The initial idea, the retained imageand the development perspective,they are the cloud which is createdin the mind and which inspires theimagination, they are the first stepof the creation, a base or support,a form and a series of objects,which possibly after having ser-ved their social purpose, woulddisappear or be transformedthrough a mechanical process into other components andother uses, will form part of the initial idea in transforma-tion.
Francis Piep
Francis Piephttp://www.francis-
piep.com
AARRTTSSYAREAHMagazine
René Magritte: five great
ideasQ.- What it wouldQ.- What it wouldhappen if we werehappen if we wereonly a dress hanonly a dress han --ging in an closet,ging in an closet,waiting for otherwaiting for othersimilar dressessimilar dressesunknown in theunknown in theother closed half?other closed half?A.- We would be liA.- We would be li --ving a current dayving a current daybecause we usuallybecause we usuallyonly know appeaonly know appea --rances. What is inrances. What is inour interior soul?our interior soul?Behind that closedBehind that closeddoor? Nobodydoor? Nobodyknows.knows.
By Isadora Sartosa
Q.- What it would happen if a shower ofQ.- What it would happen if a shower ofbureaucrats will fall over our town brinbureaucrats will fall over our town brin --ging his strict rules, only suitable forging his strict rules, only suitable forthose who don’t want to think?those who don’t want to think?A.- It has already happened and we mustA.- It has already happened and we mustobey them. They have ordered when weobey them. They have ordered when wehave to start working and when we musthave to start working and when we mustrest. They have ordered what we have torest. They have ordered what we have tostudy and to eat. They don’t allow us evenstudy and to eat. They don’t allow us even
smoking or shouting into a smart bank.smoking or shouting into a smart bank.
Rene Magritte
Rene Magritte
YAREAHMagazine AARRTTSS
Q.- What itQ.- What itwould hapwould hap --pen if wepen if weknew thatknew thatMme. RecaMme. Reca --mier’s spiritmier’s spiritis dead andis dead andthe onlythe onlywoman thatwoman thatexists isexists isburied in aburied in acoffin?coffin?A.- LoneliA.- Loneli --ness is theness is theflag of ourflag of ourmaterial ismaterial is --tic time.tic time.C o u p l e sC o u p l e sb r o k e nb r o k e nevery day,every day,couples arecouples are
not interestingnot interestingfor our powerfulfor our powerfulstates: lonely pestates: lonely pe --ople spend moreople spend moremoney and (evenmoney and (evenmore important)more important)they pay morethey pay moretaxes.taxes.
Q.- What it would happen if we were unable of distinguished reality and fiction?Q.- What it would happen if we were unable of distinguished reality and fiction?A.- Reality is so Surrealistic that ‘confused’ is our adjective. Enlightenment and its raA.- Reality is so Surrealistic that ‘confused’ is our adjective. Enlightenment and its ra --tional ideas is now a forgoen religion. With our effort and work, we don’t solve anything…tional ideas is now a forgoen religion. With our effort and work, we don’t solve anything…It is beer to have contacts (and money).It is beer to have contacts (and money).
Q.- What it would happen if René Magrie had reason, if weQ.- What it would happen if René Magrie had reason, if wewere our objects, if our objects define our personality?were our objects, if our objects define our personality?A.- Car brands or clothing, the price of the sofa or the child’sA.- Car brands or clothing, the price of the sofa or the child’sschool define us in front of our neighbors… But we are not inschool define us in front of our neighbors… But we are not in --nocent, because our opinion about them, it depends on whatnocent, because our opinion about them, it depends on whatwe are seeing (and thought or intentions are invisible).we are seeing (and thought or intentions are invisible).
Rene Magritte
AARRTTSSYAREAHMagazine
Interview with Isabel del
Rio about Women artists
in the History
In Yareah magazine, you are publishing different old women artists. I know you are beingIn Yareah magazine, you are publishing different old women artists. I know you are beingstudying the subject for years, and you have already published a book in Spanish calledstudying the subject for years, and you have already published a book in Spanish called“The Girls of Oil” (“Las Chicas del Oleo”). “The Girls of Oil” (“Las Chicas del Oleo”).
By I Sartosa
.- Why does this subject interest
you so much?
A.- Well, I have always been
very fond of Arts. I have painted and I
have I degree in Art History. To me, in
my youth, in the University, it doesn’t
matter if Velazquez was a man or a
woman, or if there were women pain-
ting at this time. To me, it doesn’t mat-
ter at all, Art was Beauty, Art was my
Religion, and I wasn’t a feminist figh-
ter.
However, one day visiting the Prado
Museum I saw that a portrait of Philip
II (1565) had changed its artist name. I
knew the portrait very well, I had seen
it a thousand of times before, but it
had been painted (they said) by San-
chez Coello. This day it had been pain-
ted by a woman, by Sofonisba
Anguissola.
The change was not very important in
my opinion, I was happy (of course)
seeing a woman painter in the Prado
Museum but I didn’t feel very confu-
sed.
When I started to comment the new
with some friends or colleges at
work… Yes, I started to be angry and
to feel as a feminist fighter for the first
time in my life.
Q.- Why for?
A.- Well, people don’t believe me and
they said stupid things as ‘that is a joke’
‘all ancient women were taking care of
children and doing nothing more.’
I knew perfectly well (the Prado Mu-
seum was my second house) the strict
rules they have to catalogue a painting
(for instance, they have hidden some
Rembrandt’s due to some little doubts
about the author). Therefore, if the
Museum claimed such a thing, it was
true.
Q.- What do you do then?
A.- Well, I looked for information
about why and who had discovered the
true artist and I started to know the
name of a lot of hidden old women ar-
tists while people denied my discove-
ries and, what was worst, I discovered
that women started to be hidden after
the French Revolution (in the portrait
of Philip II by Sofonisba Anguissola,
they cover her signature with oleo in
the 19th century, and the same happe-
ned with Judith Leister, for example).
Q.- Don’t you like the French Revolu-
tion?
I think it was not well for women, it
equaled us only for the guillotine, any
right for us. In fact, the problem was
not the French Revolution but the In-
dustrial Revolution and the new society
they needed. A society based on social
groups fighting.
Q.- Why ‘fighting’?
A.- If you need to pay law salaries, it is
better to confront people and the gap
between sex is the first and most im-
portant confrontation.
In old times, it’s idiot to thing than
women were at home cleaning the fur-
niture (it wasn’t furniture). Women
were working in the ateliers together
with their parents, brothers or hus-
bands. since all the family had to colla-
borate to make the paintings (they were
not sold as today in the drugstores).
Some of them were good enough to
get a name, a famous name.
Q.- In your book, you speak about 500
famous old women artists?
A.- Yes, and the list is endless. I stop-
ped the investigation since, to me, it
was enough. Now, I am sure in old
times a lot of women stood up and got
Q
YAREAH
i nde pen -
dence and freedom, same as men: life
is never easy.
However, with the Industrial Revolu-
tion (and the marketing of the French
Revolution), women had much more
problems living in a lie (I think, I lie is
always the bigger problem).
Q.- What lie? Can you explain this
point?
A.- Official
powers are claiming (constantly) that
our current world is the best. They are
very interested in convincing us of
being quiet and they are against the
idea of ‘Past times were better.’
A lot of my old Girls of Oil left their
husbands or maintained them or ma-
rried without asking for permission or
lived very
well without asking
for money to any man. In the 19th cen-
tury, in the Victorian society, believe
me: it was more difficult.
As women, we should study them, be-
cause they encourage us, much more
than the idea of obedient mothers,
doing nothing and always obeying.
My mothers are the Girls of Oil.
Philip II portrait by Sononisba Anguissola
Magazine AARRTTSS
he cities on the Black Sea, Yalta,
Sochi, Batumi, like Athens,
Rome, Alexandria, have represented
not only different ideologies and com-
peting nations throughout history, but
viewpoints of the people who have tra-
veled there.
Batumi is Caucasus Georgia’s jewel in
the crown. Tucked away in the southe-
ast corner of the Black Sea, it is a thri-
ving tourist metropolis. It is a lively,
open place, where Georgia has the
most contact with foreigners. They
come for the sea, the sun, the wine and
the warm hospitality of the Georgian
people.
It is the same place that forged a
strange but strong cultural link between
Georgians and (oddly) Norwegians.
Knut Hamsun (1859-1952) is recogni-
zed as one of the forefathers of stream
of consciousness writing. Using inte-
rior monologue, now familiar to most
readers, was revolutionary when Ham-
sun started using it. Norway’s King
Haakon VII called Hamsun, “Norway’s
soul.” His backlash against re-
alism and naturalism was exci-
ting, daring and
controversial. He won the
Nobel Prize for literature in
1920. He is credited with in-
fluencing some of the heavy-
weights of the genre of the
20th century, including He-
mingway, Kafka, Hesse, and
Miller.
Hamsun was also a travel
writer. Given a grant by the
Norwegian government, he traveled via
Finland to Russia, to Azerbaijan, Ar-
menia and finally to Georgia, with the
prize being Batumi and the Black Sea.
It was this trip that inspired “I
Æventyrland – opplevet og drømt I
Kaukasien” (In Wonderland – Expe-
riences and Dreams in the Caucausus)
in 1899.
The sea and the travel opened Ham-
sun’s eyes and allowed him to create be-
auty. 100 years later, his book is widely
read in multiple languages by visitors to
Batumi. The Geor-
gians have an infinity
for a man from a far-
off mysterious land
who praised Georgia
and Georgian society.
The Georgian Ham-
sun Society counts
over 100 members,
and plaques, such as
AN OUTSTAN-
DING NORWE-
GIAN WRITER
LIVED IN THIS BUILDING, honor
Hamsun throughout Tbilisi, Georgia’s
capital.
Somehow, there is always a somehow
in literature, something happened to
Hamsun’s vision. Batumi, like the rest
of Georgia, was swept under the So-
viets. It fell into stagnation and decline.
Hamsun fell under the sway of the
Nazis, including giving his Noble Prize
medal to Joseph Gobbels and praising
Hitler, all the while Norway was occu-
pied by the Nazis. Hamsun even wrote
a eulogy for Hitler, saying, “He was a
warrior, a warrior for mankind, and a
prophet of the gospel of justice for all
nations.” Hamsun, put on trial for co-
llaboration, fell into disrepute.
Batumi is hellbent on rebuilding itself
at a breakneck pace, with the remnants
of the Soviet era crumbling into no-
thingness. Norway, rich on oil and loo-
king for international stature, has
carefully re-cultivated Hamsun’s image.
It opened the Knut Hamsun Center in
2009. Time makes (nearly) everyone
forget.
Batumi and Hamsun
The Black Sea is a micro-version of the Mediterranean: predominately Christian to theThe Black Sea is a micro-version of the Mediterranean: predominately Christian to thenorth, heavily Muslim to the South. Like the Mediterranean, the Black Sea links many diffenorth, heavily Muslim to the South. Like the Mediterranean, the Black Sea links many diffe --rent nations, languages and people.rent nations, languages and people.
Knut Hamsun photo
TCharles Kinney, Jr. is married to aNorwegian, actively involved in theUnited States, and is currentlybased in the Republic of Georgia.He has written for publications inGreenland, Denmark, Norway, theUnited States and the UnitedKingdom. He has taught and lec-tured at universities and educatio-nal institutions around the world.He is currently on a two-year tea-cher-training assignment with the US State Departmentto the Republic of Georgia.
Charles Kinney Jr
Charles Kinney Jr
http://www.charles-kinney.blogspot.com
By Charles Kinney Junior