issue 22

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

Frederic Edwin Church

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


YAREAHMagazine

Literature


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


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


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’.

Michael Jackson. by Rinat Shingareev


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


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


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.


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


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.


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

By Frederic Edwin Church


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/


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/

My back is breaking, by Penelope Przekop


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

Madonna. Oil on Canvas, by Rinat Shingareev


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


58x96x14 cm. BARCELONAFrancis Piep

60x90x17,5 cm. BERLINFrancis Piep


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


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


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

issue 22

Documents

dreamsjack london

joan london

charmian london

short story

jack londonis

grown man

bad things ofthe life

bad things ofwhat