There’s something called the uncanny valley, “the hypothesis that human replicas that appear almost, but not exactly, like real human beings elicit feelings of eeriness and revulsion.” It’s the intersection between realness and artificiality that unnerves and disturbs. The Uncanny Valley’s always intrigued me–what’s it about creepy humanoid likeness that disgusts, fascinates, weirds us out?
35mm film. Processed and developed by hand.
“I wish I could pause time and moments like this without having to think about what’s next.”
Pause. The sun set. We were quiet. It felt like the moment when my friends and I were in Central Park, New York. We’d found a pond with ducks and turtles facing a castle in in the distance. So we sat on the rocks, quiet and contemplative, swimming in our own thoughts.
A blanket of peace descended upon us; I asked them what they were thinking. My friend said moments like this were rare. And maybe we wanted to achieve material success in life so we could buy intangible moments like this. Maybe we strived to make money, lots of it, so maybe we could buy peace, calm and happiness.
But wait–no–that didn’t sound right.
In a crafty fury I’ve gone out and bought a new sketchbook, postcard book and scrapbook materials. I’ve been crafting like a wild crafts storm, spending hours pasting, trimming, doodling, painting, etc. Here’s a glimpse at something I digitally sketched today.
I love zines: they’re the perfect intersection between art and poetry and prose and photography with just a dash of weird-creative and jarring-aesthetic and shakes-you-up-prose. Sorry not sorry, but I’m having a major art nerd attack right now: I’ve found zines on zines on zines! And it is, I tell you, ama-zine. Normally, zines are small print booklets distributed by hand. But many–as I discovered last night–are uploaded onto Issuu and it’s f–king fantastic.
Before I forget, here’s a link to the vast array of zines littered across Issuu.
It makes me wish I could write poetry the way these writers do. But poetry always feels so personal. I mean, writing’s pretty personal in general, but poetry’s, like, the stuff of the heart. I only ever write poetry when the heart-stuff’s threatening to overflow and coat everything in sight so I jot it down real quick and show it to nobody.
But I guess that’s why I like these zines so much. They’re raw. Made of heart-stuff. Not like the glossy magazines–they’re more like the, uh, hashtag nofilter creative underbelly cousins of the magazine. Magazines are all dolled up, stuffed with ads. Zines aren’t. And that they’re oft produced by creatives and minorities makes it all the better.
God, all the art and writing is so inspiring.