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.
It’s 1 in the morning. I feel an inexplicably wild desire to photograph the world. The closest I can get to explaining it is via a tiny purple monster inside of me that’s smashing all the imaginary cameras in my heart, bellowing on about viajar, como yo quiero tomar los fotos en un otro lugar.
That sort of thing.
Creative obsessions are kind of awesome but torturous. It is both tiring and invigorating to pour every ounce of your all into furthering this abstraction/concept/thing and not being able to contemplate or do anything aside from it. Then you’re onto the next. Or not. Sometimes you have creative lulls where you just want to punch your way out of the creative rut.
I’ll paint something Ophelia-esque. She’ll be surrounded in a bed of roses that look no different from the rest; they’ll be beautiful, but meaningless.
I used to have a photoblog on Tumblr; ’twas a personal space where I’d upchuck photos, from selfies to texts to conversational screenshots. I feel pings of nostalgia as I revisit them. For a moment I forgot why I shut the blog down, stopped posting, ultimately privated it. Then I stumbled upon a brief explanation on why I wanted to start over, this time on WordPress:
I’ve been traitorously blogging on a WordPress (coolpeppermint.wordpress.com) as of late i.e trying to rewrite my memory and put things to words again since I’m not as afraid to do so anymore. I spent the past year and a half mildly terrified of the 26 lettered alphabet and what sorts of public verbal atrocities I’d commit with it. But after some time I was like, you know, fuck it. Fuck it, I’ll write, I’ll paint, I’ll hide, I’ll draw, fuck it.
So, well, fuck it.
In some ways I feel like this photoblog has outlived its initial use (scared of words; photos seemed opaque enough) Even as a “photographer” or “artist”, images never felt enough, and while visuals are lovely they will never suffice. And there’s a lot of residue here: I made this in the midst of some severe soul-searching-crashing-self-annihilation bullshit. I also just want to write in a clean space.
I might photographically migrate over here when I get back into photography. Photos remind me of how much I love my life, even when I feel like I don’t. They capture moments, phrases, emotions, temperatures, memories, fragments–there’s something so exceedingly personal about photographs, a kind of visual intimacy.
Found some digital copies of my 2013-2014 sketchbook for art class the other day; we’d be assigned to research different artists who’d inspired us, then creatively combine findings, thoughts, and critiques on their works.I’d write about Warhol, Otero, and Picasso, jumping from one art form to another–one week I’d cover satirical pop art, then self-portrait photography, then Cubist paintings:
On the first day I said it was like opening a closet with monsters inside. Dancing skeletal monsters with joints that’d jingle and brush against each other when you dusted them. And I was here to do just that: dust the shit off of these monsters.
“Are you tired?”
“What’re you thinking about?”
You. Then I hoped to God you were lying. Because as I lied there I was counting skeletons instead, ghostly remnants and coats of dust that’d jump out and say “BOO”, then run away crying.
My throat itched Wednesday so I wouldn’t be there Friday, I said. Were we too close? you asked. You asked me this repeatedly. Like the game “are you nervous” we’d play at age twelve with fingers itching up plaid skirts asking repeatedly: are you nervous, are you nervous?
Were we too close?
Consciously, no. Subconsciously, maybe yes. Maybe you were hanging out with the skeletons without me and maybe you understood them better than I did myself and maybe I was afraid of that.
You can come up with a million exit strategies and still take none. So in the beautiful weather I felt like shit. In 3, 2, 1…had moseyed our way into discomfort. In the end we laughed it off with bloodshot eyes and I walked away knowing I’d done it again, done it again, done it again.