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Call for Submissions

Camp & Kitsch:
Modes of Cultural Appropriation and Resistance

We are looking for works that speak to the present moment, that think seriously (or playfully) about writing and art, that cast a critical eye on whatever has been seamlessly and unconsciously folded into our everyday consumption of the world.

Submissions will be accepted until February 1st, 2017 for a May release. We aim to respond to submissions within two months of the deadline. Learn More

2016 | TRAUMA & TRÄUME

Pain and Dreams in Art & Literature

NÚRIA FARRÉEl Sueño de Abraxas (2016)Oil on canvas46˝ X 70˝
Vassar | Review

20: On Black Being and Magic

Matt

Javon Johnson in his essay “Black Joy in the Time of Ferguson” tells us that on the night of Mike Brown’s death, he fell asleep listening to classic Black singers because he “wanted to be happy and Black.” Johnson also gives a nod to Danez Smith’s poem “Dinosaurs in the Hood” in which Smith wants to make a movie about dinosaurs…and that’s it –– not a movie that positions a troubled Black boy as another stereotype in a plot of destruction, and not a movie that is about or causes Black pain. In this movie, Cicely Tyson delivers a speech (or two), Viola Davis saves the town by stabbing the dinosaur in the neck with a Black Power fist afro pick, and “nobody kills the Black boy and nobody kills the Black boy and nobody kills the Black boy for once.” It’s just a movie.

The erotic has endless interpretations and we are called by God and connected throughout the universe to manifest representations of our erotics. Black people need other Black people to make movies about dinosaurs, music to satisfy our cravings for soul at the end of a long day, and hairstyles that polish our glow when we are weary. We need Black people to bring other Black people joy in the millennial era, a frightening era that has us afraid to leave our homes yet zealous to take action. It is important in this time to entertain and exercise the erotic more than ever before because the erotic is our sanity and keeps us alive and apparent.

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JULIA RANDALLWild Berry (2012)Colored pencil on paper26˝ X 33˝
Vassar | Review

Edna and I

Nozomi Saito

It took until I was the age my mother was when she was reconciled with her mother for me to accept that my father’s abandonment had nothing to do with me. The years in between were an emotional time, what I now sardonically refer to as my years of “teenage angst,” which is a flippant way for me to avoid talking about the anguish, self-loathing, fury and recklessness that ensued as a result of his leaving.

But some part of me understands my grandmother’s leaving and maybe my father too. When I read Michael Cunningham’s The Hours, and really listened to Laura Brown, I realized, “That’s me.” Like Mrs. Brown, like Edna Pontellier, I am not a mother-woman. I know if I ever had kids, I would reach a point, when it would all be too much, and I would have to leave. It’s a horrible thing to say, but knowing that, I know I will never have kids. I will never inflict on someone what my father’s abandonment caused me to feel. But I also am not one to stay.

When I think of children, their need to have a parent’s love, dinners around a table, the up and downs of childhood, the angst of adolescence, and all the suffocating accoutrements of familial life, I know I can’t live like that. As Edna says, I can sacrifice the nonessential, but I could never sacrifice myself.

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