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Issue #1
Kintsugi - Kat Savage (Read More)
"We thrive in the cracks of society, We, the Artists. We have never quite fit in to anywhere ‘solid’ really- schools, churches, nine to fives- we are too restless you see, too electric." Kevin Tole reviews David Markson's Wittgenstein's Mistress in the style of the book.
Plus poetry from Susan Taylor, Barbara Anna Gaiardoni, Stephan Delbos, and Marieta Maglas.
Use the categories tab on the right hand side (bottom of the page on a smart device) to navigate to specific content including our amazing poetry submissions. |
Sarah Mayo in the spotlight discussing being an 'insider-outsider'.
Feature column from Kenwood Blenderhand 'The Age of the Screen', plus more special content released throughout the month of April.
Photograph 'Do Not Hang' by Thom Boulton |
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Column - Kat Savage The object of art is not to make sales, it is to save yourself…. to make you feel alive. The point of being an artist is that you may live - Sherwood Anderson. We thrive in the cracks of society, We, the Artists. We have never quite fit in to anywhere ‘solid’ really- schools, churches, nine to fives- we are too restless you see, too electric. As a consequence, we are often tarred with labels such as ‘unruly’ or ‘antagonizing’, which to us, are badges of honour- but we understand, sometimes brutally, where that leaves us on the proverbial ladder. We end up as the back drop to other people’s lives (we go freely to this place, I might add), existing on radio waves, on screens, fleeting through dark bars or colouring the walls in (and sometimes on, depending on our mood) tall otherwise, empty buildings; we are more of a feeling than a solid entity; Moment markers. We can draw attention to ourselves if we so choose; draw attention to the gold, the gold that fills the cracks. For an evening or an afternoon in the presence of art, you can forget the mess, or open your eyes to it -either way, there is a second sight. And when you leave, when you disengage from the art, you will be changed somehow- you give it permission to open up your most armored inside chambers. You’ll come out of the setting and be dazzled by the daylight. Everything feels neon acidic, a little off kilter, like you’re forgetting something important, as the magic wears off. Don’t think we don’t feel you too, making us giddy. You fill us up when we are exhausted, renew our love and hope – validate that this gold is worth digging up - there is a kinship in the struggle, in the recognition that we are all connected, heart to heart, story to story, soul to soul. If the Art has done its job, a little of it, is spiritually transported in all exposed to it. A sort of frenzy begins. The exposed, will spend the rest of their lives trying to spread and embody the artistry, reflecting it back to the world through the way they dress, or dance, or mimic it. Books will be read, photos taken, viral videos made; such is the creative magic of the Artists. When people ask us ‘where do your ideas come from?’ we cannot tell you, but I think it is somewhere close to the concept of ‘God’, a profound truth that whispers into our ears and wakes us in the wee small hours. It is the second voice in our mind, in all of our minds- the only difference is, is that Artists are compelled to release it; we understand that the voice needs to be in the presence of itself in order to come alive and experience its own nature. It is risky business though, it comes at a cost, to release the God upon itself, be it time, obsession, fame or poverty- you become addicted to releasing it, allow it to navigate your every decision- it can make or break a person, such is the power of its voice. Most go deaf- whole societies have. For those that can no longer hear it, they fear the individual and expressive energy of the voice. They will do just about anything to drown it out of others and banish it - for they know the power of it more than anyone. But, if the voice decides to echo and we all echo back? It can speak louder than bombs, and raise mighty thrones to the ground. Imagination is the fuel of magic – Joshua Khan I’ve always known that I would live a creative life. I felt it gnawing away inside my tiny bones when I could barely walk, and I recognized who I wanted to be every time I saw someone make an empty space bloom. My relatives are all creative in one way or another. My mother wrote for television and spent her life on the radio waves; her mother was a ballet dancer, her uncle, a highly esteemed, political journalist and her grandfather, a famous Chinese painter. And on my father’s side? Well, my dad is an innovator, his mum, a seamstress and designer, and we were blessed with the most wonderful and eccentric Grandfather, or ‘Pappy’, as we used to call him. He was a local magician- the pull a rabbit from a hat kind (and maybe a touch of the other kind too). He was beloved and celebrated by an entire region of England; our big little secret. His home was full to the brim with magic tricks, piles and piles of books, old letters, instruments and antique toys. My favourite room in the house was called ‘The Den’, and it’s where Pappy would go to show us new tricks, or tell us wild and exciting stories with costumes from the dressing up box. Not long before he died, he told me a story that would tangle into the roots of my being and tease the artistry out of me for the rest of my life- this story is my talisman; every artist has one, I believe. On this occasion, Pappy and I were sat in the Den, looking through his vast collection of holographic stickers- a marvelous fashion in the early nineties. As he pulled another jam packed folder from the shelf above the full size electric organ that no one played, save for the occasional ‘Toccata and Fugue’ in D minor in the middle of a stormy night, a bunch of brightly Coloured papers flew to the floor and scattered it with a rainbow of patterns. Pappy gathered them up and asked if I wanted to see a magic trick, which of course I did. He began to fold an origami crane bird. As he did so, he told me the Japanese myth known as ‘one thousand paper cranes’. In Japan, it is fabled that the crane bird lives for one thousand years, and, if you can fold a thousand paper cranes, one for every year of its life, you are granted a wish. I asked him if he had ever folded a thousand cranes and he said that he hadn’t, but there was a little girl about my age called Sadako Sasaki that had folded fourteen hundred of them in a bid to save her life with the wish, even though she knew deep down that she would die from the Leukemia in her body (Pappy handed me the folded crane, and told me to pull its tail- as I did so, the wings began to flap). ‘Wow!’ how did you do that?! ‘Magic’ Pappy replied. ‘Did she die?’ ‘Yes’ ‘So it’s not true then, you don’t get a wish’ ‘I guess not’ ‘That’s a horrible story’ ‘I suppose it is’. ‘Then why did you tell it to me?’ Pappy began making another crane and said something along the lines of ‘because some stories aren’t very nice, but they’re very important’. Pappy had created another crane. ‘Why do you think this is an important story?’ I thought for a long while. ‘She had hope? Hope that she might live?’ ‘Yes. What else did she have?’ Pappy asked. I didn’t know. ‘She had a mission- a soul’s purpose.’ ‘What’s a soul’s purpose?’ ‘It’s when you realize that through your actions, whatever they may be, you can master your time on Earth and leave a legacy for others to follow in’ ‘What’s a legacy?’ ‘Its what you leave of yourself in the world when you die. Sadako left a great legacy.’ ‘She did?’ ‘Yes. She became an international symbol of hope – everyone in her country knew her name, and now, there is a statue in her honour to remind the world that Peace is the greatest hope of all – she did all of that through making her beautiful cranes, just like these- paper is man’s greatest magic- it can take your ideas everywhere and anywhere - shall I show you how to make them?’ We made paper cranes all afternoon. I asked Pappy what his legacy was and he said it was within me now, but it was so much more than that. When I was at his funeral, I asked Nanny if Pappy had found his soul’s purpose. She replied with ‘oh yes- he often said that he was put on this Earth to make people believe in magic, and to bring a smile to faces that needed them’. He died with the tag line ‘ken savage- the magical laughter maker’ on the airwaves and the papers. Nan received bin bags of letters from parents in the children’s wards where he would put on shows, cards from doctors, nurses, married couple’s who had seen him perform on cruise ships and at birthday parties and weddings, and from many famous magicians in the magic circle; his legacy rippled out and touched hearts and hearts and hearts- his Art brought people together and showed them how to believe and wonder, maybe for the first time- I wanted that kind of life- I wanted to fill the cracks with Gold. If only life was more tender, and art, a little more robust - Alan Rickman When I told my parents I wanted to be on the stage, they could see how serious I was. I needed to ‘leave my legacy’ and ‘start my soul’s purpose’- all of which must have sounded very odd coming from an 8 year old’s mouth. My mum used to tell me that I was like a 40 year old trapped in a young girls body- now that I am 40, it feels like the other way around- the inner child is strong in this one. Fast track 3o odd years later, and I can honestly say nothing has changed. I dedicated my life to ‘the voice’ inside of me and have carved my way in the world through my artistry. I must admit however, that there is a reason that the term ‘struggling artist’ is still relevant today. There have been many moments of frustration, lack of money, sleepless nights, massive judgment – and not just from those that are archaic enough to believe the creative arts are a ‘mickey mouse’ endeavor (they literally are), but equally, from fellow artists. It is a dog eat dog world on our side of the street, but boy, you do feel alive. You feel everything; you are eaten alive by the muse itself. You have to let it consume you until it is you, give it a hundred percent- 99 percent won’t cut it- you have to have total belief in what’s coming forth from your body against all odds, even when others think you’re mad or rebellious or even a danger to society. If you pretend at this stuff, you fail. If you half arse it, you fail. If you can’t change on a whim and be happy with where you land, you fail, and God forbid you sit on your laurels and towt awards around instead of new work. If you don’t birth it out of you, you die before you die. Depression can be a sign that your creative spirit needs nourishing, and fast. It is unlike any other job on Earth- you fear at how much you care about it, you love it sometimes deeper than other living beings-. You quickly learn to see windows where others see walls. You adapt and change, all at the whim of the muses. Finally, You have to make your peace with the fact that you may not ever see your own creative validation or success (watch ‘TISH’ if you can). You have to leave the legacy anyway and never ever abandon hope. Art is the ultimate test in trusting in the process; ‘do, or you do not, there is no try’; I often have to tell myself this.
It is magic though. The real kind, and without a doubt, will profoundly transform you. Wherever the spirit of Art resides, the divine glitch of metacognition exists within us all. We are all the custodians and none of us have been let off the hook, despite what some may believe. You can absolutely conjure any thought into reality if you so wish- you don’t need a thousand paper cranes for this to be true. And if you are lucky enough to hear the call to a creative life, be brave enough to answer it. I dare you. We’ll be waiting for you in the gold dust.
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