MIXED MEDIA ILLUSTRATIONS BY ALEJANDRINA HERRERA

by Ariadna Zierold

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Alejandrina Herrera (previously featured here) is an artist from Mexico. In her drawings and mixed media pieces she tells stories about people and animals in an ironic and melancholic way and how they interact with their surroundings. Also, the soft palette combined with the dark, intricate details of the drawings are spot on.

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NARRATIVE CERAMICS BY LEE YUN HEE

by Ariadna Zierold

lee run her, sculpture, narrative, ceramic, ceramics, south korea, stories, emotions, mystical, fantastic, upper playground

Lee Yun Hee creates narrative ceramic pieces inspired by literature and story telling. She uses both Western and Eastern influences, creating a style of her own that is striking, unique and undoubtably contemporary. Her work is fragile and flawless, almost creating an aura of effortlessness. She uses her work to reflect upon stories of everyday people; their struggles, fears, hopes, and anxieties.

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Hee’s work is mystical and fantastic. Though balancing modern, classic, Eastern, and Western styles, she has creating an epic body of art that is honest, profound, and truly unique. Her work acts as windows into her own version of a fairy tale; she is able to re-create morality stories within her own framework.

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OMIE CREATION BY REX WARRIMOU

rex warrimou, jagorai, dahoruraje clan, omie, barkcloth, painting, sacred, stories, upper playground

Rex Warrimou (Sabïo) is Jagorai (Law Man) of the Dahorurajé clan. He is the senior custodian of Ömie creation knowledge and ‘keeper’ of many important Dahorurajé clan stories. Rex’s father, the late Chief Warrimou, entrusted him with this prestigious role.

rex warrimou, jagorai, dahoruraje clan, omie, barkcloth, painting, sacred, stories, upper playground

By the late-1940s, missionaries had encroached into Ömie territory and were endeavouring to stamp out customary Ömie cultural practices. Sadly, they had already forbidden important rituals such as initiation and funerary ceremonies. Consequently, Warrimou was a key figure in the preservation of Ömie cultural traditions and time-honoured visual arts production.

rex warrimou, jagorai, dahoruraje clan, omie, barkcloth, painting, sacred, stories, upper playground

The volcano Huvaimo is a sacred and powerful place where Ömie Ancestor Spirits reside. It erupted in 1951 and Warrimou believed the Ancestor Spirits were warning his people that their culture was being lost. In order to appease these forebears, Warrimou actively encouraged women Ömie artists to continue painting barkcloth. Additionally, he urged them to transfer customary men’s tattoo designs onto barkcloth.

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To this day, the survival of Ömie barkcloth art is largely credited to Warrimou (along with his sister Nogi). Warrimou instilled in his son Rex the importance of preserving and maintaining traditional cultural practices and he is now considered the ‘keeper’ of the profound knowledge taught to him by his father. Late in 2012, Rex began painting these sacred stories onto barkcloth using his unique (for Ömie) figurative style. He is currently the only male artist painting for Ömie Artists.

rex warrimou, jagorai, dahoruraje clan, omie, barkcloth, painting, sacred, stories, upper playground

Rex Warrimou’s traditional lands encompass the southern and eastern sides of Huvaimo itself, and the surrounding mountain ranges. With his family, Rex tirelessly watches over and cares for his homelands. Rex maintains the vital balance between his ‘people’ (including past, present and future generations) and the sacred environment from which they were created and of which they are so intrinsically a part. Rex is married to artist Jean-Mary Warrimou (Hujama) and together they have seven children. His sister Lila Warrimou (Misaso), with whom he sometimes collaborates, is the Paramount Chief of Ömie women.

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AMORPHOUS AND EXPERIMENTAL WORK BY OSCAR BOLTON GREEN

by Ariadna Zierold

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Prolific illustrator Oscar Bolton Green was born in London. His figurative work and character pieces are a delight. His portfolio is sort of a wonderland of strange and dreamy imagery. It’s amazing how he works with simple forms and how he manages to create complex scenes and stories out of beautiful bright shapes. He also experiments with lettering, that fits his style of illustration perfectly—slightly amorphous and experimental.

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LITERARY ADVENTURES BY ANDREW DEGRAFF

by Ariadna Zierold

andrew degraff, maps, illustration, stories, movies, narratives, plotted, upper playground

Andrew DeGraff is a freelance illustrator and artist living and working in Maine. Andrew was born in Albany, NY and spent his little league years upstate. He graduated from Pratt Institute’s Communications Design program with a focus in Illustration in 2001, and he returned to Pratt to teach illustration from 2009 – 2014. He recently published his first book, Plotted: A Literary Atlas from Zest Books.

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DeGraff approaches each story differently and crafts maps that truly tell stories. It’s not always easy to paint the mental picture you want if the narrative is complex, or if the writer has built a world that is incomprehensible in scope. Thanks to his talent, now you have a new way to envision some of your favorite fictional places.

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BEAUTIFUL SCI-FI BY ARTYOM TRAKHANOV

by Ariadna Zierold

artyom trakhanov, comic, illustration, undertow, stories, sci-fi, russia, upper playground

Artyom Trakhanov lives and works in Novosibirsk, Russia, where he is feverishly working on his next creator-owned project. Trakhanov’s most recent work includes the moody and beautiful sci-fi epic UNDERTOW, as well as assorted cover work for Image, BOOM!, and DC Comics.

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Artyom has contributed covers and short stories to several titles while working on multiple new projects, both with writers and on his own.

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THE INTRIGUING ILLUSTRATIONS OF ROVINA CAI

by Ariadna Zierold

rovina cai, illustration, stories, melbourne, australia, magic, dark, upper playground

Rovina Cai is an illustrator from Melbourne, Australia who loves making illustrations that evoke a sense of intrigue; images that make you linger, hungry to know the stories behind them. She is often inspired by the past, from myths and fairy tales to gothic novels. These stories bring a little bit of magic and wonder to the the present day.

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David Cortijo Arellano’s Photos

,

First first. Sorry for my English. I live in a small town called Rubi. 15 miles from Barcelona. Big house, small TV, great views from my window.

I take pictures of masses of people, Friends, Girls, Women.

I use an Olympus 300 and Kodak Easy Load 35. Phone camera.

I Ain’t finished my studies. But I meet people that help me, like my friend Andrea and my old teacher Miguel. My dad. First photos on my life. RIP.

What are your influences? John Frusciante guitar on Blood Sugar Sex Magic, Mickey Rourke, Terry Richardson, Alberto Garcia Alix, Madonna Sex book, Scorsese, Rumble Fish clouds, James Ellroy, Jim Jarmusch and The Clash.

Were do you see your self in five years? Alive, I hope. No zombie disaster. No aliens on my window. Making people happy with my pictures and my stories.

What makes you happy? Now? David Comes To Live, Fucked Up!!! Driving alone listening to rock and roll music. Skate. Money on my pocket. Meet unexpected people. Shoot & write.

To see more of his work

Posted from Battle at 3 A.M.

“Notes From A Quiet Crucifixion” by Jason Jaworski

Posted from The Citrus Report

The inaugural entry to a new weekly series collecting stories, characters, words and letters from the life of Jason Jaworski.
Every text, story and sentence is true and something that happened.

I made sure the rope around my neck was tight. I gathered the small amount of books I had in my bag and a few other loose scraps of wood and tied them together with a string of shoelaces. I looked for a beam on the underside of the roof and tied the rope to it, making a knot and checking its structure to see if it could hold my weight. I waited. I sat down, crossed my legs onto my lap and stared down the pseudo-hallway that was the attic of a department store that I had broken into and found myself living in for the past few days.
It has been a little less than a week now. According to the Gregorian calendar, a new century has just passed and I am going to be a year older in a few months. I think of my family. My parents, the two of them such sweet and nurturing people. I see my sister in laughter, know that she is who she is and that eventually things will be alright for they are alright. I stand up on the makeshift stool and place the rope around my neck again. I make sure it’s tight. I stare forward, seeing everything in that nothing of wood beams and insulation. I see every thing and every moment that I have lived up until now and what I see takes me to a decision that my current self would laugh at.
There are moments when one can feel so low, as if the world itself could be a lighter burden than what one is currently carrying.
I step off the stool. I take my feet off the boxes and books I’ve tied together with the shoelaces from the shoes I have been wearing since winter. I step off the stool and my feet do not reach the ground. I dangle.
For a fraction of a second my entire weight is held by the bit of flesh, sinew, muscle and skin that makes up my neck. For a fraction of a second I see my life before me and I see that the greatest mistakes are not plural, but singular. The greatest mistake was stepping off of that stool. For a fraction of a second I become acquainted with what eventually meets everyone and for a fraction of a second I feel. I get scared. I become tired. And I feel sorry. For a fraction of a second I see their faces, see them looking around, finding me; in that fraction of a second I come to the conclusion of a decision which I made then and that I am still living up to.
My body falls to the ground with the sounds of wood snapping. The rope is still around my neck.
I fall in those few fractions of a second, the rope bending, its knot pulling on the wood and the wood, unable to hold the pressure of a slightly overweight adolescent, snapping and splintering before falling to the floor where I fall as well.
The echo is almost tangible.
I feel the room shaking and with the room shaking I feel myself shake as well. My face faces the floor and by the time I gather the strength to bring myself up, all sound and image is blocked from me and all I can feel is an immeasurable need to cough and purge whatever it is in me that is in me that is now trying to get out.
I cough continuously for nearly half an hour. After that almost thirty minutes, I vomit, staring at the pile of regurgitation and thinking “what the fuck was I thinking?”.

I pull myself out of the attic from where I am staying. I hear sirens which seem to be right around me but I pay no attention to them and instead stare off into the distances where the horizon line is a freeway and the sky meets it at this moment- this moment being night.
I inhale and exhale deeply. Repeat. I walk over to the edge of the roof and study the small constellations of cars parked in the parking lot- dots of metal and plastic several tons in weight but visibly so small from where I am. I inhale again but before I can exhale a gun is pressed to the back of my head and what I thought were the sounds of footsteps behind me are confirmed to be the sounds of footsteps behind me. I can smell metal.
A voice screams for me to put my hands behind my head. I exhale- cops.
I do as the voice says while a set of hands grabs my wrists and another voice tells me to stand up slowly. The whole time my eyes are staring out into the street.
I get up slowly and turn around slowly. The two men stare at me briefly, look me up and down, before asking who else is up here.
I tell them that, to my knowledge, no one else is here besides them and myself. They ask me what I’m doing up here, why was I screaming and why was I making such noise. They tell me that the man below whose job it is to run security at night thought that a group of people were breaking in from the roof. I start laughing and they tell me to shut up. I continue laughing and catch one of them trying to mask a smile.
“If I told you what it was that I was doing up here, you wouldn’t believe me.”

We have small conversation which has me taking them into the cavity of the roof’s attic where I was staying. I show them everything and they tell me how much of an idiot I am. I agree with them and we leave the hole, proceeding to the other side of the roof, its diameter an approximate 40 to 50 feet.

As we reach the edge, a sea of red and blue light starts to flicker and as I bring my eyes and face closer I see how many cops and cars there are below me. I count them like objects in a terrarium- six cop cars and eight cops not including the two that are next to me. The cop to my left, whose name I later learned was “Troy”, unlocks the cuffs which were wrapped round my wrists.
“We’re taking the ladder down now,” he says. The whole time, the other cop has remained silent. I am beginning to wonder whether or not he is a mute.
We reach the bottom of the ladder and immediately the handcuffs are placed back around my wrists. A large man approaches me and the two other cops who act as a bookend to my body. The three of them talk while the rest of the police mill about behind them.
After talking things over, the man looks at me and asks me specifically what it was that I was doing up there. I begin to explain how I was living up there for a few days and then go into more detail as to the events of that night. He looks at me and turns his head in a curious way.
“Son,” he says, bringing his hand up to me, “don’t be fucking stupid, okay?” He sort of verbally slaps sense into me.
My only response is a nod and then I’m escorted into the back seat of one of the whining cars. Troy turns on the engine and turns down the window to the back seat. They all talk for a few minutes before, one by one, getting inside their cars and, like the reverse of rainfall, they leave- droplet by droplet, car by car.
Troy gets in his car and asks me where it is that he should take me. I think for a moment and give him the address to the house where I grew up in. I tell him that my parents are there, that they don’t know that I’ve left, that they think I’ve been gone on an extended school trip. He responds with a smile and soon we’re on the freeway, headed towards the border.
We pull into the small apartment complex and before he lets me out he turns around and gives me a look as if to ask whether or not I’m going to do what I attempted to do again. I smile, feeling every burden and tragedy so meaningless now but so heavy then- lifted. Oftentimes, when in youth, a tragedy, event or emotion can seem somewhat cataclysmic for it is the first time one is experiencing and digesting those thoughts and feelings. I tell him “no,” and I feel it.
He looks back at me and nods, saying that I should, “go in there by yourself, your parents don’t need to know about me- just be honest with them.”
I thank him and walk off, opening and entering the door to the house, turning around before closing it and waving him off.

I walk upstairs, the entire house sleeping, seeming to be in the same state as when I left it. I head into a room on the second floor and sit down at a desk, bringing my arms to its surface and my eyes against a wall. The ceiling fan is spinning above me and off in the distance a distant snoring can be heard- my father.

I think of my father and begin to weep. I think of my mother and do the same. Such beautiful people. I see their faces, take out a slip of paper and begin to write.

And it seemed right then, that everything was about to begin.

– Jason Jaworski
http://www.sprinklessparklesandkankles.com
Los Angeles, CA – 2011


Posted By The Citrus Report