In an enduring celebration of the beauty and power of womanhood and the world, Wendy Ortiz captures the intuition and sensuality that belies the duality of femininity and nature. Her obvious influence of the female form and figure combined with the irresistible draw of mother nature is both contrast and parallel – the fluidity and open space coupled with the stark lines and structure; a place where the independent ego meets the collective conscious.

The thick black lines, highly influenced by cartoons from her younger days, Wendy uses to create distinct spaces that draw attention to both the individual parts as well as the beauty of the whole. The brilliance in Wendy’s work is her evocation of a perfect yet painful moment of the woman’s chrysalis; the moment of birth into womanhood, and this seemingly melancholic ode to the child, coupled with the burning, unstoppable power that arises from the emerging woman. The expressiveness of the eyes and hands, the raw emotion caught within gesture; these moments are both created and captured, unveiled and revealed to us in a way that is haunting, eternal, mythical and transcendent.

As a self-taught artist in Brea, California, Wendy developed her own unique style outside the confines of a structured curriculum, constantly exploring and pushing the limits of her imagination while maintaining the constant theme of womanhood and Mother Nature. Using the mediums of both illustration and oil paints, her curving lines create a fluidity that is both delicate and powerful. We see this in the combination of the sensual woman as mother earth – both apart of and separate; the unconscious intuitive self and the conscious self-aware being – that is evoked in the eyes, lips, gesture and position of the nude upper bodies...

Two scoops a mess, and one scoop dying: Kaye. I found her huddled in the stairwell near my apartment, shivering and shaking like a wet tomcat. The harsh light from the hallway cut across her arms and neck, betraying veins of blue, bulging rivers and crusted stab wounds, ivory clawed skin, and hair matted in patches – little dreads like urban stalactites. Fuck. I felt like I was coming down just looking at her.

"Kaye."

She nodded at me as I came up the steps, but I was already shaking my head.

"No."

"C'mon, man.. yooou–"

"I nothing, you gotta get outta here."

Appealing to the gods of gravity, she attempted to stand up as I squeezed past her, and in doing so I caught a whiff of what was something like dial soap covered vomit.
"Mikey'll be back in a coupla weeks ana–"
"NO."
"Why yooou gotta be like that... pleeease, just... c'mon..."
Spittle had accrued in the corners of her cracked lips, and from up close, I saw that her teeth had seriously corroded since the last time, and that she still had the cracked front tooth from when she'd nodded off on the avenue a few months back.
"Last time... that's it," I hesitated. "You hear me?"
But she was already nodding, leaning back against the door frame like a broken bobble head.
"Kaye," I breathed, "you already fucked up, alright? Go home –"
"Noooo," she oozed, snapping back to life. "I-I, I can't doo that, y'know that I can't..." she mumbled.
"Last time," I say.
Last time, last time," she repeated, but she was already fading again.
 

            She sits there, a fickle nymph in hospital garb, smoking her Lucky Strikes and detached as ever. When she sees me, she smiles a ghostly smile and I wave through the fingerprinted glass. I've been to hospitals before, but not like this one. The faces here look strange and twisted, but not in a physical pain kind of way. My grandmother is next to me, her eyes feel piercing and stern. She looks disappointed. When we go out to see my mother she looks frail and tired up close, her lips and cuticles chewed and bloody, her hair a sweeping mess atop her head.

            "Hi sweeeeetie," she slurs, "Come give me a huuugg."

I hesitate but I feel my grandmother's hand nudge me forward, so I give her a weak side hug, and from up close she smells of nicotine and cherry syrup.            

            "Your mom's gonna be out real soon." I hear my grandmother say, but her voice sounds so far away. "And then you can see her as much as you like."

            "Mmhhm." I say through clenched teeth.

I hate seeing my mother this way. Just like at home, the ashtray is spilling over, her plate of food untouched.

            "Here are your cigarettes."

My grandmother places a carton on the table, the look of disappointment never does leave her face. My mother, I sense, feels this and cradles her legs up tight to her chin like little Benny when he's frightened.

            "I'm getting better," she says, staring straight ahead with thick, glossy eyes. "I don't think I'll be having any more those episodes."

            "Just take care of yourself, Norma. You need to get well... take your time, y'hear? And do what the doctor tells you," she pleads. "Take all your medication. And don't forget to eat." She pulls out a cigarette of her own.

            "And you're lucky they dropped most of them charges, y'know," she goes on after taking a long drag. "Jon was in pretty bad shape."

In the hallway, I hear a plate break and then laughter; someone a few tables down coughs and grumbles to their self. Everything looks yellow, and under the harsh florescent lights you can pick up every tiny flaw on people's skin: a fading bruise on an upper arm, dark bags under eyes, lint and flakes in unwashed hair... The clock ticks. 7:22pm.

Rambling our way along the L and G lines, my photographer and I make our way through Brooklyn’s maze in search of candy-colored walls. First stop: the Bedford L, where a swarm of androgynous faces and ironic tattoos funnel out into the sun. Through the herd we head down N 6th towards Kent and Wythe streets, zigzagging around food trucks, sidewalk vendors and organically-carved wooden benches.

Amidst this dwindling hipster Mecca we call Williamsburg, one can easily traverse the neighborhood by foot (though I say that as a city person; exert yourself at your own risk). From there, we head back towards the L and ride it a few stops further in, exiting at the Jefferson stop. These stomping grounds, fairly known to street artists and graffiti voyeurs alike, has come to be known as Bushwick Collective territory – where St. Nicholas meets Troutman in, you guessed it, Bushwick. The area encompasses a horde of vibrantly muraled walls and, if you’re lucky, you’ll even make one of Bushwick Collective’s block parties, which I must say are pretty insane.

From there we continue our trek down towards the JMZ Walls – just off the Myrtle Av J-M-Z line - where Bushwick runs into Bedstuy. Somewhere to my left I hear clicking as my camera-woman has set off at my thoughtful directions (i.e. pointing to a side street and saying, “shoot that”). Meanwhile, I meander off to wonder what the hell I’m going to write about in this article… and now, I continue to stare at a blank screen and hit the space key several times.

Street art has in recent times not only re-emerged, but gone mainstream. From social issues on a national and international scale to neutral, apolitical visual stimulants, street art has and continues to allow artists a public platform from which to vocalize and express their values as well as their individual ideals, and regardless of whether you are a professional photographer in the area or just visiting New York City for the summer (if our blistered feet and calloused hands have anything to show for it), we’ve put together a sort of guide for you on how to shoot graffiti in the streets of Brooklyn.

Roxanne Lowit – jet-black bob, blunt bangs, cherry red lips, chic black pantsuit. As I dial her number, I imagine Lowit sitting comfortably in her Manhattan home, perhaps a marble coffee table nearby spilling over with hardcover fashion and photography books. In a quiet, unassuming manner she clicks through the files on her laptop, delicately tapping at the keys with her pomegranate-colored fingertips… The call connects and she answers the phone in a softly-spoken, gentle voice: “Hello, this is Roxanne.”

Brian M. Viveros and his Dirtyland troops invite you to his new solo exhibition ‘Matador’ November 7, 2015 at Thinkspace Gallery in Los Angeles. Prepare to be inundated with Viveros' most grandiose set of works to date, which include some of his largest, most epic paintings! 'Matador' is sure to draw attention with his first life-size charcoal rendering 'Battlefield', which holds one of his provocative little troops in her bullfighter best... a showstopper you must see in person!

In addition to these, he will debut the highly anticipated sculpture 'BULLHEADED', a collaborative project with Pretty in Plastic, the Los Angeles based full-service fine art fabrication studio. This sculpture has been a long-time coming, starting with Viveros’ conceptual design, a 3D mold, and the final result to be revealed on the night of the show. There’s lots of excitement building up for the show, so strap-on your dirty helmets and stroll on down to catch Brian M. Viveros and his brutal beauties for 'Matador', November 7th, at Thinkspace Gallery.

Once upon a time, street art and graffiti were seen as a late-night, subway-hopping, derelict trait. Nowadays, it’s gone mainstream, seen not only as an encouraged form of self-expression, but as a recognized, professional trade. Like other art forms throughout history, street art is a platform from which national and global social issues can be expressed; all the same, it can also act as a neutral, apolitical canvas, a visual stimulant that can aid in the creative growth of a community’s environment and well-being.

Recognized as one of New York City’s top street artists, Fumero, who besides working on contemporary murals, also paints and does illustration??, views the message of his work – the style of which is coined Fumeroism – as: “The subject matter I paint,” he says, “has no political undertones, although there is a social message, which is to bring the colors of life and nature where there is an absence of it, and this is particularly found in urban neighborhoods.” This kind of vision is progressively the response I hear in what is the importance and value of street art. Even the JMZ Walls - a recent upstart in the street art and graffiti community and where you’ll find Fumero’s work alongside many other gifted artists - began when, according to their website: “a longtime neighborhood resident saw an opportunity to invigorate the community through street art… [and JMZ Walls was] motivated by the idea that urban art has the power to influence its surrounding environments, educate and inspire residents, and shape the experience of visitors.” (JMZ Walls). 

1. [Tears in a bell jar].

1. You said I liked the irony

of destroying

something beautiful.

1. Years forward –

and I am left

to spit polish

the remains.

1. [Ruins: I

remember

the unraveling];

1. The penetration of the unsaid –

1. Your gaze,

like the coolness

of a blocked sun,

was enough.

Coming to the Santa Monica neighborhood on November 7th, 2015 is the new show ‘Live Free’ at Daniel Rolnik Gallery, a collaboration with and curated by Mike Maxwell of the LIVE FREE PODCAST – a largely popular podcast featuring interviews with contemporary artists each and every week. There’s a slew of talented artists for this upcoming show, which include: Anthony Lister, Ben Horton, Marcelo Macedo, and Kyle Ranson...  (cont. reading on Beautiful Bizarre). 

I am barely beginning to scratch the surface of myself.

I think of deterioration, and in a hundred years how it – this paper, this pen, this world as we’ve remembered it – will all be different; a distorted or perhaps revised (yes, revised) history.

There will be a million new ways of thinking and remembering – both right, wrong, and somewhere in between (just like this exact moment, moment, moment)...

There will be paradigm shifts in thinking forward and remembering backward; ways of storing memory in containers outside of ourselves, perhaps.

Conscious beings carrying mortality like a stone knapsack, urged on from something inside; the drive to carve one's own name in the wet cement; to hear their voice echoed back from The Cave; tell Plato it was all true; to know that the scraped knees and sore heart didn't go unnoticed.

We’re all lost – young and old, it’s just the old have earned the wisdom to not waste time with trivialities; to give a nod to what can't be changed without slowing their roll.

But it’s not to lose hope, no, it’s just to try to understand the bedrock of humanity upon which we fuck, breath, kill, love.

All the carvings of names in the trees, cement, marble stones…

We're – blood, shit, and tears - no different, no better; just the same in slightly different pigments, sifted down and strewn about this giant rock; microscopic ants from space.

And I think Time has it – that fickle, immortal, infinitely ungraspable “thing” that we, in earnest desperation, look to, admire, envy. The eternal Being; the collective “I” that we long to absorb, like an old man’s dying recollection of youth.

To live forever in something;

to leave your carving somewhere in the trees…

Art Basel; Miami Dec 2-8th, 2015

Scope seems a highly fitting name for Art Basel’s headliner show on the beach in Miami, as the scope of voyeurs that flock to the area in early December increasingly run the full gamut: slick-eyed men in Armani shirts and pressed pants stand boldly next to serious-looking women in wrist tattoos and army boots, where nearby, a trio of curly haired youngsters weave around a group of tanned girls in platforms, wobbling doe-legged along the sandy walkways that lead to the billowy tents of Art Basel’s Scope. Needless to say, Art Basel collects and disperses art lovers and party-ers alike throughout the city’s streets.

Founded in 1970 in Basel, Switzerland, Art Basel moved to Miami Beach in 2002 and according to their website, “immediately establishes itself as the premier show in the Americas, and ranks among the favorite winter events of the international art world. Positions introduce a radical new sector, with galleries exhibiting young artists near the beach in temporarily converted shipping containers” (https://www.artbasel.com/about/history).

And since Art Basel’s migration to Miami Beach in 2002, the influx of artists in an array of backgrounds and styles, have increasing remolded the city of Miami, and in turn, to some degree, the residents that live there. Miami has always been known as a travel destination party town, but as of late is has made a wholehearted attempt at wiping away the sweat stains of vacationing Eurotrash, fat gringos y Latinos – if at least, for the most part, during the likes of Art Basel.

Wynwood’s gentrification is a testament to this change, as is its sprawl, which has now infiltrated into surrounding areas like Little Haiti – a place now not uncommon for artist galleries and loft spaces, similar to Williamsburg, Brooklyn in the late 90’s-early 2000’s, which has now sprawled its artistic tentacles as far as Bushwick and Bed-Stuy (as of present). Though South Beach, with the exception of Art Basel and the like, has largely been passed over in the artistic overhaul of the modern era. ADD

It would be nice to see the feel and style of Wynwood Walls channeled into South Beach; neo-graffiti meets Art Deco, perhaps? A cuidad de playa cultural collision of sorts, a beach meets city life vibe with a lime twist of millennial newness. Whatever becomes of the artistic overhaul that is desperately needed in South Beach, the place careens with a caravan of varied souls – both new and old – ready to wipe away the peeling old to embrace a peeling new.

Miami-noveau: I sit on the beach beneath an overcast sky teasing one of the sudden downpours so infamous to Miami. Sprawled around me, girls slathered in dry oil, tattoos and board-shorts, boys in backward caps who seem the type to quote Baldwin and Bukowski while high at the Deuce a few blocks over. Another sits cross-legged in Misfits bikini bottoms and a wife-beater, scribbling notes in a worn notebook next to a book by Joan Didion and a bucket of coronas. (Okay, the latter is me; I can only observe/remember so much).

After picking up a couple of empanadas de carne and beers from a tiny bodega by the beach, I envision a South Beach sans Nespressos and Starbucks (at least mostly) and replaced with more mom and pop cafecitos serving croquettes and cortaditas; a Miami Beach gutting out the eyes of Ocean Drive and in its place, rebuilding with the feeling and understanding of this complicated city’s history and the Miamians of today. A place not just to party and self-destruct, but to build, construct, and create.

Not to devalue memories of what Miami has been, and for the most part, still is. I remember (both past and present trip): sipping tall cans out of paper bags on the beach at noon, writing sordid poems on paper napkins at David’s Café, eating oily empanadas at a side street bodega, conversing with strangers on existential issues while high on molly and/or cocaina a la seis en la manana; Ted’s Hideway, The Deuce, David’s Café – things past and present like a mirage of memories; a hyper-surreal dream from which you’ve just half-awoken. Many a late nights turned early mornings has Miami had me praying for redemption, praying for something other than the dull sound of my own voice, praying for peace at the bottom of a rum-soaked coconut. Scribbling furiously as if to beat the sun; your ink – the blood of Christos – to sustain you.

You remember your ex, and driving around Kendall late one August in search of an old high school (Sunrise? Suset?). You remember the late night in Brickell for his sister’s birthday party, the way she peeled off her heels to dance to reggaeton, before pulling you up to join her. You remember, further back, another ex, and buying ingredients for chicken tortilla soup at Publix; the coked up night on the beach with your best friend – moonlight and cabernet in paper cups. You remember scribbling notes in the back of Grey Hound buses on the way to Key West, the bottle of kosher wine you shared on the (mostly) empty bus. You remember broken flip-flops, Hostel-life, and drunken falls from top bunks, and laughing laughing laughing. You remember key spoons of coke in shady bathrooms (the ultimate Miami cliché), dancing in bars with no music, double-fisting drinks at 2pm, pool halls that oddly smelled of actual pools – a strange combination.

Fast forward to present, I am still on the beach, taking a swig of my third corona and watching silly girls take photos of each other making heart shapes in the sky; Russians in thin molokinis holding prolonged and awkward poses beneath a sullen sky. Photos snap, women attempt grace at adjusting bikini tops and bottoms, unsuccessfully, and men nonchalantly flex tanned muscles behind pastel shades. And then, it rains rains rains, people dashing back towards the façade of umbrellas along Ocean Drive.

Vanity – the city’s pervasive and enduring sin of choice.

Miami – Art Basel, 2015. Cuban food, key bumps of cocaine, ceviche y cervezas, Nikki Beach, finger dips of molly, Ted’s Hideaway, The Deuce, alleged robber shot by cop on Alton Road, Scope Art Basel, muchos tragos y marijuana, Aqua Hotel, Gramps Bar, Wood Tavern, woman stabbed at the Convention Center, 100 proof 1800 tequila, Libertine & Club Space afterhours, Wynwood Walls, dancing in art studios in Little Haiti, no sleep, ocean side balconies spilling empty beer bottles and ashtrays, bottom bunk beds and crashing on couches, coming home at 6am, 10am, noon…

My second night in Miami (or technically, third morning) during Art Basel, constitutes a long ride home in a Lyft-pool at 10am from Wynwood and back to SoBe South Beach where the staff is increasingly irritable and unaccommadating, as would most people be, I assume, during the chaos that is Art Basel season). I walk, unable to sleep, past bums, homeless men and women lying in deserted doorways all along Collins and Washington; “for rent/” signs in windows, one after the other after the other… the pulse of Miami’s South Beach ; the extreme contrast of nouveau-rich and poor, increasing.

TBC...

A cultural cremation of the mind – c-cracking,

crushing, shoveling the billion-dollar industry down your gullet, up your nostril, swallowed whole

to cover the hole of anxiety - a patch-up job over the heart (don’t think – work, do, be, live, love, you

are a BEAST, my friend!); an endless, steady stream of white noise that permeates you daily; seeps into the constant

rotation in the background of your mind; you are saturated by a steady supply of ADVERTISEMENTS!

 BILLBOARDS!                                   SALES!                                   PROMOS!                  ADS!

HERE!                                                             HERE!                         NO,

                        OVER HERE!!!

You are the accumulation of absorbed messages; you think in terms of (you + (experiences + genetics) x culture divided by media & rounded up to the nearest dollar, dollar bill sign

(see also: euro/pound/peso/yen).

You are not what you want to think you are, you are what they say you are – YOU ARE AN INDIVIDUAL!             YOU ARE SPECIAL!! – YOU ARE UNIQUE!! AWESOME! TALENTED!! (Like, you are soooooo

everythinggggg…) - it grates your fuckin’ nerves like a piece of ginger soaked in lemon and rubbed all over your burn victim body (metaphorically, of course - bc, shout-out to my burn victims bc that shit is painful, yo!)). It stings you painfully in your nether regions (metaphorically or figuratively – your choice, I fuckin’ guesssss);

down to the very fiber of “your being”, whatever the fuck that is…  “you’re better than this,” you say, but you cannot escape the encapsulated market of out-of-control capitalism and consumerism that [surrounds you] , so you

thumb through an AdBusters mag and think, “yes, that’s it!” but then a day goes by, and then another, and you’re in a daze and that magazine is beginning to pick up goo and dust and god-knows-what else

as it lies

under

• other magazines
• books
• shoes
• to-do lists (like the one you made of the things you did already)
• jeans
• a thousand million cords that you lose, replace, find; repeat
• and, and, and, and,

you wanna make the noise STOP for just A LITTLE FUCKIN’ BIT! so you hunker down, say: “Time the fuck out WURLLLD”  &

bite/chew/swallow/crush that tiny pill (that is, by the way, way more powerful than it looks)

& wait…                                              wait…                                      wait….

                                    In fact,

time     has      seemed                                               to                     sloooooooooooooooooooooooooow

                                                                                                down,

but then, that’s when it hits you. I mean,                                really fuckin’ hits you.

And you feel AMAZING!! MAGICAL! MAGIC FUCKING PILLS! THESE are those beeeans, man, those beans

they were talking about

in-in Jack and the fuckin BEANSTALK, BRO!                                              And now you’re just

talking a bunch of crazy/batshit nonsense, but you feel ALIVE! SPECIAL! UNIQUE!!!

YOU CAN DO ANYTHING!! EVERYTHING !!!! YOU ARE A KILLING MACHINE!!!        

But thennnnn. Uh-oh. Wait a fuckin miiiiinute. Shit!

Noo no no no noo…

Not NOW dammit!! NOOOOOOOoooooooo!!!

Now….                                               things are starting to go

back

to normal. (Insert sad face emoji).

and you cycle down, aimlessly wander over to your phone-computer-gamer machine

and thumb through 30,325,207 apps and feel (only a shade) guilty,

(but not to worry, homie, you NEED those apps so fuck that)…

and time passes and you realize that you’re no longer high and your phone dies and you think:

AHHHHHHHHHHHH GTFO FML Why me??!! Why Lord, WHYYYYYY??!!! (even though you

don’t’ believe in “God” per se, but y’know, as a figure of speech or whatever)…

and

yeah,

nothing left but,

well,

blank space;

silence

and,

oh yeah –

what feels like

E

T

E

R

N

I

T

Y

.

.

1. Not knowing how to order. "Can I have a coke with rum, little bit of ice, and make it strong." No, no you cannot. (And just so you know I stopped listening after you said rum).

2. Bitching about a $3 bottle of water when you just spent $25 on a shirt at concessions. (Yeah, you know who you are).

3. Tipping in change. Who does this?! Umm, NO! Put your bag of fucking nickels away before I head-butt you. Now.

4. Asking what we have on draft when it's right in front of your face.

5. Worse: Asking what we have in general, when it's right in front of your face. See those bottles lined up there? Yeah...

6. When I'm slammed and by the time I get to you, you say, "Ummmmmmm...(pause)..." (Next!)

7. Not having your money ready when it's busy and I finally get to you with sweat dripping down my face (I'm not going to wait around for 5 min while you search your gigantic purse).

8. Also, the opposite: waving your money/credit card in my face when I have both my hands full, and can obviously not take it.

9. Saying, "Make it strong," and then leaving no tip.

10. Being demanding or difficult. Period.

11. Waving and/or yelling at your bartender. We know you're there. The louder and more annoying you are, the more we're just going to ignore you.

12. Running your card every time for a $3 water or a $6 beer. It might just be me but it gets on my nerves... A couple times is okay, but seriously? The whole night? Just open up a tab or pay cash dammit!

13. Asking for a martini and then scoffing when it comes in a little plastic cup. Umm, this is a concert venue, not a martini bar. Be lucky I didn't say we were out.

14. Ordering drinks and then when I give them to you, you tell me you wanted them as shots. (Fuzzy Navel shots, really?) Unless it's something obvious like a kamikaze (which your bartender will probably ask you if you want as a drink or a shot), tell them when you order. (Fuzzy Navel shots, really??)

15. Ordering $30 worth of drinks and then leaving $1.

16. Worse: Telling us you're a bartender, then ordering $30 worth of drinks and leaving $1. Shameful.

17. When you ask how to get somewhere in the venue, and I give you slow, specific directions, and you respond, "So I go...(pause)..." (For the love of god, PLEASE! When you ask a question, listen to the answer!)

18. Asking me to hold your shit. Unless you slide me 20 bucks that's what the coat checks for.

19. Ordering and then leaving. (No, your drinks will not be there when you return).

20. Making a point to say it's your birthday does not entitle you to free drinks. This isn't Baskin Robbins.

21. Thinking its cute when you say a corny line to be flirty.

It's not. Stop it.

22. When I tell you what beers we have and then you ask for one I didn't say.

23. Worse: When I tell you what beers we have and then you ask for one I didn't say, twice.

24. Handing me your credit card and then saying, "This might not go through."

25. Asking me for napkins and/or straws when you can obviously see that they are 3 inches from your hand.

26. You ask, "What's the strongest drink we have?" and I say a Long Island. Then you order an Amaretto Sour. (What the...)

27. Looking at the beer selection and then saying, "Is that all you have?" (No, we have more hidden away, just waiting for people like you to ask).

28. Spilling your drink somewhere and then coming and expecting me to give you another one. Yeeaah, thaaat's, not gonna happen. Ever.

29. Trying to barter. I don't feel I need to explain this one.

30. Touching me or trying to grab my arm to get my attention. People have been slapped for less.

The hallucinogenic landscape of Japanese artist and creator Naoto Hattori is filled with a variety of doe-eyed dolls and grinning creatures, where the thematic elements of the celestial world meet the organic natural world and fibers, roots, cells and membranes weave their way throughout underlining the idea of connectivity between all things in nature, science, and humanity. Naoto Hattori’s bizarre array of dolls and fantastical creatures can only be described as a modern-day visual poetry, in which he blends together oppositions of nature and manmade into one seamless yet intricately developed image. Not one to compromise, Hattori’s artwork, he says, “stems from the depths of his inner mind – stream of consciousness painting.”

In paintings like Life Energy and Evanescent Memory, we see the roots branch out from creatures’ heads and sprawl towards colorful particles that dot the background like a celestial coat of dust. The roots – evoking not only the idea of connectedness, but of permanence or the “root of all things” –  link together past, present, and future and underline the chaotic nature of our world; a world in which we are bound to not only history but one another – plants, animals, space and time. Similarly, mushrooms and mushroom-capped animals – Shroom Collector, Shroomheads – add additional earthly elements to his work, but also – with the visual aid of membranes and cells – link the viewer to the various states of consciousness and the third eye, while the emphasis on eyes continue the parallel of the “mind’s eye” and the “all seeing eye”, which again, link the viewer to consciousness and the universal or collective conscious. 

“Everyone can see something in their head when they close their eyes,” says Hattori. “The visionary world has an endless flow of imagination, and if you practice on expanding your visionary world, you will be amazed by the potential capabilities of your brain… Painting is the best way for me to share my vision.”

Hattori’s vision is expansive and enduring, and his paintings like Planimal and Finding the Reincarnation mix together earthly elements of plant and animal as well as the symbolic reoccurrence of trees, which conjure and parallel that of earth, wisdom, strength and permanence; skulls and skeletal images, which symbolize the temporary and fleeting, history and past, life and death – are also thematic throughout his work, drawing on the cycle of all living, breathing things. These multi-dimensional characters are in one sense, disorienting and futuristic, and in another, magically hypnotic and mythological; they both allure the viewer in and, once there, provoke them to go even deeper. In this, the idea of the “mind universe”, as Hattori calls it, is very fifth element in nature, and the artist utilizes this in creating his works by using both planetary dimensions and mother earth as a base from which to jump. 

Though born in Yokohama, Japan, Hattori studied Graphic Design in Tokyo and later, New York City’s School of Visual Arts, where in 2000 he received a BFA in illustration. He began sketching and experimenting creatively at a young age, soaking up and reimagining the Japanimation and Manga of his youth. Later, he tells me, the influence of graffiti and street art came to inspire many of his works, as is apparent in paintings like Ideal and Untamed Thoughts. 
“My life is art,” he says, “so I can't tell what's going to happen next… I always think of the moment and paint what I feel at that exact time; I'm not the type of artist who always wanted to paint a master piece, as art is more like a meditation and a daily routine to me.”
His upcoming shows include Beautiful Bizarre’s group exhibition at Vanilla Gallery in Tokyo this coming April (2016), as well as his solo exhibition at CHG Circa Gallery in California – September 2017. 

Parading the walls in dreamy pastels and sugared candy colors: Welcome to the whimsical world of Stitch of Whimsy, created by the very talented Sara Leigh. A South Florida-based artist, seamstress, and self-proclaimed huntress, Leigh specializes in what she calls “candy-coated faux taxidermy” – delectable, custom-made delights that are inspired by her own enchantment in all things mythical and magical.

Spanning the entire enchanted forest, her and her crew create these special custom-made creations with “lots of love and during odd hours of the night,” says Leigh, and in each piece can once discover a unique sparkle of personality; be it mischievousness in the Sugar Panda, playfulness in the Candy Lamb, or curiosity in the Candied Sugar Fawn, they are all oddly adorable and exude some serious Candyland vibes. It also stirs up memories of my childhood imagination, which ran wild with snow princesses’, Strawberry Shortcake, gumdrops and Rainbow Brite. It is that eternal childhood wonder, awe, and eager curiosity that Stitch in Whimsy whirls up again . They also carry an uncanny resemblance to the highly-underrated plush series, Yum Yums – a Hallmark collection briefly lived during the 1980’s, which also spun out sugary plush creatures with not only candies decorating their bellies, ears and feet, but even smelt of the yummy treats themselves. (I’m not going to lie, I still own a few from my childhood, and upon seeing the mark-up prices on eBay, I’m glad I did!)

But back to Sara Leigh, whose name alone already stirs my scent memory of baked goods and creamy cakes; Leigh admits that her deep love of the stars, the forest and its many unusual creatures – tiny gnomes, fantastical elves, fluttering fairies – is an influence and inspiration in her work, and she puts an incredible amount of delicacy and care into each and every one of her mixed media sculptures, which she calls her ‘Whimsies’. Ultimately, she says her mission for Stitch of Whimsy is to “spark something wild and free in the imaginations and the conversations of children and adults alike.” As a grown adult who is already fawning over these fantasy creatures, I would no doubt, have to concur.

Follow her and her parade of cotton candy creations on Facebook or Instagram, or go directly to her shop on Etsy!

All photos courtesy of Kris Starry of Starry Night Photography.

https://beautifulbizarre.net/2015/11/12/the-whimsical-world-of-stitch-of-whimsy/

It was at the onset of Storm Jonas – Friday, February 22nd, to be exact – that I would unwittingly get a crash course in the world of polyamory.

I had, rather unknowingly, walked into one of these polyamorous communities in Bushwick, Brooklyn during the recent snow-apocalypse that was Storm Jonas, invited by a member of this “intentional community”, who I had known awhile back but hadn’t seen in some time. My initial reaction, upon hearing the term polyamory was, well: “wtf is polyamory?” According to More Than Two’s website (www.morethantwo.com), it’s meticulously explained as: “…based on the Greek and Latin for “many loves” (literally, poly many + amor love); a polyamorous person is someone who has or is open to having more than one romantic relationship at a time, with the knowledge and consent of all their partners; a polyamorous relationship is a romantic relationship where the people in the relationship agree that it’s okay for everyone to be open to or have other romantic partners; polyamory is the idea or practice of being polyamorous or having polyamorous relationships.” Or I suppose, put simply - consensual non-monogamy. More Than Two even has an entire page dedicated to the management of and dealing with the issues of jealousy and (in)security that will most undoubtedly poke its head out from behind the “oh, it’s all cool” façade, time and again – regardless of whether you are male, female, straight, gay, bi, and so forth. Ultimately, what I learned is that, repeatedly, the emphasis is maintained on communication, respect, and mutual consent for all parties involved. Soooo, with that said, my next reaction would be: “how tf did I not know about this sooner??”

Something clicked for me – especially after being, back-to-back, twice divorced – and I’m just now thirty-three. One part of me was titillated; incredibly curious and open to these hither-to-unknown possibilities – like someone plucking a trinket box buried deep inside your very own closet, and going – “here, check this out. You might like it.” But another part of me was honestly thinking: could I really do this, or is this one of those things that happens when life has suddenly turned into an endless stretch of uneventful dreariness and you’re bored and/or fed up with the way things have been and failed? Well, I suppose there’s only one way to figure that all out…

So after spending an unintended but enormously rewarding couple of days at this particular Bushwick polyamorous community – a 3-story, 3-unit building with around 20+ roommates at any given time, complete with basement event space and outdoor hot tub – I was affectionately drawn into the subtle world that is polyamory; from completely unawares to poly-curious in the span of two hours… Who would’ve thought? But as fate/luck/chance would have it, when I parted those crushed velvet curtains, just past the entrance to the main door, and up those wooden stairs, I was inadvertently going (up into?) the rabbit hole; and not just for a night, but for a whole weekend long, indoor rendezvous, while the blizzard outside had New York City’s streets coated in feet of snow, all non-emergency vehicles ordered off the road after 2:30pm, and subways lines shut down after at 4pm. Locked inside a funhouse with fun people and booze? Sounds like a good way to start a Saturday afternoon…

Now, you may be thinking – how does one stumble upon such goodness? Well, it wasn’t merely by accident, well, at least not entirely; but I did happen to know someone – a friend from back in my Webster Hall bartending days (it seems everyone knows someone who knows someone from Webster Hall, inevitably) – who just so happened to reach out to me on Facebook after a couple years absence, to simply say that he’d recently moved into an “intentional community” in Bushwick, was the happiest he’d been in a very long time, and if I’d ever been to a “burner” event, to which I responded: “wtf is a burner event?” and to which he replied: “[they are] very fanciful themed immersive events, sometimes involving crazy art installs, performances, seminars; interactive, and usually request participation in the intention… no tourists! You like EDM and the like? There's one this Friday... costumes required. I'll send you the FB invite.”

Well, as is now obvious, I did respond, I did go, and the costume party, where I dressed in full “Gothic Lolita” regalia, would end up taking me on a journey both to Manhattan - Santo’s House Party (iFeel) – where neon-glow paint abounded and a haze of dancing to deep electronic – curtailed occasionally by us sauntering into large, harem-style enclaves where people laid and perhaps sensually caressed one another – all of which lasted until the early morning hours (5am, I think?) before making our way back through the onset of storm Jonas (thanks to a homie I brought along – another newbie to the scene who would be our DD, aka storm-savior!) and back into the depths of Brooklyn for hot tub dips beneath a wooden enclosure (whilst looking out onto the blizzard now well underway as our steaming stew of bodies create a blanket of ephemeral mist around us; a ghostly lagoon against the batter of snowfall), running naked through knee-deep snow (sans clothing but borrowed galoshes), and inside for fur-lined vibrating back massages beneath black lights and tripped out music… all this between delicious bites of on-the-spot cooked, blood dripping from the bone rack of lamb, homemade veggie spring rolls, and concoctions of hot apple cider stirred with generous portions of Knob Creek Smoked Maple Whiskey. Oh, and bacon pancakes. Bacon. Pancakes.

Not only was this particular community open, relaxed, and inviting (read: zero-pressure and no weirdness), but they also love to cook, share, and feed your mind and body in (yes, sexual and non-sexual) ways. Choice is yours. Sharing and an open receptivity seem to be the underlying pillars along with mutual respect and open communication that support this polyamorous community, which just so happens to be, of all places, in a beautiful brick building on an unassuming street in the Brooklyn borough of Bushwick.

Shared intimacy and food? Yes, please!

Jack of the Dust, otherwise known as Andrew “Andy” Firth, transmutes death into life with his series of skullptures, handcrafted from the depths of Australia’s Gold Coast. His Jack of the Dust trademark, derived from maritime terminology, comes from “an obsolete US Navy job designation from the 1800’s; this person was the ship’s steward, who worked with the dusty ingredients of flour and biscuits.” Firth took the mostly retired name and repurposed it as Jack for the name of his skulls, and “dust” referencing their death symbolism.

Bonsai gardens, cherry blossoms, bee hives and painted joker faces decorate the skull facades, which the artist says are “based on a premium European grad PVC plastic human anatomy skull, molded off a real human skull,” and “premium grade artistic variations of the human skull.” So no, the skulls are not real (I’ve been asked twice in the short period of writing this article) but they are as close to real as you can get.

His skullptures are visually stimulating, stirring works of beauty and craftsmanship, and the outcome is majestic, if macabre. The semiotics/symbolism of faux human remains are intriguing; we like the idea of death, we like to be as close to death as possible but only if it allows us to feel more alive – quite a paradox of living, I’d say.

The artistic replication of life-like skulls draws our attention to everything no one wants to talk about – at least in a very concrete, non-abstract way: death. Even in this period of skull fascination and popularity, what skulls represent outside of the artistic framework is, at their most raw and basic form, a direct correlation to our own mortality. In this way, Jack of the Dust’s skullptures allows us to see skulls differently. Death now breeds life, in the way of gardens and flowers and crystals. On the flip side, the skulls also turn into morbid, garish creatures and pop-culture icons, via villains like the joker and superheroes like Ironman. The most recent joker (played by Jared Leto in Suicide Squad) comes complete with an acid green stained scalp, bomb-smoked eye sockets, and two rows of grittily gleaming silver teeth. For Game of Thrones fans like myself, there’s White Walker Skull and the Obsidian Dragon Glass Skull.

Using the human skull as a platform from which to build, Jack of the Dust flips natural decomposition and converts it into creation, stimulation, and growth. Things literally appear to grow and move along the skullptures – Spring Bonsai Mountain Skull has a faux waterfall pouring out of an eye socket, which sits just below a bonsai garden with mossy grass the color of squeezed limes. It’s a visual representation symbolic of the circle of life – from death to life, and back again; and so the cycle continues, on and on, seemingly infinite. Jack of the Dust’s skullptures are a mortal varietal in amethyst crystals, gold dust and cherry blossoms, both exquisite and morbid, delicate and unnerving.

(For full article, go to: https://beautifulbizarre.net/2016/08/25/bringing-death-to-life-skullptures-with-jack-of-the-dust/)