Middlegray / Issue 3

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MiddleGrayISSUE #03

Middle Gray Magazine is a quarterly online publication featuring emerging artists of various disciplines including, but not limited to, Visual Arts, Music, Literature and Performance Arts.

This arts journal is part of “The Middle Gray,” an arts organization that supports emerging artists by giv-ing them space and opportunities to showcase their work while being fairly compensated. Our intent is to build a place that encourages the social connections and collaborations that nurture a vibrant creative community. We are an online-based organization with expectations to grow and evolve into a physical space.

We want to welcome you to our community and we hope you enjoy this experience. We are very eager to have you as part of The Middle Gray.

Special thanks to all the artists who are being featured in this issue and to all our friends and followers for your support.

Much love,

The Middle Gray

MiddleGray

© MiddleGray 2014All Rights Reserved

[email protected]

Cover Art by Diana Urazán

Back Cover Art by Diana Urazán

Graphic Design:Catalina Piedrahita

Alvaro MoralesMusic Editor & Co-Founder

www.alvaromorales.net

Catalina PiedrahitaEditor in Chief, Visual Arts Editor & Co-Founder

www.catpiedrahita.com

www.middlegraymag.com

Alena KuzubPhotography Editor & MG Staff Photographer

www.alenakuzub.com

Cydney GottliebMarketing & PR Director

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All contributors to MiddleGray retain the reproduction rights to their own words and images. Reproductions of any kind are prohibited without explicit permission of the magazine and relevant contributor.

Middle Gray Magazine is a quarterly online publication featuring emerging artists of various disciplines including, but not limited to, Visual Arts, Music, Literature and Performance Arts.

This arts journal is part of “The Middle Gray,” an arts organization that supports emerging artists by giv-ing them space and opportunities to showcase their work while being fairly compensated. Our intent is to build a place that encourages the social connections and collaborations that nurture a vibrant creative community. We are an online-based organization with expectations to grow and evolve into a physical space.

We want to welcome you to our community and we hope you enjoy this experience. We are very eager to have you as part of The Middle Gray.

Special thanks to all the artists who are being featured in this issue and to all our friends and followers for your support.

Much love,

The Middle Gray

MiddleGray

Dariel SuarezLetters Editor

www.darielsuarez.com

Artem DerkatchLetters Editor

Alina CollazoAssistant Editor

www.middlegraymag.com

Cydney GottliebMarketing & PR Director

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Inside:Lola Gayle 6

A.S. Brahlek 10

Tammy Ruggles 20

Marina Pruna Moré 24

Diana Urazán 30

Bill Schneider 34

Maite Rodriguez 48

Mike Ekunno 54

Tawnee Geller 62

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Uche Ogbuji 66

Otha “Vakseen” Davis III 74

Carolyn Moore 78

La Tomatera 88

•Nathalia Gallego 90

•Iván Salazar 92

•Silvana Pabón 96

•Mauro Rebolledo 98

Nick Kanozik 100

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Lola Gayle

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Lola GayleLola Gayle  is  a vocalist and artist based in Down-town Los Angeles. She was  born in Brooklyn,  New York  to Jamaican parents and moved with her family to Los Angeles at age seven. Lola’s visu-al work  has  been displayed in various artist collec-tive shows within the Los Angeles area including this year’s “LACE Auction” in May 2013 and “RAW Artists Los Angeles  2013 Kaleidoscope  Show.” Gay-le has also been privately commissioned for sever-al homes within both Los Angeles and New York. This artist’s works of art have a dark, tribal, and emo-tionally-layered quality, which have been described as taking 70’s and 80’s neo-graffiti art to another level.

www . lgay le . see .mewww . rawar t i s t s . o rg/cussa r t

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Gayle’s work continues on page 34

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A. S. Brahlek has her B.A. in English from Florida Atlantic University and currently teaches at a special-learning needs school in South Florida. She is a visual artist and poet, who has taken much inspiration from the cultural mingling that is so prevalent in South Florida. Her work has been published in Coastlines Literary Magazine and she has had paintings in many galleries across South Florida, including The Armory Art Center.

A.S. Brahlek

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Son of Man.

Dream a black dome.You ran your hands overrazor blades.

You laughedas the bowler hat fellover your eyes and you asked—why the apple.

The sky turnedlike the time you pulled the sheetover the window to keep the light out.Your mouth gapedand your hands hunglike grapefruits, too heavy

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At a party

a boy tells me histooth is loose. I tell him howparents used to tether teethto brass. There was rush ofair and the door slammed. The pebblewent flying.

He swats away gnats, as theycling to his sweat. He pointsto the tooth—a new one has grownin behind. They’re hugging he says.The small one is dead I reply.

I show him the gray pushed intomy molars and tell him: the tooth fairyhas black blood and rubber gums. A bat will move into the cavityafter the tooth is yanked;and will tickle his nose.

before the tooth is completely out it will dangle like a piñata—violently dumb and bleeding red.

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To Gabrielle d’Estree

Snails drag slime over skinas fingers form shadow puppetsaround your nipple—the brown sluggrows hard and squirms between ridges.

She searches for milk beneath the laceand vinegar in the wool.

You are wood carved into a dove:soaked in cream. Your eyes arefish eyes. You hide gills inyour petticoat: you taste like tin.She rubs you and scales flyand cling to velvet curtains. The ring you hold withers and writhes like a slug in salt.

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Gayle’s work starts on page 6

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Gayle began her ar-tistic process by ex-perimenting. For her, this meant express-ing herself through another ‘voice’ other than her musical one.As this process con-tinued, she began to see images germinat-ing into her own nar-rative and journey as a black Trans-Atlan-tic female via ‘diaspo-ra-tic’ transplantation.

“All people within their life’s   journey become a narrative of their own, ‘strangely-imperfect’ and ‘beautifully-infect-ed’ individuality. We are many broken pieces, held together by life’s ‘short shelf life adhesives’. 

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We survive through storms and chaos of life that may ap-pear to destroy us but, if we al-low them, those elements can push us forward to not only weath-er the storm, but to shine and be-come beacons to others with-in similar places of darkness and the unknown.”

-Lola Gayle

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www .tammyruggles.deviantart .com/gal lerywww .tammyruggles.contently .comwww .facebook.com/mss.tammywww .youtube.com/misstammyschannel

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“I would like to show the world that the blind and visually im-paired can create art; just in a different way. My way is finger painting. I rely on intuition, imag-ination, and memory to create images in my mind’s eye. When people look at my pictures, I want them to feel something. Viewers are very important to my painting, because it’s through them I get to learn more about my works. I like hearing about what they see, how they interpret the pieces and what they feel or think.”

-Tammy Ruggles

Tammy Ruggles

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Tammy Ruggles is a legally blind artist, photogra-pher, and writer living in Kentucky. She enjoys spend-ing time with fam-ily and friends, and is also a for-mer social worker.

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Ruggels’ work continues on page 27

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Marina Pruna Moré is originally from Argentine Patago-nia, but now has roots in Miami, FL.  A recent graduate of Florida International University’s MFA Program, her work has appeared in Flatmancrooked’s Slim Volume of Con-temporary Poetics where she was a finalist, Hinchas de Poesia, and The New Poet. She spends her time figuring out how to divide her time between writing, co-editing for Sliver of Stone Magazine, and enjoying the zoo that is her pet-filled home.  Her long-time boyfriend, Steve, is patient.

Marina Pruna Moré

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War Poem

All more like blueberriesin the white morningwhen the striated stems don’t yet have to elbow through the cold crowd

We talk of dark times of the hollow bowels of memorybehind the hammering of sirensbut what do we really know

If given the entirety of seasona chance to grow and even bloatto tear through the bluing skinthe sweetest of proposals

But the ash in our throatsblack and white and blackpurveyors of quietwhat we really know

Skin of our throatstorn through black and blueand hollowed like dark sirenseven as the berries grow

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The Race

Asking a question just lands me more responsibility, so I sit on my hands, the metal of the chair warming against my knuckles, and I listen while holding my breath and sucking in my cheeks and tongue, and I focus, pick a spot on my boss’ forehead, either along the dried up rivulet that’s formed between her eyebrows or the wispy hairline that’s buried beneath the hel-met bangs, and I think about her $1200-a-month BMW lease payment, or that last-minute-only-first-class-left ticket to the London meeting that happens every year at the same time, or the particular fondness for 32-lb stock pa-per for high resolution forecast charts that don’t survive the day, or our glass cubicles with hourly competition of halogen and sun while the a/c steadies at 63 for the wearability of a Magaschoni cashmere wrap, and I al-low my mind to approach the stable doors, hoofs scraping dirt like heating metal, steam piping out the long snout, and I see the sun in the distance like a gold medal, so when the whinny rises pitched and red, I can do noth-ing but unhook the wooden gate and let the pounding peel away, leave behind the dirty ground of questions: how can I - how fast can I - please you?

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Ruggles’ work starts on page 20

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Diana UrazanDiana nació por casualidad en San Diego, California en 1986, cuan-do su padre se encontraba en un intercambio de profesores. Un año más tarde regresaron a Colombia, donde Diana vive desde entonces. Tras completar estudios de bachillerato en la ciudad de Arme-nia, Diana se mudó a Bogota para estudiar arte en la Universi-dad de los Andes. Allí empezó a interesarse con la primera infan-cia y las filosofías pedagógicas italianas de Reggio Emilia, bajo la cual inicío una formación como Tallerista de Arte. Bajo esta en-señanza, Urazan aprendío los rigores y exigencias de una filo-sofía que demanda prestar atención y escuchar a los niños, lo que le permitió empaparse y enriquecerse con la estética del uni-verso de la niñez. Diana recibío su titulo en el 2012 como Maes-tra en Artes Plasticas, y desde el 2011 reside en Cali, donde di-rige el taller de arte en inglés en el jardín infantil Taller de Anik.

Diana was born by chance in San Diego, CA in 1986, while her father was participating in an academic exchange. A year later they re-turned to Colombia, where Diana has lived since. After graduating from a high school in the town of Armenia, Diana moved to Bogotá to pursue an art degree from the University of the Andes. There, she became involved with infant pedagogy and the Reggio Emil-ia educational philosophy, and started working towards becoming an arts educator. Through these studies, Urazán learned the rigor and the requirements of an approach that demands paying close attention and listening to the children, which allowed her to im-merse herself in the aesthetics of the universe of childhood. Diana received her BFA in 2012, and since 2011 resides in Cali, where she leads an Arts Workshop in English at a preschool institution.

www.facebook.com/pinkpinkpinkgirls

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Urazán’s work continues on page 38

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Bill received his Master of Arts in Cre-ative Writing from Wilkes University in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania and his Bach-elor of Science in Journalism degree from Suffolk University in Boston, Massachu-setts. He is completing his Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing (Fiction) from Wilkes University. Author/screenwriter and publisher Kaylie Jones has been serv-ing as Bill’s mentor in the Wilkes program.

Bill Schneider

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Yesterday Once More

A solitary crow screeched from the utility pole near the dilapidated house as the postal service truck drove away, stir-ring up dust. She watched from her porch as the truck headed down the road. “Shut up!” Beatrice screamed at the crow. The bird eyed the bag of garbage near the curb. Beatrice studied the envelope from Berkowitz and Schwartz. The mail carrier told her she must have been coming into money since the letter was registered. Money never came easily to Beatrice. “I have little pa-tience and no job skills,” she had told her brother years ago. He suggested she volunteer at the hospital, but Beatrice hat-ed strangers. Now with her husband retired, the meager proceeds from her parents’ estate were her only source of income, along with John’s monthly social security check. She noticed a golden retriever sneaking along the iron fence separating her property from the sidewalk and parkway. Ice plant, cactus and wildflowers filled her front yard, but the grass on the parkway was a haven for dogs looking to relieve themselves. Eyeing the dog suspiciously, Beatrice wiped perspiration from her forehead. From across the street, a neighbor called to the dog. “Come here, Sunshine,” pleaded the man. “Why isn’t your dog on a leash?” Beatrice demanded as the dog circled her mailbox and squatted. “You’d better get over here and clean up your dog’s mess.” The man hurried across the street. “I’m really sorry. She bolted from my garage and I don’t have a bag.” “Then I’m calling the Sheriff.” Beatrice glared at the man as he retrieved his dog and hurried back across the street, disappearing into his garage. Glancing at the envelope, she opened the screen door and shuffled into her house. Her hands trembled as she reached for the Campbell’s soup can sitting on the center of the kitchen table. “Damn it,” Be-atrice said under her breath, rummaging through the can, push-ing away pens, pencils, a metal nail file, a pair of scissors and a 12-inch ruler. Her arthritic hands ached as she retrieved her grandmother’s letter opener. The stifling air from the ceiling fan produced little relief as an old clock, secured against the faded white wall with gray duct tape, chimed nine times. Three decades ago, when the house

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was built, her father had suggested they install air condi-tioning. Beatrice rejected the idea, claiming they couldn’t af-ford a higher electric bill. “John!” she hollered. “Come in here. I got a letter from the lawyer.” Beatrice grimaced as she rubbed her elbow before sliding the wooden opener along the back of the envelope. She carefully removed the letter. Her husband, dressed in a white undershirt hanging over his faded jeans, trudged from the back porch into the kitchen. Scratching his beard, John adjusted his spectacles, which slid forward as beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. He glanced at the envelope. “What’s it say?” he asked as dirt fell from his boots. “Are we bone dry?” Beatrice would have screamed at him for tracking dirt onto her freshly scrubbed linoleum floor, but she was preoccupied with the contents of the letter. “Dear Ms. Stone-Wallace,” she read aloud, slowly. “Please be advised this letter serves as notice to terminate the stor-age facility lease currently negotiated on your behalf by the Stone Family Trust.” Beatrice paused while John removed his spectacles and held them up to the light. After examining them, he took out a white handkerchief, breathed heavily on the lenses, and wiped them clean. “Within 30 days from your receipt of this letter, the Trustee of the Stone Family Trust shall relinquish the storage space. Therefore, within 30 days, please make arrangements to remove all of the contents of the storage facility mentioned above.” Beatrice knew this day was coming. For over a year, her brother had been telling her they could no longer afford the storage unit, which also contained assorted furniture and mem-orabilia from several of Beatrice’s friends, all of whom had downsized. “This really sucks,” said John, pushing his spectacles firmly against his nose. “Bastards,” Beatrice muttered as she folded the letter and placed it back into the envelope. Glancing down at the floor, she noticed the dirt. “Jesus Christ, John. Couldn’t you at least wipe your feet?” “What are you going to do?” he asked her. Beatrice reached for the bottle of Windex and roll of pa-per towels she kept on the kitchen counter. “Once again I’m going to clean up your mess.” “What about the storage unit?” She knelt down, grimacing as her right knee cracked. “Move!” she hollered. “Some of that stuff belonged to your folks. This just ain’t right.”

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Beatrice took comfort from the relics of her family’s past. Sometimes, while John puttered in his makeshift ga-rage workshop, she would drive 30 miles to the industrial park alongside Interstate 10. Wearing a polyester housedress, Beatrice would sit on a tattered folding chair and browse through the record collection of Broadway musicals, humming old songs as they propelled her back in time. Occasionally, she would even dance. Protecting her from an uncertain future, the memory of yesterday made her smile once more. “No one wants old Christmas ornaments, a 10-year subscrip-tion to Sunset magazine, vinyl records and a custom bookcase,” she said, spraying Windex and wiping dirt from the floor. “What does your brother want to do?” John asked. “He could care less. After Mother died, he wanted to sell everything. Told me about something called eBay. I told him we don’t even have a computer.” “Why doesn’t he sell it?” Beatrice shook her head. “I can’t let him sell it. These are my family heirlooms.” “If you ask me, it’s a bunch of junk.” Grabbing the back of the chair, she hoisted herself up. “Nobody asked you.” Throughout the morning, Beatrice reread the letter sever-al times, looking for a loophole. After lunch, while John re-treated to his workshop in the garage, she read the letter one more time. “Time to call in the troops,” she muttered, shuffling from the kitchen table to the old yellow telephone affixed to the end of her kitchen wall. She picked up the handset, untangled the 25-foot cord and dialed the number of her closest ally, Alicia, who lived 20 miles away. “How can I help?” asked the 65-year-old retired school cafeteria worker after Beatrice read the letter to her. She let out a deep sigh and admitted she didn’t know what to do. “Part of me says it’s foolish to hold on to all of these things. But Alicia, you and I both know if I don’t keep them, who will? And what will happen to them?” “Well, Bea, they will find another home, somewhere else, and continue to be treasures. Just under someone else’s roof.” Beatrice swallowed, holding on firmly to the yellow tile of her kitchen counter. She sighed heavily into the telephone handset. “I just don’t know.” “What does John think?” Beatrice clenched the counter, her knuckles turning white. “You know he has the emotional maturity of a 12-year-old. Re-member what happened after his parents died? He told his sis-ter to burn everything.” “That’s right. He should have been a fire fighter. He has a spark of pyromania in his blood.”

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Urazán’s work starts on page 30

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Urazán’s work continues on page 43- 39 -

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“His solution to everything is simply throw it into an in-cinerator. John’s motto is as basic as life and death: ashes to ashes.” “Which reminds me, Bea, where are the urns with your par-ents’ remains?” “My numbskull brother has them,” Beatrice said. “Claims they need to be kept in a place of dignity.” “What on earth does that mean?” “I don’t have a clue. Apparently he wants control over their final resting place.” “Where does Daniel have them?” “In his bookcase. Between Hemingway and Shakespeare.” “At least they’re surrounded by notable authors.” “It’s hardly where they belong.” “Where should they be?” Alicia asked. “Scattered at sea. That’s what they both wanted.” “And why hasn’t he done that?” “Daniel told me he likes having them close by. It helps him maintain a connection with them.” “Well, if it helps him feel close to them, maybe it’s a good thing he’s got their urns.” “Alicia, all my brother cares about is his damn career. Without it, he would be lost. And like most men, he focus-es only on himself. He has not lifted a finger to help me sort through this mess except to say I should sell it all on eBay. That’s why I need your help.” “We have no room. In fact, I feel guilty that you’ve been housing my mother’s china cabinet for the past couple of years. I should have sold it after Mom passed away. Perhaps your brother’s right. We need to let go of the past. I can help you list things on eBay if you want.” “No. These treasures are what keep me going. My father loved listening to those waltzes. There are at least a dozen albums he used to listen to. I can’t let go of my father.” “Maybe we need to go through everything and decide what you must keep and what you can let go of. Then I can help you find a good mover.” “I have photo albums, my baby book, and ashes from all of my pets. You realize this is not just a storage locker. It’s my ground floor attic.” “Bea, you have no choice. You are going to have to decide what you must keep and let go of the rest.” For once, Beatrice was speechless. Four weeks after she received the registered letter from the lawyer at Berkowitz and Schwartz, she arrived at the stor-age facility for one last visit. The sun scorched the pave-ment, producing a gritty steam that rose above the parking lot. Smog hung mid-way across the nearby mountain range, creating a cosmic-looking cloud. On days like these, television news re-

Schneider’s work starts on page 34

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porters suggested the elderly and physically impaired stay in-doors, avoid exercise, and drink plenty of water. Beatrice struggled out of the old Ford Taurus, slammed the door and stood on the asphalt, which felt like a big jelly do-nut underneath her worn-out Birkenstocks. She adjusted the clip-on sunglasses affixed to her horn-rimmed bifocals and took a deep breath before limping toward the entrance of the stor-age locker, grimacing with each step. “God, is it hot,” she said. The yellow and green checkerboard polyester sundress clung to her frame, revealing perspiration stains that drenched her rotund figure. She resembled a well-used dartboard. Beatrice reached for the weathered brown leather hand-bag, dangling against her good hip, adjusting the sturdy black shoulder strap that her husband had fashioned in his workshop to allow her easier access. Her arthritic hands fumbled for the set of keys that faintly chimed, breaking the silence surrounding the three-story concrete structure. The silver ring held a dozen keys, each marked with a different colored label. Beatrice singled out the key with a deteriorating red sticker and stuck it into the rusting padlock. The key and lock united like long lost friends, refusing to let go. “Don’t start with me,” she said as sweat eased down her forehead, dripping along her nose. “I’m in no mood,” she uttered, wiping her forehead before forcing the key and lock to disengage. Removing the lock, she used all of her strength to push open the hanging door. A small mouse scurried past her. “Freeloader!” she screamed. Catching her breath, Beatrice gazed across the enormous storage space that John referred to as her asphalt cemetery. Everything appeared just as it had when she last visited a month ago. Vinyl record albums were neatly stored in rows of old milk crates, filed alphabetically by artist name or album title. Beatrice noticed the door of an oak cabinet was slight-ly ajar. Tucked inside was her collection of dolls that al-lowed her to escape life as a young girl and retreat into the world of make believe. She sauntered over to the cabinet and peered inside. An old rag doll with a plastic face smiled at her. Dressed in a checkerboard dress, they could have been sisters. Beatrice reached for the doll and wound the turnkey on its back. Reek-ing of mothballs, the doll moved its arms and spoke in a ro-botic, muted voice. “I love you!” Beatrice was transfixed. There was no more time. No last minute reprieve. The storage unit had to be vacated by five o’clock. The middle-aged woman who managed the facility walked

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along the sticky pavement and peered into the storage locker. “Good morning, Beatrice.” “It’s hot, muggy and not a good day for moving,” said Be-atrice as she returned the doll to the cabinet and latched the door. “What’s good about that?” “They say it’s going to top one hundred. Just be glad you don’t work for a moving company. I couldn’t even so much as lift a finger on a day like today.” Beatrice picked up “The Best of Abba” and began to fan her-self with the album cover. “Anita, today is rather sad.” “Why?” “So much has changed,” said Beatrice. “I don’t even have a phonograph player that works. The one I got when I graduated from high school broke and no one can fix it, not even John. He claims he can fix anything. Anything but my record player. Says they don’t make the parts anymore.” “Why don’t you just buy CDs?” “Do you have the money to replace all of these albums?” Anita shook her head. “Neither do I. And I don’t know how this stuff is going to fit in my house.” Anita nodded. “Why now?” “We’ve run out of money.” Beatrice picked up another album, “Yesterday Once More.” She smiled. “Anita, do you remember the Carpenters?” “Of course I do. What a voice that poor girl had. Died so young. What a terrible shame.” “What’s a shame,” said Beatrice, wiping her forehead, “is that I’m the custodian of my family’s past, yet I’m forced to find another place to house it.” “Can’t you tell your brother you need another month?” Beatrice fanned herself as the moving van arrived, swirl-ing dust around the storage locker. “He said housing memories doesn’t come free.” A young man opened the door of the van and slipped down from the cab, jumping onto the asphalt. His pulled-down jeans revealed boxer shorts and a tattoo bearing a woman’s name. Beatrice noticed his tanned six-pack abdomen. She shook her head. “What’s shaking, Grandma?” he asked, pulling up his jeans. “Time to get funky! Ready to move and groove?” She responded with an icy and indignant glare.

END

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Urazán’s work starts on page 30- 43 -

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‘Una vida ejemplar’ nace un día en una sala de espera, donde Di-ana hojeaba un ejemplar de la revista colombiana de farándula Jet Set. Mientras leía un articulo sobre Andrea de Monaco y su matrimonio, Diana se preguntó cómo sería su vida si ella fuera Carlota de Mónaco. Estando como muchos en la búsqueda de una vida perfecta, la artista proyectó cómo sería su vida si ella fuese princesa en un mundo de perfecta ficción. De esta idea se desar-rolló un proyecto simbolista que retrata las dudas y conflictos so-bre sus propias exigencias y nociones de lo que es ser “ejemplar”. Diana Urazan reconoce su apego por su humanidad, imperfección y los dulces placeres que hay en el error, y los resalta en estas obras.

Una Vida Ejemplar

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‘An exemplary life’ was born in a waiting room, where Diana picked up a copy of Colombian magazine Jet Set (which special-izes in celebrity news). As she read an article about Andrea Ca-siraghi of Monaco and his wedding, Diana wondered what her life would be like if she were Charlotte of Monaco. In the search for a perfect life, the artist imagined her life as an idealized princess in a world of perfect fiction. From this thought grew a project that portrays the doubts and conflicts surrounding her idea of what it means to be “exemplary”. In her work, Diana Urazán recognizes and highlights her fondness for her own hu-manity, for imperfection, and for the sweet pleasure of mistakes.

Una Vida Ejemplar

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Maite Rodriguez is a Spanish born artist living and working in Salamanca, Spain. Maite’s passion for art arose at an early age when she conveyed outstanding creativity by participating in local art contests and attending Fine Arts school. She studied fine arts at the School of St. Eloy de Sala-manca, under the supervision of Zacarias Gonzalez. At just 10 years old she won her first prize in a drawing competition, working with charcoal and chalk. Later on she started painting with oils and acrylics as well.

After a less productive period she resumed her studies focus-ing on the work of Antonio Pedrero, Carmen Mayor and Ricar-do Flecha, from whose styles she drew to create her own. She developed her realistic approach into a more modern impressionis-tic technique by taking inspiration from the world around her, of-ten using nature to add originality to her contemporary artwork.

Maite Rodriguezwww.maiterodr iguez .es www.maiterodr iguez .es/not ic ias www.facebook.com/MaiteR17

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Maite Rodriguez

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Rodriguez’s work continues on page 58

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Mike EkunnoMike works in film classification in Abuja, Nigeria and free-lances as book editor and proofreader. He has presented on national television and worked in radio as special assis-tant to the chief executive of Africa’s largest network, Ra-dio Nigeria. He wrote for  The Guardian on Sundays before working as senior speechwriter to Nigeria’s last Minis-ter of Information and Communications. His fiction, essays and poem have appeared in The African Roar Anthology, 2013, BRICKrhetoric, Ascent Aspirations Magazine, Sen-tinel Literary Quarterly, The Muse, Bullet Pen and Story-moja - the last two coming with wins in continent-wide contests. Mike loves to read Old Testament stories.

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I have had occasions in the past and present to dissemble. I hide Mike Ekunno and go for something more or less cryp-tic depending on what I assess to be the risks. In situations where there is likelihood of a future reward like the recent literary contest I entered, I take a pseudonym that is closer to the real thing. You never can tell when a prize would come calling and you’d need to prove your identity. Not that it’d be a difficult thing, all things being equal. There’s after all, the email address, phone number and bio details that can be matched. But all things are not equal in my society. The anti-corruption agency once laid hold on some laundered funds and dared its genuine owner to come forth and take the rap. A slew of claimants answered the call. The dollar amount was much. So in such circumstances where a potential benefit is in view, I choose something close to “the name my papa gave me.” It was Chukx Michaels in one such recent contest with pecuni-ary benefits for the winner. Chukx comes from my Igbo middle name which is hardly in the public domain. As for Michaels, its Hebrew etymology is almost a give-away that the bearer couldn’t be for real as surnames go in my society. But it is a better risk because the society boasts a tiny demographic that bear English/Hebrew surnames led by no less a figure than Mr President himself, Goodluck Jonathan. Above all, the name maintains fidelity with the adage of my people that a lie is better told in English (read foreign language). How I came about submitting with a pseudonym in that contest is another story.

A contentious issue had arisen in the Yahoo group of lit-erary minds where I hold membership. I dived into the fray and aired my views carpeting some other viewpoints and, by exten-sion, egos. Not long after this comes the contest in which some of my victims wield judicial influence and I couldn’t re-sist applying. I had to play it safe with a pseudonym just in case somebody wants to be vindictive. I’m not as foolhardy as I’m outspoken.

There are times I have come up with pseudonyms that are simply unrelated to my name. One such occasion was when I had to comment on a disgraceful conduct by some high public office holder. As a public servant, the rules bar me from critical

ME AND MY PSEUDONYMS

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media interventions. But the pull of polemics did not prove resistible. Not when aberrant conducts suffuse the public space on a daily basis. So I penned a shooting-from-the-hips piece to the newspapers under a pseud-onym unrelated to the real name. I’ve not got another job, you know. It was when the piece appeared in the dailies that a round of regret over-took me. Reading one of the outings and seeing the huge support on the comments thread, I rued not being able to blow my cover. The opinions I canvassed in the piece were nothing to be ashamed of. Neither were they libellous (if not the editors wouldn’t have dared). But here was I, the “author and finisher” of those germane viewpoints not able to bask in the glory of their potential to advance the cause of humanity in one little area. Vanity? Maybe.

We who trade in ideas and words find ourselves holding on to our cre-ations as the capitalist entrepreneur would his bank account. In a way, our ideas and the peculiar ways we put them together represent our capi-tal in a world of other capitals of a more gross material hue. To watch such vital accumulation being credited to a phantom figure must be akin to a woman having to give up her adorable baby for adoption and worse, knowing that the adoptive parents are non-existent.

Using a pseudonym is a form of anonymity. But not all forms of ano-nymity oppress my sense of identity. As speechwriter to a cabinet min-ister, I have sat in on engagements where my boss’s speech elicited ovation. At none of such times did I feel any tinge of possessiveness or jealousy at not being the one on the podium. You could say I was du-ty-bound to craft those speeches or that I couldn’t be minister, any-way (don’t bet on it) . Whatever, but I never begrudged my boss the glo-ry from any of my applauded lines. This also happens with ghost writing. We can argue that the fees have effectively extinguished the ghost writ-er’s claim to any emotional affinity with his creation. Or has it? Legal rights can be bought off but emotional ties with spores are not necessar-ily extinguished thereby. Ask the Michael Jackson estate, if you doubt.

Parsing on matters of identity recently got me thinking of this pull to hide as well as be known at the same time. What could inform this am-bivalence among writers who blow their covers yet keep the pen names? Could they be suffering from the same tension I suffered over my loss of proprietary rights on quality that is lost to anonymity? What motivates an artiste to be anonymous or take a pen name can be varied. Circumvent-ing conflict of interest (or, at least, not letting the public know) is one. Being free to bring candour to freedom of expression is another. However, these excuses have to battle the pull for credits for writers and artistes who have done exceptional work. And this is where a differ-ent form of conflict of interest takes over – between the real identity and the faux. When the false identity begins to garner accolades which do not redound to the true owner, can pseudonyms be sustained?

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It was not this pull that caused the unmasking of JK Rowling, the Harry Potter author who became Robert Galbraith in her second novel, The Cuckoo’s Calling. Rowling’s cover was blown via investigative journal-ism by Britain’s Sunday Times. Her motivation for the cover up was “to publish without hype or expectation and .... get feedback under a differ-ent name.” That feedback had been largely positive before Rowling’s true identity was revealed and the book’s sales on Amazon went bullish. Which raises the question of what would have happened if it had been other-wise. The glee with which Rowling took her outing would be different if The Cuckoo’s Calling had been a failure whose association with the Rowl-ing brand would bring erosion of brand capital.

Only few artistes whose false identities have done well in the mar-ket place have been able to resist the pull to out. They deserve can-onisation for resisting the vainglorious urge for recognition. Rene Brabazon Raymond (1906-1985) remained James Hardly Chase to all in my generation for whom he and his crime fiction novels achieved cult follow-ership. In Nigeria, one Afro jazz recording artiste maintains both the anonymity of the person and the name. Lagbaja, his brand is eponymous for his masked identity. Only his male gender seeps out of this anonym-ity. I am in vicarious distress for his achieving so much fame and not being able to even be waved on in traffic on that account.

Newspapers make a show of having columnists writing under pen names but whose identities are known either within a select, in-house group or among the readers. Those are the instances of pretend anonymities that baffle and sicken. Eating one’s cake and having it only exists in fiction and ostrich hiding is used in the pejorative sense. On the comments thread of online platforms, I have never felt the urge to hide my identity. That is not to say that while disclosing who I am, I do not still remain anonymous. Without the surname, anyone of a million Mikes could have been the one commenting. This partial disclo-sure is a halfway house that enables me maintain some integrity in no-menclature without fully unveiling the cloak of anonymity. Online dis-cussions in fractious societies can be, and often do get, bigoted and highly vituperative. Comments are profiled using the names behind them to know who is Christian, Muslim, or their ethnic affiliations. While I scroll down the trolling for academic reasons, I try mostly not to join, not even with a pseudonym.

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Rodriguez’s work starts on page 48

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Maite Rodriguez’s love of art has grown allow-ing her to become an inspirational and talented artist who explores several media. Her artwork collection focuses on the use of oil paint, acrylic, and collage, using experimental techniques. In recent years, she has specialized in large format canvases, exquisite ladies in waiting, landscapes and European cities, but her oil paintings are the ones that excel. They integrate realism, abstrac-tion, expressionism, and modernism in a con-temporary approach which is what has forged Rodriguez’s unique style. Her artwork gives a fresh and vibrant interpretation of its subjects, and it is often referred to as a unique combi-nation of classical and contemporary painting.

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Tawnee GellerTawnee is a self-taught artist who resides in Northern Minnesota. Geller is an avid painter, gardener, yogi and cat-lover, and she has been painting since she could hold a paintbrush. In 1999, one of her paintings was submitted into an art contest by her art teach-er at the time, Carol Jacobson, landing her on the front page of the newspaper. She won an all-expenses paid trip for her fami-ly, art teacher and herself to Washington, DC where she worked on a large mural with 50 other children from around the world.

After finishing high school, Geller went on to graduate from Cosmetology school in 2009. She started taking art serious-ly in 2011, when she was asked to do a commission piece. The experi-ence gave her the confidence to take the plunge into making art.

Geller is constantly trying out different styles of painting and various media to continually reinvent herself. She draws inspiration from books on fractals and space, 60’s & 70’s music, band posters and album art, such as that of Pink Floyd, Cream and Grateful Dead. she likes to think of her paintings as “one large acid trip,” which she evokes with rich, wild colors, hidden pictures, and images that play tricks on the viewer’s mind.

www.etsy.com/shop/tawneegellerartworkwww.society6.com/tawneegellerartwork

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Geller’s work continues on page 68- 65 -

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Uche Ogbuji (@uogbuji) was born in Calabar, Nigeria. He lived, among other places, in Egypt and England before settling near Boulder, Colorado. Uche is a computer engineer and entrepreneur whose abiding passion is poetry. His poems, fusing native Igbo culture, European Classicism, U.S. Mountain West settings, and Hip-Hop in-fluences, have appeared widely, most recently in IthacaLit, String Poet, The Raintown Review, Angle Poetry Journal, Featherlit, Outside In Journal, Don’t Just Sit There, Qarrtsiluni, and Level-er. He is editor at Kin Poetry Journal andThe Nervous breakdown, founder and curator at the @ColoradoPoetry Twitter project.

Uche Ogbuji

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Rainbow Children

WhiteLight,Naked,IncidentOn my planed, solid,Translucent surfaces fan outInto coral prominence of nature’s favored hues.

StoutGlass,CulturedAnd openedTo the scattered beamsOf sky-trained illuminationTurns out watercolored gems on a genetic lathe.

Sojourn

Having learned a life of steady transience,An even wavelength over Earth’s taut crust,I mark what I desire by my absence,Having learned a life of steady transience.

What I ache for swings our dance against its pull,Works a centripetal tide on my humorsSo I’m moving fastest at resultant null,Swing-flung against my object’s very pull.

Strangely, I open most at the wave’s trough and crest,At the still point, yet moving towards, yet away,My triune reaction to sweetly behest,I flower strangely at the wave’s trough and crest.

Do I pair-dance best with my arms outstretched?Am I most productive working au séjours?So crush me at the closest as I kedge!A contact that won’t fade, arms outstretched.

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Geller’s work starts on page 62

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While music has played the driving force in his business career, Otha “Vakseen” Davis III’s passion for the arts has served as his key to san-ity in the fast paced entertainment industry. Drawing inspiration from women, emotions, music and the African American experience, his mixed media acrylic, oil and wa-ter color paintings on canvas have been sold to collectors and art en-thusiasts throughout Los Angeles and the Southeast region of the U.S.

Otha "Vakseen" Davis IIIwww.vakseen.com

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Otha "Vakseen" Davis IIIWhile he’s only been on the art scene since January 2012, Otha has had a month and a half solo exhibition at the Emerging Art Scene Gallery in Atlanta; and showcased his art at Los Angeles’ Norbertellen Gallery, Noho Art Gallery, Stay Gallery, Larrabee Studios, Aquarium of the Pacif-ic, ATX by Kitchen12000, The Key Club, Media Temple Studios and M. Bird Salon, to name a few. His work has also been featured in over 20 literary art magazines.

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Davis’ work continues on page 82

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Carolyn MooreCarolyn Moore’s four chapbooks won their re-spective competitions, as has her book-length poetry collection, What Euclid’s Third Axiom Neglects To Mention about Circles, published in 2013 as winner of the White Pine Poetry Press Prize. Moore taught at Humboldt State University (Arcata, CA) until able to eke out a living as a free-lance writer and researcher, working from the last vestige of the family farm in Tigard, Oregon.

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The Cult of Celebrity

Joining could not be easier. Flick onthe remote at six o’clock and get the Newsto sponsor you. Wait out reports of war,famine, and pesky pestilence. Jack upthe volume for the buzz from Hollywood.Morning people may prefer to searchfor the newspaper when a careless tossmisses the drive and wet grass makes the tearsof the pop star leaving court seem damper still.

Or if you judge yourself cerebral, readunauthorized biographies of writers.Skip their actual work, but track their gravedates: April is the cruelest month for deathsof famous writers: Shakespeare, Twain, Cervantes.Pencil in Wordsworth, Byron, Ginsberg, Crane,if those seem useful. Women scribblers tendto skirt this month for dying. Charlotte Bröntemissed it by one night and sister Annecoughed into May, the month Death kindly stoppedfor Dickinson. Share such obits with friendsin awe of literati-celebrity.

If myth or leaning Cambellesque is moreyour style, then pick a pet motif or choosefrom among the ancient godlings. Skewer oneon your swizzle stick for cocktail hour chat.Mars: currently passé—but goddessesonce kicked around by Christ’s earliest churchare back in favor. Membership benefits?Celebrity’s the afterlife for fanswho’ve lost their former faiths—and aren’t we fanswhether of Marilyn Monroe or Marx?Einstein or Elvis? It’s up to us to giveour dear and famous dead their lilied Easter.Film, that easy resurrection, holdsthe power to bring-‘em-back-alive. Once morewe see Hendrix, Joplin, Marley. And Peter Toshagain croons “Keep on a-walkin’—don’tlook back” on SNL with Jagger (Mick— [cont., no stanza break]

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Sir Mick—yet breathes, of course). If fave-celebslive on and on, then why not you and I?

A former Pope made Guinness with record statsfor Blesseds ramrodded down cannon mouthsand shot toward Saint Celebrity’s far star.Saint Theresa passed Uranus lastWednesday and nears poor Pluto,his celeb and planet status lately stripped.

Ancient Egyptians preserved organs vitalfor their afterlife. Jars containing hearts,livers, kidneys, lungs and guts have longoutlasted missing minds tossed out as offal.

[“The Cult of Celebrity,” cont., no stanza break]

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Disney Brainstorming Session on Ride Concept #5738

Coffee and legal pads all set?Okay, picture this: at the gatean eight-foot Sherpa musician tootsand plinks in celluloid locomotion.

Beyond a giant chrysanthemum,a few old favorites: Tinkerbell,mermaids, a flummadiddle choir—all dressed in rubber sea boots.

Fantasy wearies? We fall backon nature: pipe in a doomed rhino’sgrunts or that lush thud a goshawkmakes, slamming blind into a tree.

Let’s not forget Axiom 12:early on, goose the ticket-holder,but end with comfort and connection.Those bachelor seals mooning for mates—

who has not lived the Jungle Cruise?Axiom 35: when all else fails,a hologram. Let ultravioletelectrons scramble and conspire.

Let manganese align with lesserores to sieve feeling to fineparticles, safe as crumbs from toast.O brave new ride! Goliath himself

could do no better—not even backbefore his luck and celebrityran out and whathisname sent inthat little guy to pull the plug.

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“As a creative mind, the arts have played a major role in my life from a young age. I grew up overweight, so I wasn’t always the most confident. I never really had a voice until I grew older. Sometimes you can’t find the words to express your innermost thoughts and feelings and art always served as that emotional release for me. Art and creativity tend to play the role of my therapist and help me maintain sanity in this crazy world. The paintbrush is my weapon of choice these days as I create mixed media paintings us-ing acrylics or oil with water color. It’s never been my intention, but red, black and white always seem to be a common denominator in my pieces. I didn’t even realize this until a friend brought it to my attention. I’ve al-ways loved the dramatic contrast and power that black and white images create. At the same time, red is so sensitive. Red is intense and one of those colors that automatically demands your attention. The combination of these three elements allow me to create so much depth and emotion so I guess I’m just naturally drawn to them. I’m invigorat-ed by relationships, feelings and emotions.

Davis’ work starts on page 74

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I’ve always felt they were God’s greatest creation, so my work tends to evolve around women and their natural allure. Women are very emotion-al beings so naturally they allow me to channel various energies through my work. I guess for a man I’ve always been rather in tune with my feel-ings and emotions, so I want to suck you into my world, even if it’s just for a brief moment. I want my work to captivate the viewer’s senses.”

- Otha “Vakseen” Davis- 84 -

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www.facebook.com/latomateragaleria

Artistas Exponiendo en La Tomatera Actualmente/ Artists Currently Exhibiting at La Tomatera:

Nathalia GallegoIván SalazarSilvana Pabón

Mauro Rebolledo

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Después de 5 meses de trabajo en el diseño, exploración, experimentación y montaje, La Tomatera Galería Café abrió al publico el pasado 28 de noviembre en el bario san Antonio de la ciudad de Cali, Colombia. Nos complace anunciar que, a partir de esta edición, Middle Gray Magazine incluirá una selección del arte actualmente en exhibición en La Tomatera.

La Tomatera Galería Café, es un espacio pensado y diseñado para los amantes de la ilustración, la fotografía, el diseño, el arte y la buena cocina. El objetivo es ofrecer un lugar para la exposición y promoción de artistas locales, brindándole al publico obras que se ajusten a diferentes presupues-tos -- bajo un modelo rentable para los artistas -- así como una oferta gas-tronómica variada, con el fin de ofrecer experiencias diferentes en la ciudad.“En La Tomatera estamos comprometidos con la diversidad y creación con-stante de nuevas opciones para nuestro público. Para esto siempre estamos en búsqueda de nuevos artistas, fotógrafos y sabores.” explica el fundador Iván Salazar.

The Middle Gray y La Tomatera seguirán trabajando juntos buscando for-mas de beneficiar y acercar a nuestras respectivas comunidades.

After 5 months of design, exploration, experimentation and set-up, La To-matera Gallery Café opened its doors on November 28 of last year, in the historic neighborhood of San Antonio, in Cali, Colombia. We’re pleased to announce that, starting with our current issue, Middle Gray Magazine will include a selection of the artwork currently being shown at La Tomatera.

La Tomatera is a space designed for enthusiasts of illustration, photography, design, art and good food. They have built a place dedicated to showcasing and promoting local artists, providing their audience with artwork for every budget in a model that’s profitable for the artists. This, in addition to a di-verse food offering, aims to offer a new experience to their community. “At La Tomatera we’re commited to diversity and to bringing new options to our public. We’re always in search of new artists and new flavors.” explains founder Iván Salazar.

The Middle Gray and La Tomatera will continue to work together, seeking new ways to benefit our respective communities and to bring them closer together.

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Nathalia Gallego

La artista urbana Nathalia Gallego Sánchez es estudiante de Diseño Gráfico y Licenciatura en Artes Visuales en la Universidad del Valle de la ciudad de Cali. Nathalia es muy apegada a la experi-mentación con diferentes técnicas y materiales, y ha desarrollado su técnica en los papeles de su casa desde los 3 años y en los muros de Cali desde los 15. Las líneas de sus obras manejan una temáti-ca poco usual a través de la cual relata sus historias personales.

En la serie “Genealogía”, Nathalia representa la ascenden-cia y descendencia de su árbol genealógico a través de 3 mascar-as, las cuales son creadas con un trazo intuitivo pero consciente.

In the series “Genealogia” (Genealogy), Nathalia por-trays the heritage and the succession of her own family tree through three masks, in a style that’s intuitive but resolute.

Genealogia

Genealogy

www.facebook.com/pages/GLeo/104661309576440?fref=ts

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Nathalia Gallego

La artista urbana Nathalia Gallego Sánchez es estudiante de Diseño Gráfico y Licenciatura en Artes Visuales en la Universidad del Valle de la ciudad de Cali. Nathalia es muy apegada a la experi-mentación con diferentes técnicas y materiales, y ha desarrollado su técnica en los papeles de su casa desde los 3 años y en los muros de Cali desde los 15. Las líneas de sus obras manejan una temáti-ca poco usual a través de la cual relata sus historias personales.

Urban artist Nathalia Gallego is a student of Graphic Design and Vi-sual Arts at the Universidad del Valle in Cali, Colombia. She’s fond of experimenting with diverse techniques and materials, and her develop-ment as an artist has taken her from illustration to street art. The lines of her work reveal unusual themes through which she shares her story.

In the series “Genealogia” (Genealogy), Nathalia por-trays the heritage and the succession of her own family tree through three masks, in a style that’s intuitive but resolute.

www.facebook.com/pages/GLeo/104661309576440?fref=ts

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Iván Salazar

Iván Salazar es un fotógrafo y diseñador industrial de Cali, Colombia. Un amante de las técnicas tradicionales análogas de fotografía, siempre busca observar la luz y la manera en que ésta esculpa el paisaje frente a él. Estudió fotografía en LaSalle College y diseño industrial en la Pontificia Universidad Javeriana, ambas ubicadas en Bogotá, Colombia.

www.facebook.com/ivansalazarmicolta www.fotografiaprofesional.com.co

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Iván Salazar

Ivan Salazar is a photographer and industrial designer from Cali, Colombia. He’s drawn to traditional techniques of analog photography, and is constantly looking at the way light shapes the landscapes before his eyes. He studied photography at La-Salle College, and industrial design at the Universidad Javeriana, both in Bogota.

www.facebook.com/ivansalazarmicolta www.fotografiaprofesional.com.co

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En los últimos años, Iván ha estado trabajando en encontrar imágenes que llaman su atención de una forma intuitiva, basándose en la manera en que la luz recae sobre las escenas a capturar, en sus colores y en sus formas. Iván imagina todo como si tuviese la cámara adherida su ojo y en ocasiones se lamenta no poder llevarla con el a todas partes.

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In recent years, Ivan Salazar has worked with images that draw his attention in an intuitive manner, based on a visceral reaction to lighting, shape and col-or. Iván seeks to look at everything as though his eye were the lens of his cam-era, and often laments not being able to have his camera with him at all times.

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Silvana Pabón revive la esencia de objetos abandonados, creando una nueva percepción a partir del dinamismo del color. En la colección “Objetos Imposibles” la artis-ta encuentra inspiración en ciertos objetos cotidianos y transforma su función esencial desafiando los límites de lo lógico para crear una percepción irracional. Su con-cepto artístico es caracterizado por el absurdo, el hu-mor, las vibraciones del color y la fuerza del movimiento.

Silvana Pabónwww.silvanapabon.com + www.flickr.com/photos/silvanapabon

Objetos Imposibles

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Silvana Pabón revive la esencia de objetos abandonados, creando una nueva percepción a partir del dinamismo del color. En la colección “Objetos Imposibles” la artis-ta encuentra inspiración en ciertos objetos cotidianos y transforma su función esencial desafiando los límites de lo lógico para crear una percepción irracional. Su con-cepto artístico es caracterizado por el absurdo, el hu-mor, las vibraciones del color y la fuerza del movimiento.

Silvana Pabón revives the essence of abandoned objects, transforming the way they’re perceived through her dy-namic use of color. In her series “Objetos Imposibles” (Im-possible Objects) the artist finds inspiration in mundane objects and transforms their essential function, stretch-ing the limits of the logical in order to create irrational perceptions. Her work is grounded on the absurd, hu-mor, the vibrations of color and the force of movement.

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Mauro Rebolledowww.DecorarConFotos.com.co

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Nick KanozikNick Kanozik is a composer, multi-instrumentalist, visual artist, and book artist. Born in Munich, Germany, he has lived in Arizona, Texas, Minnesota, Kentucky and now California. He holds an MA in Music Compo-sition from Mills College and a BM in Composition from the University of North Texas. He has performed in a variety of ensembles from sym-phony orchestras, Indonesian gamelans, marching bands, classical and new music chamber groups, jazz combos to electronic/dance collabora-tions. Additionally, he has performed in theatrical, improvisatory, and intermedia contexts for luminary artists such as David Bithell, Ikue Mori, and Pauline Oliveros. His compositions have been performed by the Eclipse string quartet, the UNT chamber orchestra, the Mills Contempo-rary Performance Ensemble, and Roscoe Mitchell’s Improvisation Workshop.

He currently teaches piano, voice, and clarinet at two music studios in the San Francisco Bay Area, in addition to conducting workshops and guest lec-tures as a volunteer staff member in the Book Art Department at Mills College.

In 2009, Kanozik took an interest in book art. The medium enabled him to both organize and present his uniquely visual composition process in an artistic way. Although many of his works present sonic environ-ments in tandem with these visual processes, Mr. Kanozik is also in-terested in conceiving intermedia works whose components can stand in and of themselves. This pursuit has led him to create Three dimension-al scores, theatrical works in which objects are used to conduct in-strumentalists, and the workshop series “The Sonically Minded Book”.

www.nickkanozik.com

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“A sonically minded book is a book made with intent to communicate sound through an aspect of the content (text / image) or an aspect of the production (materials used).

We must break the conception that books are silence. We flick pages, we rub cor-ners, we tap spines, we caress covers, we fold, we rip...each action, a sound. By promoting discussion that traverses music and book art we develop tangi-ble venues, instruments with pages, artifactual modulations, etc. Let us cre-ate books that strengthen content through integration of sight, sound, and touch.

We must break the conception that music is intangible or invisible. We feel the vibration, the pulse, and meter. So too touch is integral to any musical instru-ment. To those that see landscapes of objects, shapes, colors, or lines it is time to create your lexicon. Contribute to the creation and cultivation of a genre.

Concern yourself with a book which:I. activates an internal sound when manipulated. II. activates an external sound when manipulated. III. can be performed as an instrument. IV. implies sound through sonic metaphor, text, image, or symbols. V. is read like a score in three dimensions.VI. always makes sound.

Let us not compete with technological advancements and instead utilize them in artist books as a means to augment the vocabulary of sonic, visual, and tactile cues. Partner with the similarities and, most importantly, emphasize the differences. Be assured, there is no end in sight for the sentimental, the nuance, the feel. Let us make circuits with spines, amplified folios, sonic book sculptures, synthesizer books, three-dimensional scores.”

Sonically Minded Books

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Synthesizer Books

Collaboration: The Phlegmatic (2012) 4.5”x2.4”x2.2” Synthesizer Book | Mixed Media Circuitry built by Nick Wang

The circuit uses two oscillators that produce audio frequencies and a single tran-sistor voltage controlled amplifier (which controls volume). The two oscillators are built using 555 timer integrated circuits with photo-resistors added that give an element of light sensitivity to the pitch of the sound. There’s also a low-pass filter that uses a photo-resistor so that the light alters the color of the sound as well.

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Covenants Not to Compete Volumes I, II, and III (2013) Synthesizer Books | Mixed Media Nick Kanozik and Taurin Barrera

Three volumes were sculpted into interactive art objects by embedding prepared music chimes, contact microphones, as well as synthesizers built by multime-dia artist Taurin Barerra. This work elicits a pact with visual and sonic art-forms in a way similar to the text’s function in law: a covenant not to compete.

Volume I: Light

For this circuit, two photoresistors and a C74C14 chip turn light into sound. Very subtle gestures and movements that cast shadows upon the photoresistors can pro-duce wavering and harmonic oscillations. When this circuit detects bright sun-light it’s pitches are incredibly high - beyond the range of human hearing. When shadows are cast upon this circuit, its tones enter the realm of human hearing and turn movement and light into twinkling sequences of analog enlightenment.

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Volume III: Touch

Based upon two LM386N chips, this circuit generates beautiful oscillating white noise that responds to atmospheric electromagnetic waves. This circuit is the unique result of experiments with white noise, feedback, and skin capacitance. When touched, conductive pads diffuse electricity through the skin to create a palette of “fierce” sounds. Applying full pressure to both pads shorts the circuit. However, by applying very delicate pressure, this circuit produces harmonic sirens, fierce bobcat tones, and polyrhythmic clicks and pulses. To generate a variety of sounds it is necessary to apply the most subtle touch, just the right amount of energy.

Volume II: Pulse

Built with a CD4093 chip, this circuit drives two oscillators that may be controlled in terms of pitch, tempo, and volume. This synthesizer can generate a full spectrum of flanging drones, phasing polyrhythms, and rhythmic pulses. Meant to be played and performed with, this synthesizer is intended for use in the exploration of the other-worldly sonic realms. Touch, twist, and modulate the invisible waves that surround you.

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Three-Dimensional ScoresPapillon (2011) 3”x3”x.5” Mixed Media Floor Tom | Cymbal | Piano | Crotales

A hand held three-dimensional score. Papillon exists in a series of pocket 3D scores that explore space in notation. The materials used in this artifact were compiled specifically for the instruments used in the performance. Mylar stands in place of silence, a single drop of violet ink for a piano articulation, white glue for cymbal accents, two pieces of book board covered in black fabric trans-lates of two drum articulations, and three colors of thread (light violet, pink, and magenta) communicate three pitches to be performed on crotales. The crotale player is to trace the thread with their eyes at a rate of five seconds per inch. The score dictates a linear order of events (drum, cymbal, piano, crotales, cym-bal, drum) that seeks to account for the symmetrical appearance of the object.

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Butterfly and Mariposa (2011) Pocket Score Prototypes 3”x3”x.5”

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Klangfarben Structure (2012) 25”x10”x10” Tenor Saxophone | Cello | Percussion | Piano Thread | India Ink | Bristol | Mylar

This sculpture is read like a score at a rate of five seconds per inch. The thread tells the musicians how loud to play (width of the thread), what pitch and/or timbre to play (color), and when to play (surrounding structural elements).

Klangfarben Structure extends the ideas in Papillon to explore space in notation. This object’s form is constructed with two main ideas. The first being the structur-al component which utilizes three 140lb bristle paper sheets that dictate infor-mation to be performed by percussive instruments (snare with brushes and piano). The second aspect is the content of the structure, colored thread. A hierarchi-cal color system is implemented to solidify which aspects of the structure are to be read by which instrumentalists. Dark orange/red, and orange sewing thread is to be followed by the cellist. Orange book thread is to be followed by the saxophon-ist. Magenta and orange/yellow sewing thread for crotales. All unhued articulations stand for unpitched percussion (grey is to be performed on the snares themselves). Ink is again used for piano. Utilizing the same pallet in sound and in color al-lows for a visual and sonic pairing that exemplifies a monochromatic reception.

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THe Middle Gray Café

The Middle Gray Shop on Etsy was born in an effort to support the The Middle Gray project by inte-grating Visual Arts and Culinary Arts and form-ing a sustainable Arts Café. All The proceeds from our Etsy Shop go towards funding the growth of The Middle Gray through various projects.

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