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illustration / John Raymund Koh 

위를 볼 때 가끔씩은 눈이 마주친다. 하지만 대부분은 그렇지 않다.

하늘은 보면 나는 천개의 깃털을 가지고 태양 가까이 날다 밀랍 날개가 녹아버린채   하늘 아래로 추락한 이카로스 생각을 한다. 그는 날개의 무게로 바다로 떨어질 때까지 허공을 날면서 웃었지만 결국엔 이카로스의 힘을 앗아가버린 태양을 마주했다. 그렇지만 아이러니다; 나는 방법을 알아낸 소년은 계속 아래를 향해서 보다 드디어 위를 봤을 때는 이미 늦어버린거다. 사람들이 말 한다, 이카로스는 날개가 없어진 것을 깨달았을 때까지 날개를 퍼덕거렸다, 그리고 그는 갈색 검은색 흰색의 깃털이 떠있는 허공을 지나서 바람에 실려갔다. 이카로스의 날기가 멈추고 위를 보았을 때 그를 돌아 봐 주지 않았다.

이카로스의 전설은 자만심과 무심함의 비극으로 남아야만 한다. 사람들은 아카로스의 비상이 아닌, 이카로스의 추락을 얘기한다. 새빨간 태양 아래와 반짝거리는 청롱색의 물결 위를 나르던 이카로스의 생각과 느낌들을 우리는 알 수 없다.

아래를 볼 때 가끔씩 눈이 마주치지 않는다. 하지만 대부분은 마주친다.

Thoughts from the translator, Elaine Park:

illustration / John Raymund Koh

Ma tête est comme une zone de guerre, mes pénsées   filent et sautent comme des bombes. Mais mes bras, ils trémblent comme deux branches fragile dans un ouragan

Mon visage n’est pas juste le peau d’une pomme mûr; c’est plutot un feu hurlant qui s’enflamme l’essence de ma sueur sur mes bras et mes mains; et tout à coup je suis un feu de forêt qui explose devant la classe, mais ils n’entendent pas de crépitement; ils entendent le gémissement silencieux de ma sang qui arrêtre et les racines de mes veines alignent mes bras brûlent qui virer en bleu.

Je brûle et gele au même temps.

Et dans le sillage de quarante paires des yeux qui foncent à le paradox de ma catastrophe naturelle, je me trouve une épave et ils sont tous phares, leur lumières fluorescentes em- palant ajoute du vapeur au feu. Ils demandent si il y’en a des survivants.

N’y en a pas de bateau de secours qui arrive.

Le lendemain matin, la plus proche côte a devenu un labyrinthe de bois flottant et cendres, et il l’avait tellement que la plage était un obsidienne nape décoré par des morceaux d’un buste cassé.

Thoughts from the translator, Ingrid Liu:

illustration / Sue Yoon 

il cache la lumière dans des bouteilles d’alcool

saigne du regret violet et il se coupe

sur du brise de verre,

après il reconstitue tous les morceaux de verre cassé qui ne

sera plus entière — juste présentable

parce que les murs de vitraux ne cache pas

les lignes fissures et les bords pointus

mais il dit que ça c’est une form d’art;

on colorier la transparence.

les nuances rayonnantes, lumineuses mais

même si il peint

des couches sur des couches,

ça ne suffira pas.

les brisures

ne refissuer pas;

il brise.

Thoughts from the translator, Ingrid Liu:

illustration / John Raymund Koh

Anna a appris quelque chose ce samedi.

Elle a appris que tu n’avait pas besoin des yeux pour voir les morts.

Elle était assise là sur un tabouret en bois, buvant une petite verre de champagne en plastique. Le boisson était bon en quelques aspects, mais aussi mauvais dans les autres. Un samedi froid, tous les liqueurs était bons, comme la chaleur et le respect toutes les choses qu’Anna souhaitait elle en avait de plus, maintenant que son coeur était douloureux. Pourtant, le champagne bon-marché n’était pas à sa place dans ce pub, c’était trop moderne. Il était tout simplement pas assez rustique. Mais ce n’était pas comme si Anna pouvait voir si elle correspondait avec le décor ou pas de toute façon. Elle ne pouvait pas voir quoi que ce soit, sauf quelque ombres et, bien sûr, les visages des morts.  

Elle avait une main posée sur les flancs de son fidèle labrador noir, son chien-guide très affectueux, pas beaucoup plus vieux qu’un chiot. Le labrador était un bon compagnon, fidèle et fort. La loyauté et la force étaient les choses dont Anna en avait besoin dans sa vie à ce moment, surtout maintenant que son mari de dix-huit ans venait de la quitter.

Elle n’avait jamais vu son visage, parce que les visages des vivant lui était invisible, comme les visages des morts étaient invisible à d’autres personnes, mais, elle pouvait souvenir d’autres choses. Elle pouvait se : l’odeur de son cologne quand il s’enfoncait dans les oreillers à côte d’elle sur le lit. Elle pouvait se rappelait les lunettes qu’il enlevait de la racine de son nez et déposait à côte d’elle chaque nuit. Ses amis lui comparaient à Adonis. Il était parfait. Anna ne savait pas si elle était parfaite aussi. Elle était pas sûr si ses amis disaient la verité quand ils l’appelaient belle. Et Anna, incapable de voir, decida qu’ils étaient tous des menteurs. Mais pourtant, malgré l’aveuglement et la confusion, Anna avait marié l’homme parfait.

Il était parfait sauf qu’il l’avait quitté.

Même après dix-huit ans, elle avait du lui rappeler la nouveauté qu’elle ne pouvait pas voir. Son narcissisme l’avait tiré vers elle, vers quelqu’un qui ne pouvait pas glorifier dans son beauté classique. En d’autres mots, il adorait d’être adorer. Et Anna, parce qu’elle était incapable de voir sa beauté, lui donnait l’impression que c’etait un jeu. Il a du la convaincre qu’elle l’aimait à cause de quelque chose d’autre. Elle a du l’aimer pour les ombres de son visage, la fille aveugle creant des visions de dieux et d’héros chaque fois qu’elle se passait les doigts sur sa mâchoire ciselée et ses bras musclés. Elle pouvait se rappeler la première fois qu’il l’avait demandé comment elle voyait:

<<Anna, quand tu me regards, qu’est ce que tu vois?>>

-<<Je n’ai pas besoin de te regarder pour savoir que tu est beau.>>

Mais Adonis, même s’il se croyait être un dieu, ne pouvait pas comprendre le talent d’Anna pour voir les morts. Il s’était silencieux quand Anna lui avait dit qu’elle pouvait voir les morts. Il était silencieux quand elle l’avait embrassé. Elle pouvait le sentir en train de la juger, croyant qu’elle était folle. Elle pouvait sentir pour la première fois dans dix-huit ans qu’il s’éloignait de son baiser. Il la jugait aussi sévèrement que s’il était un vrais dieu grec, Adonis manifeste, et elle une mortelle modeste. Ses larges épaules se tendirent et ses lèvres, normalement douces, étaient immobiles. Tout à coup, son aveuglement n’était plus la nouveauté comme avant. Tout à coup, c’était Anna la folle, pas lui, pas Narcissus, parce qu’il ne pouvait jamais faire de fautes. Il l’avait quitté pour une femme qui pouvait le voir pour qui il était vraiment.  Il l'avait quitté pour quelqu’un qui laissait les morts tranquilles dans leurs tombes.

<<Je suis folle. >>

Elle chuchotât à son chien, le campagne tiède coulant dans sa gorge comme le sang,  

<< Je suis aveugle, aveugle et folle. >>

Sur ses doigts pâle, elle sentait la chaleur du souffle de son chien-guide. Anna revint à boire du champagne, ses yeux bleus et gelés incapable de voir l’orage de neige passant dehors.

<<Chut. >>

Elle dit, en tapant les flancs de son chien, grognant à quelque chose hors de la fenêtre. Anna tournait son cou paresseusement pour voir à quoi il grognait . Quand Anna voyait un visage apparaître de la brune, elle sentait un peu jaloux. Le fantôme, au moins, pouvait la voir. Anna pouvait seulement voir que le fantôme était un ombre bleu brillent, comme une flamme, une flamme effrayante et froide que seulement elle pouvait la sentir. Mais Anna, même s’elle était aveugle, pouvait la voir. La majorité de gens autour d’elle ne voyaient que d’un espace vide.

Oui, en quelque aspects, Anna avait la chance.

Anna regardait le fantôme en baîllant dans sa écharpe en laine chaude.  Elle le chuchotait:

<< Bonjourr>>

Le visage du fantôme vacillait devant Anna, sa flamme bleue brillante faisait des étincelles contre les ombres du monde normale.

<< Vous avez besoin d’aide, madame?>>, dit le barman.

Anna discernait selon les formes d’ombres qu’il était un homme rond en train de la regarder sincèrement. Anna pouvait sentir son visage curieux juste quelque centimètres de son propre visage.  

<<Non. Lassiez le champagne. >>, Anna répondait silencieusement. Ses deuxième paire des yeux étaient fixé sur la flamme bleue pâle qui faisait des étincelles devant elle.

<<Bon. D’accord, madame. Ça va.>>, Le barman répondait.

Il haussait ses épaules et la donnait un autre bouteille de champagne et un seau à glace. Anna asseyait sur le tabouret en bois rustique, un feu chaud derrière son dos et une fenêtre froide devant elle. Son pauvre chien gémissait et ses poils sur le long de son épine dorsale hérissait. Anna le tairait pour un autre fois et regardait le fantôme bleu et dit:

<<Bonjourrr, petit fantôme>>

La flamme hochait la tête. Anna pouvait entendre un voix d’une femme qui dérivait de l'obscurité. Le voix était perçant et pas sûr.

<< Vous pouvez m’entendre?>>, elle demandait.

Elle approchait un peu plus près d’Anna.

<<Vous pouvez me voir?>>, elle demandait encore.

Anna rigolait à ça. Elle ne pouvait pas retenir son rire.

<< Je peux voir plus que les autres. Et mes oreilles sont, vraiment, mieux que ma vue.>>, Elle répondait.

<< Est-ce que vous pouvait lui dire quelque chose pour moi? >> L’âme était surexcité et elle parlait de plus en plus vite qu’Anna ne pouvait plus la comprendre:

<<Est-ce que vous pouvez dire à lui que je l’aime? Est-ce que vous pouvez lui dire que tu me manques? Est-ce que vous pouvez lui dire que je suis parfaitement d’accord d’être mort et il peut-? >>

Anna se levait sa main et l’âme devenait plus faible dans sa vue, déçu.

<<Ah, lentement. D’abord dites-moi à qui vous voulez parler. >>

L’âme arrêtait, vacillant et pas sûr. Anna croisait ses bras et attendait.

<<Le barman..je veux que vous dites à le barman que...que Gina l’aimera pour toujours. Est-ce que vous pouvez faire ça? >>, elle répondait.  

Anna réfléchissait. L’âme avait plus de chance qu’elle. Pourquoi devrait-elle aider les morts? Les morts ne l’aidaient pas. Mais, les morts ne pouvaient pas faire plus du mal que les vivants. Les morts, pourtant, avait besoin d’elle. C’était qu’Anna. Anna ne pouvaient pas être jeter pour quelqu’un qui pouvait voir parce qu’ils étaient aveuglé à les cris de morts.

L’âme vacillait pour un autre fois.

Le chien se mettait sa tête sous ses pattes et donnait un hurlement deçu.

<< Suis vraiment désolé, madame >>

Le barman s'affairait vers elle, un chiffon frôlant les mains d’Anna ou l’homme avait nettoyé en hâte ses ongles avec son tablier.

<< Mais est-ce que vous pouvez taire le chien? Les autres cilents sont un peu fâcher. >>, disait le barman.   

Anna s’est levée et, avec aucun bruit, poussé le tabouret à son coin. Elle fait basculé la verre et a bu tout le champagne dans une gorgée. Après des tâtonnements avec son portefeuille, elle a laissé un gros billet sur la table, beaucoup plus qu’elle devait payer pour le liqueur bon marché. Mais le barman était trop choqué pour se ficher.  

Il a regardé la fenêtre, incrédule, et a trouvé un petit coeur qui était gravé sur la verre. Il lit <<Gina t’aime >>. Le barman a chuté le chiffon sur la cheville d’Anna. Et, à ce exact moment, Anna ne pouvait pas s'empêcher de sourire.

<< Gina….>> Le barman a frappé ses doigts sur le verre. << Gina! >>

Thoughts from the translator, Ingrid Liu:

from top to bottom: Evening Drift, Forest Drifter, Lost and Found and Leaving Again, Autumn Gold

from top to bottom: Birches, Sarkar

(via https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2xxfdlyL2qQ)

illustration / John Raymund Koh

Anna learned something that Saturday.

She learned that you didn’t need to have eyesight to be able to see dead people.

She sat there on a wooden barstool, sipping from a small, plastic flute of champagne. The drink was good in some things, but it was just as bad in others. On a cold winter’s Saturday, all liquor tasted good, like warmth and respect and all those things that Anna wished she had more of right now when it came to her aching heart. But in other ways, the cheap champagne was out of place in the pub, too modern. It just wasn’t rustic enough. But it wasn’t as if Anna could see if it matched with the décor or not anyways. She couldn’t see anything but a few shadows and, of course, the faces of the dead.

She had one hand resting on the flanks of her trusty black lab, a sweet guide dog for her, not much older than a puppy really. The lab was a good companion, loyal and strong. Loyalty and strength were the things Anna needed in her life at this time, especially now when Anna’s husband of eighteen years had just left her.

She had never seen his face, since living faces were invisible to her as the dead faces were to other people, but she could still remember the other things. She could remember the scent of his cologne as he sank into the pillows beside her on the bed. She could remember the glasses he took off the bridge of his nose and set beside her each and every night. Her sighted friends compared him to Adonis. He was perfect. Anna didn't know whether or not she was perfect, too. She was unsure if her friends really meant it when they called her beautiful. And Anna, not being able to see, firmly decided they were all liars. Yet somehow, despite the blindness and confusion, Anna married to the perfect man.

He was perfect except for leaving her.

After eighteen years, he still had to be reminded of the novelty of her not being able to see. His own narcissism drew him towards her, towards someone who could not glorify in his classical handsomeness. In other words, he loved to be loved. And Anna, not being able to see how beautiful he was, made it like a game for him. He had to convince her that she loved him because of something else. She had to love Adonis for the shadows she saw of his face, the blind girl creating visions of gods and heroes whenever she ran her fingers across his chiseled jaw or muscular arms. She could remember the first time he asked her how she saw him.

“Anna, how do I look when you look at me?”

“I don’t have to look at you to know that you are beautiful.”

But Adonis, despite being a god in his own mind, could not comprehend Anna’s special talent for seeing the dead. He had stood there in silence when Anna told him that she could see the dead. He was silent as she kissed him. She could feel him judging her, thinking her insane. She could feel for the first time in eighteen years that he drew away from her kiss. He judged her as harshly as if he was an actual Grecian god, Adonis manifest, and she the lowly mortal. His broad shoulders tensed and his normally soft lips were left unmoving. Suddenly, her being blind wasn’t the novelty it once was. Suddenly, Anna was the crazy one. Not him, not Narcissus, for he could do no wrong. He left her for a woman who could see him for who he really was. He left her for someone who left the dead safely in their graves.

“I’m crazy,” she whispered to her lab, warm champagne trickling like blood down her throat, “I’m blind, blind and crazy.”

She felt the warmth of her guide dog’s hot breath panting against her pale fingers. Anna returned to sipping from the champagne flute again, ice-blue eyes seeing nothing of the winter storm outside.

“Hush,” she patted her lab’s flanks again as the guide dog growled at something outside the window. Anna turned her neck lazily around to see what the lab was barking at now. When Anna saw yet another face appear out of the mist, she regarded it with a kind of envy. The ghost, at least, could see her. All Anna could see of the ghost was a bright blue shadow, like a flame, a flame that gave off a chilling cold that only Anna was sensitive enough to feel. But Anna, even as blind as she was, could see the ghost. Most people around her saw nothing but white space.

Yes, in some ways, Anna was lucky.

Anna regarded the ghost with a delicate yawn into her warm, woolly scarf.  “Hullo…” She whispered up at it. The ghost’s face flickered before Anna’s second set of eyes, bright blue sparks against the regular-world shadows.

“You need help, mum?” The bartender, a round man from what Anna could discern of his shape from the shadows, peered earnestly into her face. Anna could feel his curious face just inches from her own.

“No,” Anna replied quietly, her second eyes still set on the pale blue flame flickering before her. “Leave the champagne.”

“Well enough, mum,” the helpful bartender shrugged and gave her another champagne bottle and a bucket of ice. “Well enough.”

Anna sat there on the rustic wooden barstool, a warm fire at her back and a cold window at her front. Her poor lab whined, fur bristling all along its spine. Anna shushed her dog again and faced the blue spirit. “Hullo there, little ghost…” 

The flame nodded. Anna could hear a woman’s voice drifting out from the darkness. It seemed shrill, unsure. “You can hear me?” It drifted closer. “You can see me?”

Anna giggled at that. She just couldn’t help it. “I can see more than the others can. And my hearing, I’ll have you know, is far superior to my eyesight.”

“Can you tell him something for me?” The spirit got excited, speaking faster and faster to the point that Anna could no longer keep up. “Can you tell him that I love him? Can you tell him that I need him? Can you tell him that I’m perfectly happy being dead and that he can—?”

Anna raised a hand and the spirit went dimmer in her sights, deflated. “Ah, take it one step at a time. Tell me who you wish to speak to, first.”

The spirit paused, flickering, unsure. Anna crossed her arms and waited.

“The bartender…” The spirit replied. “I want you to tell the bartender that…that Gina will always love him. Can you do that?”

Anna paused. The spirit had more than she had. Why should she help the dead any longer? The dead didn’t help her. But the dead hurt her less than the living did. The dead, at least, needed her. Anna was their one and only. Anna was no option to be discarded for someone who could see, who was blind to the cries of the dead.

The spirit flickered again.

The lab put its head beneath its paws and gave a sad, dejected howl.

“So sorry, mum,” The bartender bustled over, a rag brushing against Anna’s hands from where the man was hastily cleaning his nails with his apron. “But could you please quiet the dog? It’s getting the customers upset.”

Anna got up and, without a sound, pushed the barstool back into its nook. She tipped the champagne back and downed it in one gulp. Fumbling with her wallet, she ended up leaving a huge bill on the table, far more than she needed to pay for the cheap liquor. But the bartender was too shocked to care.

He looked to the window, incredulous, and found a little heart carved into the ice on the glass. It read “Gina loves you…” The bartender dropped the towel over Anna’s ankle. And, at that exact moment, Anna could only smile.  

“Gina…” The bartender tapped his fingers against the glass, “Gina!”

ABOUT THE WRITER // Sophia Whittemore is an author of the Chicago area who has signed a book contract for her YA fantasy novel, “The Funnyman”, published in the Halloween issue of Stinkwaves Literary Magazine, and won the Best Midwestern Writing award, first place in journalism and second in creative writing. She writes her characters based on inspiration from growing up as a half Indonesian with a Spanish, Pacific Islander, and Jewish heritage. She writes as an interracial, interfaith, and one-hundred percent introverted author. She is a seventeen-year old currently attending Benet Academy. In her spare time, you can find her trying to relearn Hebrew or attending DuPage Indonesian Association cultural events.

illustration / Sandra Moore

I miss you vaguely, strangely, as if you were the sky in Montreal. I look up and I see what looks like the image of you. It is part of you, an extension, a memory, maybe. It’s not the same and we both know it.

I would go back and see you if I could. I will one day. I think we have grown apart because, these days, I am unable to see you as anything other than a metaphor. I miss you strongly, impulsively, before I go inside, and before I go to sleep.

It rains in my dreams, sometimes, in the place where you never appear anymore and nothing ever stays the same.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR // Joanna Cleary is currently attending the University of Waterloo (that’s in Canada, eh). Her poetry has previously appeared in Cicada Magazine, Inklette, and Glass Kite Anthology. She also recently became a Poetry Reader for Inklette Magazine. When she is not writing, she can be found reading, eating various forms of chocolate, and, of course, thinking about writing.

illustration / John Raymund Koh

My mind is a war zone, thoughts zipping and bouncing like bombs. But my arms, they tremble like two frail branches in a hurricane

My face is not just the skin of a ripe apple; it is a screaming fire that ignites down the gasoline of sweat on my arms and palms; and all of a sudden I’m a wildfire exploding in front of the class, but they hear no crackle; they hear the silent moan of my blood halting and the roots of the veins lining my burning arms turning blue.

I burn up and freeze at the same time.

And in the wake of the forty eyes that dart across the paradox of my natural disaster, I find myself a wrecked ship and they are all lighthouses, their fluorescent im- paling lights adding steam to the fire. They wonder if there will be any survivors.

No rescue ship comes.

The next morning, the closest shore becomes a maze of driftwood and ash, and there is so much of it that the beach becomes an obsidian tablecloth decorated by the remnants of a broken chest.

ABOUT THE WRITER // Julia Dobel is a New Jersey native who spends the better part of her days drinking tea and daydreaming about her favorite characters. She can be typically be found wandering bookstores or eating pierogi. Sometimes she writes too.

illustration // Sandra Moore

 Do not treat me like your princess. You are not my prince, nor my knight in shining armour.

You are not my boyfriend, I am not your girlfriend.

You are not my "daddy" nor am I your "baby girl."

I am not your wife, and you are not my husband. I do not change from Miss to Mrs, I do not and will not change at all. We are not bound by paper and pen and people.

We are lovers. I am your lover and you are mine. We are the same.

We are each other's halves and we complete each other. Together we make a whole, complete, one.

One. A spiral, a circle, together we make. Never ending, never beginning, just like our love. One has no more authority over the other, nor does one have any less. Mind, body, and soul, locked in embrace. There is nothing false between us. We are pure. We are purity in its purest form. We know each other not by face or name, but by our hearts. Our thoughts, our feelings. We see ourselves through each other's eyes. There are no false identities, no make up or garments, for there is no need. We are bare, we are perfect.

To make one whole together, we must be the same, we must be equals. Then shall love blossom, and equals, we are.

ABOUT THE WRITER // Alisha Megan is a seventeen-year-old Year 12 student from Slough, Berkshire, England. She is of Punjabi Indian origin, and originally lived in Cranford, Middlesex. She had been writing for many years and has been published a few times by YoungWriters, but this is her first Parallel Ink venture. She mainly writes poetry, but has written short stories, songs and monologues and always saves writing ideas to use for future projects. She aspires to go to university and then be a screenwriter, barrister and musician (among other things, however improbable) because she does not believe in limiting yourself. She also plays the piano, sings (as a solo artist and in her school choir), and is an amateur tennis player. A VERY amateur tennis player.

special edition PI logo by Isla Lin Myles for the festival

We have some great news for the PI community! We are now an official youth media partner of the All In! Young Writer’s Media Festival 2016, organized by the National Book Development Council of Singapore, and on March 12, Parallel Ink will have the opportunity to host a panel discussion! PI's Director of Social Media, Clara, and fellow in-Singapore senior staff members Jamie, Vincent, Ingrid, Justine, and Seo Young will be discussing how young writers can get their work “out there” and become involved in online lit + art magazines. (More details on the panel here: http://all-in.bookcouncil.sg/2016/schedule.)

To all our in-Singapore PI family members -- hope to see you at the festival! It's an awesome opportunity for you to meet and talk to some established voices in the literary or visual arts scene -- there is a huge variety of workshops and seminars ranging from journalism to fashion blogging, and filmmaking to working with social media! (And you'll be supporting our little lit mag too, woohoo!)

This is really exciting for all of us here at Parallel Ink since we will be able to share our own experiences with a local audience of youth passionate about writing and art. We really hope you guys are interesting in signing up for the festival as well. Register by Jan. 31st to get a $10 discount on the normal prices (so sign up quick! http://all-in.bookcouncil.sg/2016/page/register-2016). Plus, go with a group of friends since there is an additional $5 discount for groups of 5+ people!

are you okay? (2015)

originally published in Sprout Magazine 

Catherine Zhao, the artist behind “are you okay?”, is certainly more than just okay at creating art. She’s the president of Lynbrook ArtReach at Lynbrook High School, where she makes crafts for communities around the Bay Area, and currently takes Studio Art in school. Catherine is an artist in 2D and 3D forms who isn’t afraid to explore new mediums, uncomfortable ideas, and insecurities. Besides this, she speaks English and Mandarin fluently, has a working knowledge of Spanish, and enjoys using her budding caricature and face painting skills to volunteer at school events such as homecoming or the school’s upcoming 50th jubilee. 

Parallel Ink illustrators were thrilled to exchange emails with Catherine to talk about her art series, the world of 3D art, and why - if she could talk to any artist in history - she would choose to talk with fellow art students.

Tell us about your art series!

The idea behind this series is that I have often noticed that while people ask me if I am okay when I am feeling down, it is often when I am laughing uncontrollably that they ask me this question. I wanted to present to the public the intense emotions I rarely show because of this mixup of emotions/irony and the fact that I always mask my true emotions, whether it is anger or sadness or surprise, with giggles.

Why do you make art?

For me, art is an outlet. Art is everything I cannot achieve in real life, a real life fantasy. I have always struggled with self-image and confidence, but through art, I am able to express myself. I am able to say all the things I’ve never said and do all the things I regret not doing. I am able to confront my fears and create without fear.

How would you describe your art style?

I admire those that can create a clean edge or a structured palette, but I would say my art style is very messy. It is loose and carefree, but not without a purpose. Art is a place where I can really let go, and I would say my art reflects that. I am someone who wants control in the real world, with my work and school, but I need to learn to let go. My path to being an imperfectionist is through stepping out of my comfort zone in art with the ragged, unfinished edges of my pieces.  

What’s your favorite artistic subject and medium? 

For a long time, I primarily focused more on technique with 2D mediums, such as graphite and color pencils. When I began taking art classes at my school, I was opened up to the world of 3D. The class made it seem like whatever I wanted to do, I could achieve. I wanted to hang photo frames from the ceiling? I created an installation from this waterfall of frames. I love transforming ordinary items, such as photo frames, by viewing them in a different perspective through art. Most of my artwork has to do with an internal challenge I face, usually something to do with my introverted character. By standing inside my frame installation, I wanted to express that I struggle with breaking free from my self-deprecating thoughts.  

If you could have a conversation with any artist (dead or living), who would it be and what would you talk about?

I would love to connect with art students my age all around the world, or even just at my school. I believe there is still much for me to learn about art. Just by following “The Sketchbook Project” on Facebook, I have seen many different styles of international work, but I would like to know the process behind people’s work. Just by chatting with the different members of the art department at my school, I have been able to experiment with caricature art and face painting, and I would love for this exploration to continue by talking to the unknown artists around me and in this world. 

Thank you, Catherine! Keep on making great art! 

illustration // Isla Myles 

(i’m writing about you again.) once in these stanzas i could visit cool quiet otherworlds and cleanse and soak wounds.

in the deeps of the violent and opulent written world gorged with blood where skies bloomed like poppies and rain gashed the stars, I forgot the shivering blankness of these pale walls and the lukewarm coil in my chest fell apart into fragments, if for only the length of a paragraph, a phrase.

but now you are in every sentence and no matter if I carve them from amber or quartz, flakes of your dead skin and ash from your cigarettes will still be in each consonant arch and in each vowel swoon.

now in every black sky, once a testament to the infinity of this star-choked universe where distant moons burn and cycle, I see the color of the clothes you wore when we sat under the sunrise while you smoked and that image consumes every vision of nordic seas or emerald jungles I used to drown in.

you stole my medium of leaving this world now you’re the entire cosmos that once were mine to cultivate.

so if worlds align and you pick up my book one day don’t be surprised to find your blood filling the pages and beating in the seams.