ISSUE 131 | NOVEMBER 2024 TITHI LUADTHONG AKA GRANDFAILURE 1984: JONNY DESTEFANO THE STRANGER: KRYSTI JOMÉI ANIMAL FARM: JULIANNA BECKERT NO EXIT: KAYVAN S. T. KHALATBARI CAT'S CRADLE: CRISTIN COLVIN GUT FEELING: MARK MOTHERSBAUGH SHEEPLE: MEGAN ARENSON NOTES FROM UNDERGROUND: MARIANO OREAMUNO, HANA ZITTEL, DS THORNBURG, PHIL GARZA, ZAC DUNN, MAGGIE D. FEDOROV, CRISTIN COLVIN, CONRAD FRANZEN, MARTY MANDRESH, LISA EBERHARTER FRONT COVER: DAVE DANZARA, SAME AS IT EVER WAS - @LOSTINTIMEDESIGNS BACK COVER: MARK MOTHERSBAUGH, FROM THE POSTCARD DIARIES: #HOPE#2020#0PTIMISM - BEST OF BIRDY 074 INSOMNIA: DAVE DANZARA, ZAC DUNN, JASON WHITE, BRIAN POLK, TYLER GROSS, NATE BALDING, BEATIE WOLFE, FRED ARMISEN, HANA ZITTEL, ERIC JOYNER, NICK FLOOK, RAY YOUNG CHU, KATE RUSSELL, JOSH KEYES, CHRIS AUSTIN, JOEL TAGERT, TOM MURPHY, GODRIC, TOMMY COYOTE, MOON PATROL NAUSEA: TITHI LUADTHONG, SELIN SERHII, ROSA JAY, AARON LONGSLEEVES, MARIO DE LOPEZ, MARK KEANE, KASSIIA SERGACHEVA, NINA PODLESNYAK, YULIYA DERBISHEVA, AMANDA SIROSKEY, LAURA DAVIDSON, LANCE RYAN MCGOLDRICK, PAUL TORRES, SOFIA HOWARD, ATLAS MEDIA, VALERIE ALVARADO, REYNA SANCHEZ SUPPORT OUR FRIENDS & BENEFACTORS: MEOW WOLF, BENNY BLANCO'S, MUTINY INFORMATION CAFE, POSTCARDS FOR DEMOCRACY, OFF THE BOTTLE REFILL SHOP, INN AT VANESSIE, MONKEY BARREL, TOXOPLASMA ARTS FOLLOW US – IG: @BIRDY.MAGAZINE | FB: @BIRDYMAGAZINE BE IN BIRDY – ART + WORDS + COMEDY + ET CETERA: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SUBMISSIONS MAILED SUBSCRIPTIONS + SINGLE & BACK ISSUES + MERCH: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/SHOP ADVERTISE IN BIRDY + SUPPORT US + HELP US GROW: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/CONTACT-US BIRDY IS FOR DEMOCRACY, POWER TO THE PEOPLE DAILY ©2024 BIRDY MAGAZINE, WATCHDOGS OF SOCIETY 1
CUJO AND THE DARTS BY ZAC DUNN ART BY SELIN SERHII
He stepped out of the van looking smug. She was not impressed. It had been a very dry spring and the boxes that were filled with DART-driven dreams were hungry to house the DENDROBATIDAE. LICK THE TOAD. The low monotone voice said from behind the black curtain of the cube in the back of the service station next to old Highway 7 that leads out to the dead oil field. The cages in the basement made the entire station smell like a swamp. They had bought the property because they knew about an old aquifer that was not protected and could be tapped easily. This would be very important for breeding and cloning the DART FROGS. Producing METHAMPHETAMINE had been quite lucrative but it was time to diversify into a more organic income stream. One that required less dealings with machine gun wielding cartel hoods than soccer moms who simply couldn’t find a reason not to blow their brains out while awaiting the NAIL SALON tech to dry their GEL NAILS. The gas station also served BOBA and shitty TACORITOS. The girl behind the counter greeted people with profound indifference so as not to leave any impression. This was a skill handed down to the ladies of the plains from GRAMS to TIKES. This quiet and profound facade of majestic confidence and apathy was one of the first things slayed into silence by the men who wielded long steel cannons on thunderous hooves. The gaze that penetrates and deflects the eye of the beholder is older and bolder than the eyes that could ever spy upon them. She would always give change and say thanks like a burden of admission that you took something from her and you would now owe her in perpetuity. As the man descended deep into the double-wide trailer he’d sunk into the ground behind the station, the smell of FROG FECES rumpled the stiltskin hairs on the back of his neck more profoundly with each step. The low groan of the small creatures in the dank expanse of the bunker was stark. The smell would envelope him first before the quiet dampness would hold his feet firmly down. The whole place seemed in order. All the sub-bass systems were in check, keeping the FROGS very happy and stimulated in the manner that would produce the most potent and unctuous DART essence to emit freely. HOWEVER, the secret was to allow the generations of DARTS to stack up and not touch any component of the organic conversation that was instigated within the microcosm of the bunker. He begrudgingly began to select his annual brood of several dozen prime specimens to harbor the bloodline safely. He’d chosen a remote inlet in OAXACA for his breeding facility with natural fortifications to prevent molestation by his sinister rivals. The entire DART movement and revolution had been started by him in a different iteration of his journey prior to the accident that would divert his focus from malice to alchemy and mysticism The sound of several large vehicles all pulling up in a convoy disturbed the incubator of DART magic. It reminded him that his vision would always attract the eyes and hands of greedy lessers who sought to unwind the thread by which he alone hung. It was very simple what would happen next: The girl behind the counter pressed a large red KILL SWITCH button next to the cash register. Massive steel plates dropped over the enclosure of the station. She sighed and grabbed her backpack, vexedly making her way to the broom closet that hid the cellar door to the station’s own self-contained bunker full of cozy accouterments. She chuckled as she closed the submarine style hatch shut and pulled the wooden handle that brought the piss-stained rug over to conceal the entrance. She turned on the closed-circuit display spread and popped open a LACROIX. Four SUVs all faced a completely armored station on a windswept plane just a skip north of the border. The man took his seat at his console and grabbed hold of his trucker mic to welcome his guests. WHO GOES THERE? YOU CAME WITH MANY PEOPLE UNANNOUNCED! I’M CURIOUS HOW I CAN BEST ASSIST YOU? The first three SUVs’ doors popped open and eight men stepped out holding assault rifles and tactical armor. The headlights of the fourth SUV blinked before a honk sounded. The men all broke into a tactical formation moving forward around the back of the station with GUNS pointed to unload as they approached. AH. I SEE THAT YOU COME BEARING GIFTS. The man at the console snickered and pressed a fat yellow button next to his left hand. As the squad stormed around the back of the station in a very tight and contrived formation, a spread of simple lawn sprinkler sockets popped up from the back of the yard. AHOY HOY!!! LET US BEGIN. The man proclaimed quite plainly over the speakers. The little girl rubbed her tiny paws eagerly from her perch below the station. An AIR HORN sounded from a small shed that was roughly 50 yards out on the edge of the MESA. A pounding and growing sound began to emerge from the shed. The men of the squad looked down at the sprinkler heads that were now whizzing away, sounding like a siren scream, as a bright yellow gas rushed out, all but obscuring their line of sight. They began gasping and running like headless chickens to escape the footprint of the CANARY STRAIN ANTHRAX MUSTARD GAS the man had cooked up fresh for them. Five of the squad flopped like a side of beef sliding off a hook into a grinder. They twitched and gasped briefly as the remaining three scampered away desperate for cover. The shed was still chugging away as they caught their breath, awaiting a command from the boss in the last SUV. The man rubbed his eyes and turned to look back at his beloved DARTS. He yawned and thought about having a tea once the mess was cleaned up. He picked up the trucker mic again. HE WHO CONTROLS THE SPICE SHALL CONTROL THE UNIVERSE! He quite simply but firmly proclaimed. The sides of the ominous chugging shed exploded outward at this time exposing a NAVAL grade anti-aircraft cannon that was pointed at the last SUV. The remaining men made a sound that was almost audible prior to the noise of ALL of the SUVs being blown back from the station in a typhoon of metal and fire. The cacophony carried like a phoenix rising from the very sandy earth that lay below. A deep and calm vacuum of space embraced them as the shell collided with the front right axle of an SUV in a delicate and almost liquid-like manner. The sheer weight of the shell, over 100 pounds, was essentially like a small refrigerator colliding with the DENALI SUPREME, brewing up a human meat stew fit for a king. The little one opened up a bag of chips and picked up her trucker mic. HEY! DO YOU GUYS LIKE DOGS!? I LOVE MY DOG, CUJO! GET TO KNOW HIM! With that she made a strange and guttural sound that brought up the 3
monster who had been quietly sleeping next to her. He awoke, seeming like he was not done napping. But hungry as always he would gladly break up his down time for some TCB and a bit of light exercise. She rubbed his wet nose on her nose and purred at him. OKAY, BOY. GO EAT NOW. With that she pressed a button opening a decent sized dumbwaiter contraption that CUJO sauntered over to casually. His stride deep with steps that sought to shake his sleep, he prepared his chop to dine. CUJO put all of his weight in the box and it clicked, opening a small compartment on the bottom right corner where a portion of cool fresh water appeared for him to enjoy. A proper amuse-bouche before the sun would constrict his doggie’s pupils into pinpoints searching for meaty calves of screaming men who didn’t put on pants one leg at a time that day expecting all of this. A bulkhead hatch sprung up on the far side of the station and CUJO stepped silently off the pad, his pure white fur gleaming in the sun. He was a mutt of too many varieties to ever discern, but was every bit of 150 pounds of muscle and mind that simply loved his people, the DARTS and a solid meal after a good nap. The remaining men looked at each other from their hiding places. The crackle of the burning and still vibrant conflagration that was quite actively barbecuing the fallen into HUMANO BARBACOA was a little disconcerting and made hearing the dog impossible. CUJO snuck up behind the first man and closed his windpipe with his mouth, gently letting him go to sleep forever. He was taught to smell and not see. But CUJO loved to see the look of the men when he made them know he was the one who would be escorting them to the other side of the great river of death. The next man could quite plainly see the dog approach but had lost his weapon in his haste to escape the MUSTARD GAS DEATH GARDEN. He tried quite pitifully in vain to ward off CUJO’s amorous advances with a fully extended right hand. But CUJO latched onto it and drove the man’s head directly into his back, breaking his arm out of the socket and ripping it clean off. CUJO had been trained in a brutal form of DOG TAI CHI that allowed him to BREAK things using weight against the anatomical structure of the THING he chomped onto. This was not something that any HUMAN could show or teach. The many who begat him were of a certain bloodline that believe in devotion and brutality. Dogs in the pecking order slide in different directions, but will ultimately stand to man’s side always. His blood knew that this was only a matter of contextual dominance. By credo, they would only serve a just master who acted in a purer manner than their predecessor. CUJO was ready to just start chewing the arm in his mouth but knew the JOB was not yet done. The third man had made a run for the hills and now looked like a wide receiver charging downfield desperately hoping fate and skill would collide in glory. This really pissed off CUJO. He was not in the mood to go for a run at all but knew it would only make the meat more tasty as he enjoyed it. With that, he dropped the dripping man arm and let out a tiny sniff of desert dust. His weight and girth galloped with haste consuming the yards between him and the last man who was panting for breath and struggling to run full sprint while unholstering his GLOCK. CUJO’s eyes blazed as fountains of saliva splashed on the sand. His mass pounded forward at the weaker and slower critter who was rapidly losing the tiny shred of space that separated them from the inevitable. CUJO liked to get really close and let the prey feel him ready to chomp, but not so near they actually slow down out of pure fear. The man began to shit and piss himself violently. This only made CUJO more angry as he was never in the mood for shitty piss-soaked food. So he latched onto the ACHILLES of the man with his lower jaw. He flipped him like a rag doll before barrel rolling (as he had been taught) while bringing down his own weight, crushing the man’s body as they spinned over several times, creating a rapid sound like bags of shells being smashed with a heavy iron hammer. CUJO let go and left the bloody broken sack of human meat for the coyotes and buzzards to enjoy. They prefer meat to be coated in fear and feces. CUJO cooly rolled himself in bloody sand until he felt clean of his defeated foe’s plasma and poo. He gave himself a stern shake and could see the man and the girl standing by the service station. A wrecker and roll-out dumpster slowly crept across the plain toward them to remove the smoldering remnant of the ZETAS who came to play. 1.26.24V 9:59: AUX MORTEM AB CHAO REGES ANTIQUI IN SANGUINE FUDERUNT FOLLOW FOR MORE — IG: @UZIEGO | TUMBLR: @SAVAGESNEVERSLEEPNYC PHOTO BY ROSA JAY No. 131
DAVE DANZARA, MASS PSYCHOSIS - @LOSTINTIMEDESIGNS - BEST OF BIRDY 112
JONNY DESTEFANO, SAUCY - BEST OF BIRDY 080
ATTEMPTS TO BECOME WHOLE AGAIN ARE FORTHCOMING, BUT FIRST I HAVE SOME WORK TO DO BY BRIAN POLK | ART BY JASON WHITE THE ONLY TIME I WISH I WOULD GET A GODDAMNED RED LIGHT FOR ONCE IS WHEN I’M TEXTING AND DRIVING Ordinarily the inconvenience of stopping at a red light inspires moments of fleeting disappointment. Of course, this could very well be exacerbated by how many cycles it takes to get through a particular traffic light and/or how bad you have to use the restroom. But every now and again, I’ll find myself in a really entertaining text exchange, and I don’t want to have to wait to respond just because I happen to be driving at the time. And that’s when I not only hope for a red light, but I actually get mad when I don’t get one. “Another fucking green light,” I yell to no one. “When is my luck going to change?” Of course, I could pull over No. 131 and finish my text exchange in a secure parking space, but I mean, come on. I got places to be. ARE YOU READY TO JOKE ABOUT THAT YET? Remember that time your hair caught fire when you were trying to light a cigarette at the park, and we noticed before you did and dumped our beer on your head to put it out? And you got mad at us for all the beer on your person? And we tried to explain that your hair was on fire, but you simply wouldn’t believe us? Then you cried, and said you hated all your friends so much, and you wished we would just leave you alone? And after we got home that night, you saw all the singed hair in the mirror, and felt bad for yelling at us? So we dumped beer on your head
again — but this time, just for kicks? And you cried yourself to sleep and swore you would never hang out with us again? That’s still not funny to you? Yeah, I know it happened last week, but you think with the passing of time, you’d be a bit more humble about it … Hmm, I see. So the answer is no. Okay, fair enough. I’ll try again next week. ONE TIME I WAITED ALL THE WAY UNTIL WEDNESDAY TO GET DRUNK, AND THEN WAS DISAPPOINTED WHEN I REALIZED IT WAS STILL MONDAY As a bonafide old, I try to take it easy on the alcohol consumption — mainly since I have no plans to quit, and it’s not exactly healthy. Therefore, I try to take at least four days off per week from visiting my friends in the bar and having fun. And with this system, I’ve experienced contradicting outcomes. For example, the other day I was so proud of myself for making it all the way to Wednesday without even so much as wanting a drink. Once I got drunk, however, I realized it was Monday all along. The thing was, I had to work on Saturday, and I helped someone move on Sunday, so it didn’t feel like a Monday. It had a very distinct Wednesday feel. But you’ll be happy to know that I remained sober that Tuesday and then got drunk again on Wednesday, so I did make it eventually. And don’t you just love a happy ending? THE VERY FIRST DAY AFTER MY EX AND I BROKE UP, I WENT TO THE BAR, AND THIS GUY SAID, “DATING IN YOUR 40s IS LIKE A EUROPEAN VACATION: LOTS OF BAGGAGE.” And I was like, What the fuck? The corpse of our relationship wasn’t even cold yet, and here he was telling me things were only going to get worse. Of course, he had no way of knowing that I recently broke up with my ex, but still. It was not what I wanted to hear at the time. And the worst part of it is that he was totally right. Post 40 courtship is a damned nightmare! Nowadays, when I go on the first date with someone, I feel like I could ask, “So what health issues are you currently battling?” “How much do you resent your parents for so thoroughly fucking you up?” And, “What mental health issues are currently percolating in that damaged noggin of yours?” It’s terrible. I think I’d have more fun at church. … JUST KIDDING. THERE’S NO FUN TO BE HAD AT CHURCH I don’t want to disrespect anyone’s beliefs here, but I will say that I’ve never personally had a good time at mass. Then again, displays of guilt and shame were never my thing. … I SUPPOSE I’LL TRY AGAIN TOMORROW I’ve been having a lot of bad days lately. And the ones that are particularly terrible, I say some words of affirmation to myself before I try to go to bed for the night. Usually, it goes something like this: “I didn’t do well today, but I’m still here. Since the only way out is through, I suppose I’ll try again tomorrow.” It’s how you know I’ve hit rock bottom. I wouldn’t be saying that shit if everything were puppy dogs and rainbows. But I’ve had a whole lot of rabid cats and lightning bolts sent my way — so to speak — so I have no choice but to rely on the one thing I never even wanted to try: positivity. As you might imagine, results have been mixed. 9
TYLER GROSS, LOSING IT BEST OF BIRDY 063
It’s a rare day when one uncovers yet another reason to fear quicksand. Granted, there was only one to begin with but a sandy berth unto the planet carries a mortal consequence so great almost all of us can recall where we were when we first saw the death of Artax. Everybody under 40, check out The NeverEnding Story. I promise you this scene will hit. Bring a tissue. Skip the sequel. Yazoo City, Mississippi, 1884: A town that loved Vince Clarke so much they prematurely named it after one of his projects. Yazoo’s own Huck Finn, a child named Joe Bob Duggett, was rafting down the Yazoo River when he “heard moans coming from a house.” Which, of course, he decides to investigate. Yes, it does sound like a weird riverkid was spying on strangers to case their homes, but the story takes a decidedly un-Twainian turn. Allegedly Duggett — definite creep — witnessed a double human sacrifice. Two bodies were splayed on the floor as the owner of the house, a woman written off by the entire town to a degree that she historically has no name, appeared to be casting some kind of spell. Well, Joe Bob done freaked out and went back to his raft to go full town crier. He snitched out the clearly unwell woman who, supposedly, the entire town didn’t care for and, as is totally normal, is invited into the posse that goes to commit a homicide. Roughly the same amount of effort needed to become a police officer today. And like modern police, they did a noknock visit. They didn’t find a witch. Or any bodies. Almost like everything Duggett said wasn’t true. There’s of course no nearly equivalent historical event that rhymes with Halem, but that didn’t stop them from investigating. What was found was an attic full of starving cats, supposedly two skeletons and an old (old seems very subjective in articles about her, by the by) woman leaping from a window to escape a bunch of dudes that she knew were there to kill her. Here’s where the sand becomes quick. She was pursued into the woods and got all caught up in the swamp. To the point that Duggett, on his deathbed, talked about seeing her fall under, cursing the town as she died. As curses go, it was pretty emphatic. Turning children into squirrels? Naw. Making every cooked pizza many toes? Again, no (but like, no shame if that works for you). She declared that in exactly 20 years the town would be burned. Burn it did. May 25, 1904: Something happened. Probably an oven gone awry. Flames were said to be leaping building to building with supernatural alacrity. The wind they said. Twenty buildings. It’s just the wind, we can put it out. Fifty buildings. It’s just … It’s just … All of Yazoo City. They did do one right thing. They gave the unnamed witch a burial. They surrounded it with iron chains. Chains that broke the day their town burned. But it was a nice thing to do anyway. HAVE QUESTIONS ABOUT THE PARANORMAL? SEND THEM TO: WEREWOLFRADARPOD@GMAIL.COM OR TWITTER: @WEREWOLFRADAR IT’S A BIG, WEIRD WORLD. DON’T BE SCARED. BE PREPARED.
A COLLECTIVE POST ART DEMONSTRATION FROM MARK MOTHERSBAUGH & BEATIE WOLFE Legendary musician and composer Mark Mothersbaugh and acclaimed conceptual artist and musician Beatie Wolfe once again joined forces to reactivate Postcards For Democracy — their non-partisan, collective post art campaign in anticipation of the 2024 Presidential Election. Weaving together the power of art and community to underscore the importance of democracy and voting rights, Postcards for Democracy invites people to create a piece of mail art and send it in to become part of a public art demonstration, with an exhibition and book to follow. Participants are encouraged to create postcards reflecting their personal journeys, thoughts and hopes for the future as a symbol of their commitment to democracy. In celebration of USPS — a vital institution — anyone can join the movement (even postelection) by buying stamps, creating a piece of postcard art and mailing it to: Postcards for Democracy, 8760 Sunset Blvd., West Hollywood, CA 90069. “Postcards for Democracy is back again! Show your thoughts regarding this election and post a message through the U.S. Post Office to us. Honorary postal delivery man Mark Mothersbaugh!” Mark Mothersbaugh states. Originally launched during the COVID-19 lockdown ahead of the 2020 election, Postcards for Democracy has stirred tens of thousands of people to create and contribute to the public art movement, supporting the USPS while reminding and mobilizing people to vote. Mark and Beatie have received postcards from every part of the U.S. and across the world with the ever-growing collection, which first exhibited at the Bob Rauschenberg Gallery in 2021. In 2022, a selection of the art was taken into the permanent collection of the Smithsonian’s National Postal Museum. “I believe in the power of art to activate change and that we all have the chance to envision — and create — the kind of future world that we want to live in with much more of a say, both as individuals and as a No. 131
collective, than we may realize. This postcard project, rooted in a deep love of physical communication, is a celebration of what connects us. And like the Postal Service, we have to use our power, our voice, our freedom of choice and not take any of it for granted,” Beatie Wolfe explains. Leading up to the 2024 Presidential Election on November 5, Mark and Beatie have been holding Postcards for Democracy popups across Greater Los Angeles’ universities, parks, libraries, community centers, museums and the occasional sidewalk where anyone can create mail art with them. Unveiled last month with the help of renowned actor, comedian and musician Fred Armisen, the legendary iconic Oscar Niemeyer designed Mutato Muzika now showcases a monolith mailbox on its sidewalk. The installation will be in place until after the election with Mark and Beatie holding impromptu pop-up postcard creation tables. FOR POSTCARD INSPO & TO LEARN MORE, HEAD TO: POSTARTFORDEMOCRACY.COM FOLLOW ON INSTAGRAM: @MARKMOTHERSBAUGH @BEATIEWOLFE @POSTCARDSFORDEMOCRACY PHOTOS OF MARK, BEATIE & FRED BY AARON LONGSLEEVES | PHOTOS OF MARK & BEATIE AND CICLAVIA EVENT BY MARIO DE LOPEZ
Cue the Sun! The Invention of Reality TV by Emily Nussbaum (2024) Emily Nussbaum’s latest book began as an idea all the way back in 2003. Hoping to capture the emerging trend of reality television, Nussbaum was inspired to cover the phenomenon in response to the massive hits of Survivor which debuted in 2000, and American Idol and The Bachelor first airing in 2002. Instead, she waited, and in retrospect, that was the best choice. Looking back from 2024, it would have been hard to predict that these low cost productions, without actors or often writers, would come to dominate the television and cultural landscape. Cue the Sun! takes its name from a line delivered by the show creator in the 1998 film, The Truman Show, when Truman is close to escaping his staged life as the star of a never-ending reality program that started at his birth. Like in The Truman Show, the architects of the reality TV boom, profiled in Nussbaum’s book, were tenacious creators flexing ethical boundaries to explore a new way of making television and capturing the human experience. At best, many were cinéma vérité purists and pranksters, and at worst, master manipulators driven by the untapped potential of this inexpensive format. Though its media dominance seems sudden, the base ideas of reality TV have roots in radio. Audience participation radio programs rose to popularity in the 1940s with shows like The Candid Microphone, which eventually translated onscreen to become the more famous Candid Camera, and Queen for a Day, a game show where women could plead for new possessions or financial and medical aid. The popularity of these programs proved that vast audience appeal could be created without a script, capitalizing on the raw emotions of real people. As the genre transitioned to television, the breadth of human experience and emotion was on full display from shows like Chuck Barris’ The Gong Show and The Newlywed Game that captured the shock and humor of the unexpected, to the unscripted moments on the early PBS production, An American Family, that displayed the intensity, drama and complexities of familial love. Going on to explore its darker sides, Nussbaum dives into the explosion of hits like The Real World, Survivor and the “copaganda” parading as entertainment in Cops. Each of these shows was a pioneering format in the genre that had grim undercurrents in their productions and methods. As she analyzes the rapid ascent of reality TV, Nussbaum leads us to the corrupt culmination of these creations, a reality TV star president, and people who have turned the fad into a perpetual influencer creation machine. Nussbaum’s history of the genre is thorough, fascinating and surprisingly evenhanded. A genre that is easily disparaged, Nussbaum also shows the good side of this boom, the ability of reality television to diversify the characters we see on our TVs and produce wider access to stories told by those who are living them. Cue the Sun! is a wonderfully captured cultural analysis of a genre that has woven its way onto our screens and has created an inescapable cultural shift. Bless the Daughter Raised By A Voice in Her Head by Warsan Shire (2022) “At parties I point to my body and say Oh, this old thing? This is where men come to die.” Warsan Shire’s first full-length poetry collection sharply captures youth, womanhood, the body, grief, family, and migration with elegant prose and distinctive form. Shire is a Somali British poet and the poetry writer for Beyoncé’s Lemonade. In this collection, her poems blend the deeply personal with the universal, the discomfort and beauty of youth, and her own trauma and family relationships. In Home, an incredibly strong poem on migration early in the collection, Shire writes: I want to go home, but home is the mouth of a shark. Home is the barrel of a gun. No one would leave home unless home chased you to the shore. No one would leave home until home is a voice in your ear saying — leave, run, now. I don’t know what I’ve become. A visceral poetry collection, Shire’s work is mesmerizing, leaving lingering imagery and creating a singular reading experience. Shire is the author of two previous chapbooks, Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth and Her Blue Body. She is also the author of the film Brave Girl Rising about a young girl living in one of the world’s largest refugee camps. No. 131 By Hana Zittel
ERIC JOYNER, SUNKEN TREASURE - ERICJOYNER.COM
NICK FLOOK, COMMISSION 7 - @FLOOKO
RAY YOUNG CHU, STEP UP FADE CUT - BEST OF BIRDY 083 No. 131
HERON, GULL AND CROW BY MARK KEANE Heron clambers onto the makeshift rail-cart and wedges himself between Gull and Crow. Hunched over, feet on the pedals, they aren’t able to force him off. Heron clings onto the frame. “Get off,” Gull cries. “I’m not going nowhere,” says Heron. No room to manoeuver, they can’t dislodge him. “For God’s sake,” pleads Gull. “We can’t get enough speed with three of us. There’s only space for two to pedal.” “The train’s coming,” Crow says, his dark eyes bulging. Gull looks back, and sees two lights and the shape of the first carriage as the train rounds a bend in the narrow pass. Two minutes away, three at most. Gull and Crow push as hard as they can. Breathing heavily, they pound the pedals. Not fast enough, nowhere near fast enough, not with Heron’s extra weight. “Get off, you fat bastard,” Gull wheezes. “You’re slowing us down.” “Me, fat?” says Heron. “If anything, I’m too skinny — not a lard-arse like you.” “There’s no way we can make it.” Crow looks up, sweat spilling from his face. “I’m not getting off.” Heron tightens his grip on the frame. “If I do, I’ll be run over.” They pedal with all their might. Lungs ablaze. Sinews straining. Gull moans. “I’m cramping.” “Don’t be such a loser,” Heron screams into Gull’s ear. “Pedal harder. There’s a siding less than a mile away. We reach that and we’ll be safe.” Gull bends farther forward, arse in the air. He forces his legs up and down. Slower and slower. Painfully slower. Inexorably slower. “I can’t take any more.” Gull nudges Crow. They stop pedalling. “I’m getting off.” Gull drags his leg over the frame. “With you two pedalling, you’ll make it to safety.” “No, Gull,” says Crow. “Don’t do it. Heron should get off.” “He won’t.” Gull sighs. “You know what he’s like.” Heron watches the other two without speaking. “Ah, fuck it.” Crow spits on the ground. “Heron, you’re a complete shit.” The rumble of the train grows deeper. Hot metal on metal, no more than a minute away. “All right,” says Heron. “If Gull’s getting off, then so am I.” “What do you mean?” Crow shakes his head. “I can’t go fast enough by myself. We’ll all be killed.” “So be it.” Heron shrugs. “I don’t see why I should give you the pleasure of living by allowing Gull to die.” “Fuck it.” Crow bangs the frame. “You’re the worst sort of fucker ever. I’m getting off.” “Suit yourself,” says Heron. Crow stands beside Gull on the track. The train flashes its lights. Heron places his feet on the pedals and reaches to one side. “You pathetic numpties, you had the brake on the entire time.” He pulls a lever and, pumping his long legs, sets off at a good clip, waving back at his two companions. Heron turns into the siding. The train whooshes by, carrying with it bits and pieces of Gull and Crow. 19 ART BY YULIYA DERBISHEVA | NINA PODLESNYAK | KASSIIA SERGACHEVA
APGINPNERR’S GUIDOACE THOA INSBTALLATIONLE ART: ART A BE DIVING INTO INSTALLATION ART AS AN ARTISTIC MEDIUM AND THOUGHTS FROM MEOW WOLF ARTISTS ON HOW TO GET STARTED INTERVIEW BY AMANDA SIROSKEY Let’s say you’ve just walked through one of the many worlds of Meow Wolf. Or maybe you saw some sick pictures of one of the rooms and you start to feel inspired, and think of the work that was put into such epic displays of creativity. Maybe you wonder, How could I possibly get started on something like that? Many people (myself included) get that itch to create, but might not know how to begin. That’s why we’re looking at approachable art: painting, video design, sculpture, drawing, and our fi rst topic in this series — installation art. Arguably our biggest artistic medium within our exhibits, we’re answering questions like, “What is it?” or “Where does someone begin with this?” We’ll cover the basics before checking out a few Meow Wolf artists’ perspectives on their journeys into installation work. A MINI INSTALLATION ART (NOT BOOK) REPORT: Installation art is immersive, perspective-changing, sensory-engaging and transformative (lots of adjectives, I know, but they’re all true!). The term “installation art” came about in the 60s and 70s, and was infl uenced by multiple artistic roots, like theatrical performance and conceptual art. This genre often challenges viewers to think beyond what they see and to discover the underlying message(s) the artists are expressing. These messages could range from social commentary to philosophical conundrums to cultural shifts in perspectives. This art form crosses the boundaries between multiple disciplines like painting, sculpture, architecture, video, lighting and more, depending on the type of installation art. Types of installation art vary, however many intersect with each other in practice. A few specifi c types include: Environmental, Interactive, Immersive/Multimedia, and Site-Specifi c. Environmental installationart focuses on nature and its relationship with the art, whether it’s recycled materials or natural elements integrated in the piece. Interactive installations allow viewers to interact with the space through touch and engage in the art itself. Immersive and Multimedia installations are very similar in their utilization of full-sensory experiences to transport the viewer into the created world. Site-Specifi c art focuses on the location itself in which the art is curated, and can spur commentary on the importance of that location and the statement made with the resulting piece. Of course, these are just a few of the main categories of installation art, but there are plenty more in the world(s). All of these types lend themselves to a DIY-attitude in creating them, which happens to be right up Meow Wolf’s alley. Speaking of our own immersive spaces, we talked to a few of our installation superstar artists about how to get started with a medium like this, and to share their stories: LAURA DAVIDSON What do you do at Meow Wolf? My title is Manager of the Art Team Task Force. I support our Meow Wolf artists who create at our studio in Santa Fe year-round while they are onsite installing a new exhibition alongside construction. We primarily work in spaces creating art that is site-specifi c, and not planned prior to arriving in the space — tying the parts of the exhibit together. Occasionally in my role, I get to jump in on art-making for our exhibits, usually using bits of material that were left over from other art-making. In The Real Unreal, I created a chain of snake hangers from fabric left from foliage we created for the forest and stuff ed them with wool leftover from Morgan Grasham’s The Greeter sculpture. How did you get started in installation art and how have you grown in that medium? When I was in college, I started gathering decaying found objects from sheds in the alleyways of the town. Many of them were time capsules of objects that people had kept in the 50s through the 70s and left behind when they moved. I knew Matt King as my summer camp counselor growing up, and had been following the work of his art collective, watching how they transformed found objects into collaborative art installations. (Some of you may be familiar with this collective as Meow Wolf.) One of my fi rst shows was at a former gas station in Denison, TX with Ghost Town Arts Collective in 2010. I built stairs that walked through the drink fridge door into a collection of objects excavated from alley sheds. These days in my personal art practice, I cast objects from paper waste and native plant seeds to create impermanent outdoor installations. I’m always looking for opportunities to build more colorful immersive spaces with soft sculptures created from textile waste and handmade recycled paper. Do you have any advice for anyone starting out with installation art? So much of what I love about installation is the ability to play with modular pieces. Let go of any perfectionism and arrange objects that you have created or found, knowing this arrangement is impermanent. If you don’t like it, try again until you do! If your art could talk, what would it say? “Thanks for pulling me out of the trash, Laura!” LANCE RYAN MCGOLDRICK What do you do at Meow Wolf? My job title is Senior Artist. I have been with the company since 2015, making everything from large-scale kaleidoscopes and found object sculptures to hammer-spheres and Ratterblades. How did you get started in installation art and how have you grown in that medium? In 2010, I moved into an art studio at the Factory on 5th in Albuquerque. I was screen printing and illustrating at the time, when I met David Cudney (fellow MW Artist) who was then managing the gallery and studios. He CARMEN'S CLOSET BY LAURA DAVIDSON AT THE REAL UNREAL. PHOTO BY KATE RUSSELL CRYSTAL CLOUD CAVE BY LANCE RYAN MCGOLDRICK AT THE REAL UNREAL. PHOTO BY PAUL TORRES CRYSTAL GROTTO BY SOFIA HOWARD AT HOUSE OF ETERNAL RETURN. PHOTO BY ATLAS MEDIA
did an installation with over 80 gold, waving lucky cat fi gures and it blew my mind. Soon after, I started making assemblage sculptures. In 2011, I got a job for Urban Outfi tters building the art installations for the store in Albuquerque. That job gave me the space and the budgets to fall in love with installation art. I then began building large-scale immersive sculptures out of scrap material, found 2x4’s and fencing material, often using light and geometry as well. Do you have any advice for anyone starting out with installation art? Work with materials you fi nd interesting — there are a lot of materials online for free and trash is everywhere and unfortunately plentiful. Make work that you want to see in the world. Your vision rarely matches up with what you make, keep making! Your vision will eventually match. Find a mentor! Collaborate! Large-scale works are hard to produce alone. Most of all, have fun! If your art could talk, what would it say? “I’m feeling a little emotional today!” SOFIA HOWARD What do you do at Meow Wolf? My current job title with Meow Wolf is Senior Artist, but I have been involved since the build of House of Eternal Return, where I worked as a volunteer and then as part of the inaugural team of docents, as well as helping with Exhibit Maintenance. I do a plethora of diff erent things including painting, sculpting, making miniatures, and traveling to install and fi nish pieces onsite in our various exhibits. I have also done a fair amount of art direction and leading small teams to complete collaborative projects. I try to keep the playful spirit of MW that fi rst drew me toward it as a 14-yearold alive to the best of my ability through how I plan and execute my art. How did you get started in installation art and how have you grown in that medium? As a kid, I built fairy towns in my bedroom using scarves as terrain and blocks as buildings. I was constantly hot gluing popsicle stick houses and making Sculpey models with my best friend for my entire childhood and well into middle school. When I started high school at New Mexico School for the Arts (NMSA) in 2011, we went on a walking fi eld trip to see Meow Wolf’s installation The Due Return at the Center for Contemporary Arts Santa Fe. I had never seen art like that before, and it totally changed my beliefs about what art was and how you could make it. My fi rst serious installation project was for my senior project before I graduated from NMSA. It was an installation of my bedroom in a corner of the gallery complete with a bed, laundry and other personal belongings. I also suspended and displayed piles of prints of fi lm photos I had taken through the duration of my time at the school with dates and autobiographical captions. A Meow Wolf Founder came to our public opening and told me that my installation reminded him of The Due Return, which was the biggest compliment I could possibly receive at that time, and he invited me to come and help build House of Eternal Return, which I took him up on several months later. I never went to college so Meow Wolf has been my art school for the past almost nine years, and my work has been transformed and molded by the collaborative visions we bring to life. I have learned a ton of material skills, and I also learned that I love painting murals — which was a shock to me because I hated painting in high school. As I have made more and more work, I have realized that the process of making it is usually the most important and enjoyable part to me, rather than the fi nal outcome. The biggest lesson to me in my growth with this medium is that you can make literally anything you can dream of if you team up with friends who have diff erent skill sets than you, then work together and keep open minds about how it will transform. Do you have any advice for anyone starting out with installation art? Just start arranging by arranging items in your home, let every surface be an opportunity for a vignette. See how shape and color and form can speak to each other. Then get weird with it, and share it with as many or few people as you want to. Dioramas are a great container to practice installation in if you don’t have a lot of space to make something life-sized, just add a tiny person and suddenly it’s huge! Look into the vast and varied history of installation art, there are SO many diff erent approaches and Meow Wolf’s style is just one of millions. Visit your local natural history or nature and science museums, they often have installations and dioramas that someone or a team of someones worked hard on, let those inspire and inform you. Learn how to use an impact driver and drywall anchors correctly :) And don’t be afraid to fuck up, just own up to it when you do. That’s how you learn. If your art could talk, what would it say? “I am the product of the miasma of collective unconscious, a piece of the hivemind of everyone I have ever known, worked with, loved and missed.” There’s no one way to get started with your own installation art. The key is to try, by yourself, or with friends, where you get to discover the process. Therein lies the magic — building the idea, collecting items or media elements, piecing the puzzle together, and culminating in your own personal “wow” moment. You can make all that happen, you just have to take that fi rst step to start. If you need some additional inspiration or a little creative guidance — from mask-making to stained glass creating and more — try out one of our Meow Wolf Makers Workshops. Heck, you could even use one of the things you create IN your installation! KEEP YOUR EYES PEELED FOR A MEOW WOLF MAKERS WORKSHOP NEAR YOU: TICKETS.MEOWWOLF.COM/EVENTS
JOSH KEYES, TOTEM
MARK MOTHERSBAUGH W/ POSTCARDS FOR DEMOCRACY. JOIN THE MOVEMENT: POSTARTFORDEMOCRACY.COM
CHRIS AUSTIN, LET'S GO HOME
BY JOEL TAGERT Chris walked in crimson, the goggles’ night vision painting the willow and aspen with a red and bloody brush. It was fall, the ground dry, and his steps would have been noisy but for the wind rasping the leaves, a wind that also brought him a rich breath of woodsmoke half a mile from its source. When he saw the windows, bright yellow in the infrared, as though the cabin’s log courses contained the devil’s own inferno, he crouched and considered the ground. The cabin stood in a meadow, uphill fifty yards from the edge of the wood. He could circle around to approach it from the north, but that direction lay the road, and even less cover. Probably it didn’t matter. It was dark, and few people were capable of reacting quickly to a determined attack. Why do I have to use a knife? he whispered voicelessly, but of course he hadn’t said the daemon’s name and so received no response. Charybdis, he tried again, why do I have to use a knife? What’s wrong with a knife? The voice in his ear (silent to anyone else) sounded exactly like Lance Corporal Marcus Dorsey, formerly the communications specialist for their Marine Raider element. Marc liked to joke that he’d joined the Marines to get ahead in his radio career. Voice like a submarine propellor. Dead with the rest in the Osprey. Well first of all, it’s more risk, Chris said. More exposure. You use a gun so you don’t have to get close to the target. You set an explosive for a delayed kill. A knife means you’re in reach. You’re bigger and stronger than they are, and better trained. You also got the advantage of surprise. This should be easy for you. Do you think I’m a psycho? You really want to discuss your psych profile right now? Do you think killing someone’s easy for me? Up close like this? No, not easy. Pleasurable. That’s fucked up. Charybdis said nothing more, this not being a question or anything that needed answering, and a sense Christian had lost the argument seeped into the ensuing silence. Charybdis, god of the deep, who sent whirlpools to swallow ships. Like a great white shark swimming over his shoulder. It didn’t matter though. It was all just like a video game, or an afterlife, or a vivid dream. The waving branches, the deepness of the night, carried him further into that feeling. Still, why the knife? he whispered. Charybdis? It’s complicated. Unless there’s some time-sensitive need here, I’m going to wait until the target goes to sleep. That work for you? Yeah, that works. So we’re not in a hurry. Explain. A knife offers the greatest chance of success in the event of outside interference. Like they say in the movies, there are other forces at work here. You mean another AI. Another superintelligence, yeah. And the target is what, this thing’s agent? That’s right. What kind of interference? Not sure. Probably nothing. But after it’s done, I need you to remove the target’s neuroport. Well that’s fucking gruesome. Your knife is equipped with a saw blade. With it you can cut through the back of the— Yeah, I get it. I get it. He had died in that crash, and been resurrected. He had lain dead and God had come for him and healed his damaged brain stem. A god, anyway. And Charybdis said, Walk, and lo, he walked. The lights in the cabin winked out. Orion was high before he stood up. He walked slowly and silently up the slope to the cabin. He was, as he understood it, to bring about the end of the world. Charybdis had promised him a paradise afterward. He circled a bit to avoid the gravel drive and its loud crunch. No moonshadow to worry about falling onto the windows. The knife was in his hand. He stopped outside the door. He braced himself. He kicked the door in and jumped inside. Something clipped his forehead and right brow and he fell. Another blow was coming, but slow — fucking cast iron pan, is what it was — and he drove right, head lowered, knife stabbing. Instantly they ducked low, came up under his knees like a wrestler, his whole body wheeling at its center of gravity, crashing onto his shoulders with head tucked. He rolled with the motion, twisting, trying to slash at their legs with the knife, but quick as a cat they slipped away and kicked a small coffee table at him. He jumped to his feet and they squared off, her back to the tiny kitchen and his to the broken door. She was a young woman, maybe five-two, slender. He’d known this going in. She was wearing big bug-eyed goggles that he assumed were AR, though he’d never seen the brand. Her flesh was bright in the infrared. You don’t have to do this, she said. Maybe, he replied. But it’s paradise on one hand and hell on the other. He feinted, then jabbed three times as fast, knowing that no one, realistically, could fully block that kind of scissor attack. The knife struck home, and again, but something was different. He looked and he was holding a bouquet of flowers, for some reason bright and multicolored in his goggles. He was so baffled that he didn’t see the young woman’s flying elbow to his temple at all. When he came to, she was long gone, the knife (or flowers) with her. Charybdis, he said, did I imagine that? The gun turning to flowers? No. Your senses reported it correctly. Charybdis, he said, screwing up his courage. Is this a sim? Is it? Has it been a sim all along? But the daemon didn’t answer. 25
BY TOM MURPHY ALMANAC MAN – TERRAIN A scathing, noisy and sustained stab at dangerously delusional thinking, collective trauma and despair. As the title suggest this album examines the lay of the land in America in the present tense and the dire implications of its politics for its own population and the world in general. Its crawling, fractured soundscape nonetheless yields moments of what might be described as a cathartic melodicism, akin to what you might hear on a Chat Pile record, offering a shard of hope in resistance to a seemingly doomed future. A PLACE FOR OWLS – HOW WE DIG IN THE EARTH In the earnest and expertly crafted, intricate melodies of this album, it is impossible to miss a sense of urgency and keen sensitivity to the precariousness of life. A Place For Owls takes a track title like “find your friends and hold them close” — that is all but a meme now from social media posts about the death of loved ones and the fragility of existence — and imbues it with a striking poignancy and vibrant delicacy. You don’t need to be a fan of midwestern emo to be drawn into the band’s vulnerable hopefulness, but it has the open-hearted expressiveness of the best of that music. BLAMESHELLS – S/T The relatively lo-fi production on this record is really the only way to capture and convey tracks that are written with an unpolished spirit informing the songwriting and performance. Calling it “garage punk” seems inadequate because the attitude in the vocals has the kind of irreverence and snarl one hears in the music of L7 and Tribe 8. It has an untamed rock and roll sound, like the band is not trying to be anything else but offering its own flavor of memorable melodies and hooks. GWISINA – S/T Amanda Baker’s imaginative production and command of sonic detail turns songs that might fall within the realm of glitchcore into something more coherent and intentional. Like Alice Glass’ solo work, there is real pain and self-examination behind these tracks that the otherworldly, futuristic vocal processing could — or is even — trying to hide. Rather, the sounds employed here embody the way it feels to experience being immersed in those emotions. Baker brings you into those peaks and valleys of lived psychological states for a collective catharsis through art pop. GLASS PARADE – PATH OF GREATEST RESISTANCE The glittery guitar tones and gritty melodies of the songs on this Glass Parade album, along with its fairly eclectic songwriting, are reminiscent of an all but lost time of 90s and 2000s alternative music. Like it’s coming to us from a universe where Sunny Day Real Estate, Hammerbox and Velocity Girl are the primary touchstones of musical DNA. Thread in some post-punk synth and moodiness and you get a sound that’s markedly different from the group’s regional peers. For more, visit queencitysoundsandart.wordpress.com 27 PLANES MISTAKEN FOR STARS – DO YOU STILL LOVE ME? This is the final PMFS album for which founding vocalist Gared O’Donnell recorded before his untimely passing in 2021. It is a harrowing and heavy yet exuberant statement on loss, death and precarious preciousness of the time you get to experience while alive. It also demonstrates the immense creative growth of the band’s always striking songwriting to the level of transcendent catharsis with each track. The music is dense with ideas and brimming with an expansive spirit that commands your attention, revealing added dimensions of nuance and meaning with repeated listens. PLEASURE PRINCE – GENERAL PALLOR As they deconstruct painful and harmful narratives we carry as imposed on us by culture or cultivated lived experience, Pleasure Prince’s neon pastel melodies and soothing tones offer a dreamlike realm of music in which to escape and examine these ideas from a safe distance. Even more than the band’s entrancing previous album, Numbers, General Pallor is like a late 70s Alan Parsons Project album as imagined through the lens of modern visionary pop auteurs like Black Moth Super Rainbow and Air. Except this duo injects a lush neo-soul flavor and soothingly transporting yet emotionally rich vocals with lyrics that honor how the hurt of life’s slings and arrows can linger longer when neglected and buried with no real attempt at self-healing.
Butterfly Jazz at The Cocoon Tonight By Godric | Photo by Tommy Coyote It was the Lion’s birthday round a table her picked flowers sat “plucked-too-soon!” a few spat Life Benders? ‘stuffing of tombs’ Where The Hard Things Spoil trouble feeds hiss-soil and whoever’s left for a time is panned, potted … boiled CHANGE(d) Life’s Lieutenant track and boar Wader of Waters eternity’s peerless lore Gardens my mind to field or yield Time: the real estate storing our steel Things will show haven’t they? On hind legs cold as Hell’s Hills Thus cling to dreams! pass the past on It is sacrilege burdens may burrow Chaos might stone vision life will love you back Heart marks these missions worry naught of the neat Born to fill and marry seats cut your ribbon at all times Rise and repeat maim monsters made mighty By ancient deceits their plots Lay slain and riven For the living to heed: how flawless we prance When courage leads. FOLLOW GODRIC - @GODRINATI: INSTAGRAM, FACEBOOK, TUMBLR, X, PINTEREST, SOUNDCLOUD FOLLOW TOMMY COYOTE - @TOMMYCOYOTE_ INSTAGRAM, X | THETOMMYCOYOTE.COM No. 131
RELAX, REJUVENATE & SUPPORT THIS GEM IN THE HEART OF SANTA FE BY BOOKING A STAY: VANESSIESANTAFE.COM No. 131
INN AT VANESSIE A New Team Of Women Are Shining Up Santa Fe's Enchanted Gem With Art & Community Interview by Krysti Joméi | Photos by Birdy & Courtesy of Vanessie Tucked away in the corner of the United States’ oldest capitol city, Inn at Vanessie is an artists’ home away from home. Two blocks from Santa Fe’s Historic Plaza and Railyard Arts District, this endearing boutique hotel offers comforting refuge with 21 uniquely designed rooms and suites, each adorned with a distinctive collection of original paintings from the owner’s personal collection. Bordering San Francisco and Water Street, it’s a literal hop-skip to downtown adventures: watering holes, galleries, indie shops, green spaces, the River Trail, and the art aficionado’s crème de la crème, Meow Wolf’s House of Eternal Return. But when you’re ready to call it a day, cozying up is a guarantee, as the hotel is serenely sequestered on its own block, providing an undeniable oasis from the hustle and bustle of the city’s streets. While Vanessie now mainly accommodates travelers and tourists, for decades it was the local haunt for good food and live music (and yes, even some ghostly sightings). Their critically acclaimed Piano Bar — an official Santa Fe Landmark — served residents nightly with live entertainment and cuisine for over 40 years. But over the course of various management turnovers, priorities shifted with creativity taking a back seat, leaving the piano bench empty and the lively bar and restaurant closed to the public. However, a heart for art can only beat quietly for so long. A passionate art collector and supporter of artists, the inn’s owner brought on a brand new team of women this year trusting in their creativity-centric vision. Operations Supervisor Valerie Alvarado and Head of Operations Reyna Sanchez aim to revitalize the soul of Vanessie through their local wisdom and deep-seeded love for art and building community. “Art is what has kept Vanessa alive,” Valerie Alvarado explains, “When the piano bar was open, it was this meeting spot, this social place to all of Santa Fe. Whether it was people who were working downtown, those who were retired, artists, tourists, they would meet here. It brought people together. And I want to bring that back.” The Santa Fe local decided to join Vanessie’s team in hopes of giving back to her community and sparking creativity and connection to all who travel through the inn’s doors. Though she’s currently working to finish important aesthetic renovations to the rooms and grounds, in addition to planning the builds of four new art-centric suites, her heart lies in stoking the flame of Vanessie’s original ember as a gathering place emphasizing entertainment. “Out of all the hotels in the Plaza, we’re more for the West Side in a sense of where all the neighborhoods are than the East Side where there’s a lot of very expensive hotels around. So Vanessie truly feels like a local gem,” she says. Reyna Sanchez joined Vanessie with the aim to reactivate the hotel’s mission to serve as an open-armed community hub. “I just want everyone to feel at home when they come to Vanessa. I want people to know that everyone — everyone — is welcomed and they will be loved and respected.” Her words eco the first painting guests are greeted with in the grand high-ceiling lobby: an ancient inspired piece gifted by the late artist Bill Worrell showcasing hand-painted script stating that ALL are welcome and safe at the hotel. That includes our beloved furry friends, because at Vanessie, pets are family. Further, this manifesto extends to the new tight-knit local staff, the majority of which are women. “We’re not a big chain company, we’re family-owned. And we have almost all women running the inn, and mostly all women of color. And the few men on our team are amazing. But it’s time for that change. I’m full-blood Mexican and I want everyone to know that you can be a part of the minority and you can still shine bright like a star,” she says. Reyna also jumped on board to find community herself. Born and raised in Oklahoma, she longed to be part of a team and a city where she truly felt like she belonged. “On a personal level, I found a home at Vanessie, just in the littlest things like listening to the girls here whenever they pronounce my name. I love the women I work with,” she expresses. Growing up in Santa Fe and witnessing firsthand critical issues that are often swept under the rug like in most larger cities — houselessness, education disparity, growing substance abuse/addiction issues to name a few — Valerie is determined to champion inclusivity and make a difference where she can. “I’m proud to be part of something that wants to help our community and has the potential, whether that’s contributing in an artistic way to bring us together, or helping guests learn a bit of Spanish, or partnering with a local community college to help our staff learn English,” she says. A painter herself, Valerie understands the healing aspect of art and the impact it can have on bridging gaps culturally and socially. In addition to reactivating the Piano Bar and resturant for dining and events, one of her goals is to develop an Artist Market showcasing local talent and vendors. “It’s like what Rumi says, we’re all seeking love, all of humanity. That’s what unites us. Sometimes we can’t make logic out of our feelings or the world we live in, even though we try to so much. And that’s where art comes in and helps you just feel. You don’t have to do anything else with art, just feel,” she closes. Whether you’re visiting this jewel city in The Land of Enchantment or it’s the place you call home, Vanessie’s doors are always open by the women who run it. While you stay tuned for what the future holds for their dining and entertainment, swing by this gem for a tranquil stay, local knowledge and tips, and inspiring conversations about art, community and more.
MOON PATROL, PINK UFO ABDUCTION
1 Publizr