february 2015

No. 004

wildfires

F I E L D N O T E S

F I E L D N O T E Sart through collection

fieldnotesarts.org

Issue No. 4wildfires

Field Notes exists to document the expressions and art that collect over the course of our experiences.

Behind most of our grasping and sweating and constant work is some spark that we cannot ignore. We want to be better at something, we want to be better for something. Our energy burns fiercely behind even the smallest efforts - the quiet endurance of love, the physicality of a budding art form, a hungry openness to learn, be critical, and perpetuate that passion in all that we do.

Something sparks in us to lay everything out on the table, to swim upstream, to make contact, to keep working and working and working. Something is sparking even in our failures, to fail again and to fail better. A fire can be brutal, untouch-able, and can wreak havoc on our behavior, but beyond all else it keeps us going. It grants us meaning. It gives us the means to move forward, to dig deeper, to think, love, and be harder.

Everyone has something they have thought up and worked on and been fever-ishly proud of. Always ask them how they did it. It is the most basic element of their heart. - Alexa Masi, editor-in-chief

c o n t e n t s

cover by: sonja barbaric

a note on the table of contents This issue was unique in that several contributors asked

to be represented by an alias, pseudonym, or otherwise made

more anonymous.

So, in an attempt to accomodate everyone’s needs,

instead of a traditional TOC is simply a list of contributors. All

works (sometimes individually, sometimes as a series) will still

be credited on their respective pages.

melissa brown

caroline cocossa

joseph dussault

peter giunta

jessica halem

nick hasko

ebony j.

shannon keelan

contributorsanna ladd

alexa masi

avery robertson

miles ross

alfonso ruin

olivia stephenson

subtle ceiling

bianca zabala

melissa brownmelissa brownthrough p. 07

collected ceramicscollected ceramics

from the artist:Art making for me has become a test patience and perseverance when dealing with

process. No longer rushing to a result, I aim to forge thoughtful forms and play-

ful surface treatment. My intention is to invite the viewer from afar with colorful/

atmospheric surfaces so that when close enough the work becomes an off putting,

somewhat invasive manifestation of unfiltered imagination. Art making in this way

has allowed myself to not only play, but dabble in intuition as a means of decision

making.

Yours Desperately, MjB

i got to hell but i can’t remember ever sinning

alexa masi

this was the idea: if you can’t rule in heaven, if they’re taking away the light from your sticky, seizing hands (something like the gleam of a kitchen knife, set on a surface just low enough for you to reach), then the next best thing would be to hole up in the basement and stop speaking to anyone who tries to tell you that you aren’t, in fact, the most powerful thing around. unless, of course, they’re making a break for the stairs and they find your bedroom just as you’d left it—while you’re heaving your weight across inch after molding inch of carpet, violently arranging and rearranging a fortress of broken dining room chairs just to see how a space shapes its softness against your rage, they’ve found whatever you were waiting for still hanging in the air. you weren’t finished reaching for it but it doesn’t take long for waiting to feel like an insult.

this was the idea: if you’ve been thrown up into the endless tangle of sky and are burning so fiercely that you’ve gotten yourself some unwanted (but of course also some very desperately wanted) attention, only to be dowsed in an even denser darkness, then of course you’re going to want to bury yourself as deep down and away from those heights as possible. if you can’t do it at one end, do it better at the other. that’s what you’ll keep saying to yourself: “you better make this work. you better make this work. you better make this work.”

but that’s not to say you’ve forgotten what it’s like to burn.and that’s also not to say that desire isn’t discerning. it will not transfer from one point to another like chemical to match head to indifferent flame. striking anywhere that feels rough against your palm is no guarantee. not anything will do. you were waiting for something to spark from your fingertips, for the forgotten firecracker in your pocket with a latency that could’ve killed you—but then it wouldn’t be for nothing after all.

you were waiting and you were holding out and a precarious sense of purpose ran its milkteeth along your earlobe. you wanted something bigger than yourself. and then you thought of yourself as bigger for it. so what do you do when you can’t get what you want?there’s the basement. no one else will make use of that space but you. and you strike matches against the baseboards, against the backs of lady bug carcasses, against your bared teeth and there’s the sparking. there it is and you’re making it happen,maybe not for all of the heavens to see, but you’re making it happen nonetheless. and pretty soon there is nothing for you to touch in this basement that a flame hasn’t touched first.

in fine form, I’ve caught myself with my hands thrown upand rigid in the air, placeholders for the horns thatwill soon squeeze out like whistling barbs of steam.I threw my hands up (fine! fine! fine!)and I stomped down every step of the staircase,my own unremmitting rottweiler-barking to keep everyone at bay,to keep everyone under the impression that what I wastaking down with me was worth guarding, was worthall of this raging and squalling and stomping a snarling spite into the carpet.whatever monstrous ambition I was cagingwas packed tightly into the heads of matchsticks,their ruddy bodies eager to please anything I pressed them to. charred and sick with charcoaldrying out my stomach, I have very little left tooffer them down here.

what was the idea? what in the world am I doing.with a dull, rounded ringing in my ears, I can remember hearing this: one day you will start a fire in somebodyand beyond that, I remember thinking that surely nobody wants to touch a fire. but the basement sighs blackened breath and it thinks I was mistaken—I think I may have been mistaken too—and I hear fingertips pressing softly against the doorto feel if it is warm, skin saying come here come here come hereuntil its mouth is met with blushing wood. nobody wants to toucha fire, but I am still mistaken—they’ll try to lean in close.they’ll get close, so close.

ocean emptieralexa masi

the stats

A fish sees the glinting salts of sky lightand so sprouts swampy wings. We have fly fishingand we now need to take the stainless steel to something more than just its head onthe cedar chopping block.

I’ve seen blood in the water.

Someone dropped a paring knifeinto a rippling Bethsaida and I kept itever since. I’ve been sharpening the grain of my gills and making sure that nothing grows out of them to lift me into hell above.

I’ve seen blood in the water,soaking like oil over its surfacewhile Jesus watched the purpling sunbury itself inside the other half of the sea.

horoscope: you will hear a woman chanting over the speaker system (it’s part of her radio show) and it will distract you from reading an essay on the aesthetics of Horror. don’t think about this too much. you already know why it happens.

horoscope: your dreams are symtomatic but not in any useful way. you’ll think that someone is finally apologizing to you until you wake up with your hands pinned beneath your stomach. make use of how patient and sympathetic you were before feeling your body again.

horoscope: what do you want? what do you want so badly that you keep coming back for answers? fill in their name here and here and use it to punctuate the end of this sentence. use them to fill in any gap that makes you nervous about not knowing what you want. sharp aches make you more productive (i.e. burning buildings make for efficient packers). dull aches remind you it’s not what you want, but how you want it.

horoscope: the most violent movements happen when staying in place. humming-birds are actually quite vicious this way. if you think that nothing is happening to you, check that. there is not an inch of your skin that isn’t crawling, trying to deliver the little flower petals you’ve wallpapered your insides with. everything you’re doing is love me love me love me. if you think that nothing is happening to you, remember that anyone who is truly pleading knows that it doesn’t have to be a stationary activity. in fact, many of them take to crawling.

olivia stephensonimage by

sasha in the airalfonso ruin

through p. 15poem with visual textures

Time out, SashaYou’re up in the air.

I only see you in dreams nowadays.In these distorted seminars, playing “doctor”

Cascades of butterfly heatAntediluvian passions breaking over us.

I remember your jubilee pancake eyesFlying saucer eyes and

Cockroach eyelash games.Lashes stuck to your sweaty, roaring cheeks

At wind’s commandFalling from graceDrifting, unhinged

Lashes like dandelion ashesThe fleeting pieces of yourself

Like psoriatic skinShedding fervor, and lost time that we can’t make up for.

And time underhanded, suspendedDon’t wake me from this dream.

Paralyze me,Pervert me.

Feed me flint flakes,and drugged sun cakes.

Historicize these frantic spider monkey cranial warsParading through my head.

Punish me,Purpose me.Embrace me.

Just don’t wake me from the dream.Sasha

~And all the fire in your stomach

The reflux of parallel realityPunch lines and rorschach.

The swirling flames in my headCeaseless ringing in my ears

Of your multifaceted love and death.In and out of dreams.

False, cruel motions in eternal recurrenceCosmic waltzing,

I want out of.

I’m stepping back into the light with weary and, Singed eye floater periphery.

I’m calculating back to—From the corner of this red eye—that lucky day:

Caught in the wind,Sasha

I’m losing myself again,I’m on my way back to you.

These sweet drugs, to beOut of this filthy body cage.

The scene

“In Moorish wastelands and lost bazaars,Shimmering salt flats and fallen stars.

In alchemical confinement and astronomical alignment,The devilish sun and androgynous moon

Together, in the air—Waves of sari and impossible jewelry,

The paradox of true harmony.Now they mock me,

Call for me,Slowly seduce me back into a pervert’s dream...”

!!!

Oh, There and back here,The space in between.

Too many alcoves for eyesores.Rushing in,

The flooding of alarmsand street-mare sideshows

Post-punks and cigarette buttsBroken bottles and the air of a dying pregnant cat.

Limbs broke and raw sewage spillingTo vomit stain the streets purple-green.

Suicidal cricket chirps in locked iron casketsEating kipper tombs,

A taste of Dread.The cheap drama of this life.

Sasha

And to bask in the joke. Here’s to no realness anymore.

No realness to this blood.The party is endingThe drugs are worn

The fire is dyingThe fire is dying.

And the ire of choked flames and Recurring whimpers for

Passed occasions,Blurred in some artful impression.

And in the dream,to bathe you, again.

In lukewarm showers of once steaming, unrequited bloodThe ardent softness ofPast’s flaming blood.

What was warmColder and calmer, this time around.

For your see, I am the mad clownThe sad messenger.

Beyond the mad rantingI am still—

Locked in these dreams, Swirling in fish scales;

Floating from the nightmare.Sasha

I’ll let forth the Chopin relapse,Penderecki synapse.

The Tangier overdose,Psilocybin open source.

I’ll lock myself under self-suggested trapdoorsAnd slowly rekindle our perverted flame.

The capital fires of Perdition won’t touch meI’m wrapping new skins of eternity.

Dancing to new tunesPost-everything—

Jazz, and cricket chirps.

Orchestrating a new dramaFor dearest Sasha.Perverted peace In the wildifre

collected photographycollected photographycollected photographycollected photographyavery robertson

through p. 23

gracelessbianca zabala

it’s three in the afternoon &you’re sitting across the only windowwith no blinds on.

i realise i am better at making you love methan i am at being intimatewith my hands.

mother still keeps the old vase on top of the aquarium.it’s three in the afternoon &nothig has changed,the sun is still setting &the world sways on.mother says s—s—stopthe frenzy in her voicethe panic in her eyesthe room is smaller—the room is on f i r e—

i’m staring at the cross-stiched hail mary on the wall& wonderingacting like i still know itave maria, gratia plenaliars burn liars burn put the blinds down

who lied to you?said you didn’t have lionesses under your skin?the vase is cra—crack—crackingtick tock tickcrash

vase on the floor / gold shards on the floordon’t step don’t step s t o p

you’re back to writing poetry on shower curtains again& scribbling with soap on the bathroom floor

where does your father think you get it fromit’s three in the afternoonit’s three it’s threeit’s four

& the sun is in your eyes again,ave maria, gratia plena.

hot dreamspeter giunta

You breathe dreams into some lungsthe dust from your cracked ceiling floats above youready to crush youbut then your bed would fall through the floor tooand there you would be in your basementand the neighborswould float from tupperware homesand feel for youand then take the feelings home with them.

And now you have to cleanbut the dust has covered your bedroom in tableclothso you plant Christmas lights under the rughoping that they’ll grow into lamps and scare the dust away.

You wonder why they can’t feel the dust in their earsand they wonder why you never listen.Don’t they hear it rap against the bay windows?They don’t use their flashlights at nightor they’d see the little moths tooand there they would beflailing in the wind.

from the artist:Everyone has had a feeling that they never want to leave them. People and places

that feel like they fit into life, that for once they’re right. Someone told me that they

never take photos of anything because they get too caught up in living. More and

more I’m wanting to be a part of life not just watching it, but there’s things I can’t

help but just watch and know that it’s beyond me. My photos are moments I fell into

and realized there was something good there.

joseph dussault

On the artistic value of nostalgia (in relation to Game Boy music)

Chiptune—that is, music made with or inspired by retro video game systems—is long-settled into geeky niche territory. We associate it with pizza, anime, Surge soda, and the expansive void of regurgitated 80s/90s teen culture. And few out-side the community would argue that there’s more to it than that.

Now an art form populated mainly by bedroom producers, chiptune has nobler origins. Early video game soundtracks featured little more than superficial bleeps and bloops—that is, until bona fide composers like Manami Matsumae and David Wise brought their craft to the consoles. Primitive sound chips forced game composers to work with incredible limitations—it’s damn-near impossible to create a masterpiece within four channels of simple noise. But when they did it, they fucking did it. That’s why, above any song released in the last 40 years, the Mario theme is the most instantly recognizable tune in pop-culture. And you don’t have to play the game even once to know that.

But 1985 is no longer imposing its limitations on us. Eighth-gen consoles can play hi-fi audio without any problems, and some desktop DAWs can simulate a 50-piece symphony orchestra like it’s child’s play. So it seems a little bit silly that so many of us (myself included) are still making music with “hacked” Game Boys and Ataris. Some would argue that we do it because the limitations force us to be creative. And that’s true. But that’s also what we say to validate ourselves when we’re dismissed as nostalgic basement-dwellers with a hobby.

We don’t like to admit that our love for the form is so deeply rooted in nostalgia. It’s because “nostalgia” is a dirty word. And I get that. That dude you know who always says he was “born in the wrong generation” is the fucking worst. But in a musical context, nostalgia can actually be pretty useful. Nostalgia is a songwriter’s tool. Classical composers use leitmotifs—not out of laziness, but to evoke moods and memories. In the hip-hop community, there’s a long history of sampling jazz and Motown classics. It may be that those samples “sound good” superficially, but more important is the notion that those sounds meant something to the artist. We invoke sounds (and books and movies and all media) in art because it is easier to understand how we feel now through the lens of, “how did I feel then?” We re-purpose the nostalgia. We use the past as a reference point in trying to understand the present.

Which is why I express through chiptune. As a solely instrumental songwriter, melodies have always been representative of feelings to me, rather than specific events. And as someone who still struggles with emotional bottling, it’s helpful to my expression to run my feelings through a filter of familiarity. So in trying to make sense of my pseudo-adult life, I do so in relation to the games of my childhood. The incomparable serenity and sense of possibility that I felt, and still sometimes feel, when I heard the swelling SS Anne theme. In this way, a sound texture—even a crude 8-bit fuzz—offers a sense of security in addressing untapped feelings.

olivia stephensonimage by

torch song for ravenna’s christbianca zabala

facing page

Ravenna’s Christ walks on beastsbut I pray to him anyway. I wipe

my bloody hands at his feet, I seeksalvation from a chariot of fire,

I eat affection from his holy palms.

Ravenna’s Christ is a warrior so I always take the long way home,just to prove that I can. Mother saysStop apologising but I keep saying

He tastes like ashes. Father saysStop apologising but I have beenon my knees for so long, I don’tremember what pride feels like.When will you stop apologising?

When it stops burning. When it stops burning.

When I am cupping smoke and cinderbetween my fingers and refusing to say

I am holding what remains.

Ravenna’s Christ is still a young manand already, my hands are charred.

I don’t remember what spark set me off,this enduring funeral pyre.

`

contrast while driving through the city

caroline cocossa

Writing about light and goodnessseems reductiveThe sun is too much, too far, too perfectGive me layers of ozone and cloudsto shelter my sky from that light—For the rosy tinted haze that makes colorsdeeperand feelings more saturatedcomes from the light of a skyjust about to pour buckets

Dreams of flying through woodsof silver barked treesthe deepest greento swallow pure air and loamMake me rich as the damp soiland remind me that we too, come from the groundin a certain sense

I’ll return to it, at the very least.

I’m hard pressed to find the right syllables to convey the lovely sight of a skybut I want to—Full of grey-purple clouds,softly lurking,pressing down,as that ever-persistent yellow lightleaks lazilycovering like a cup overflowing,It feels easier to breath

`

ebony j

“22”, ink and watercolor (2014)

collected images through p. 31

`

“agave cube”, cyanotype (2014)

`

“bell jar”, cyanotype and watercolor (2015)

`

`

(hammock)nick hasko

Seasoned veteransslit blood rushingcombat in brokencompany of bayonetsstands tall.Fall turns the sycamoregasping red in the drains,grasping; please relieve the pain’s ghastly enough and I don’t need rusted metal confirmingmy end won’t come soon and I’ll watch as oxygenleaves plasma to coagulatebrowncarbon seethes and seizes; forgetting the breeze isnecessary but trees don’tbreathe this air willnever reach my lungsagain;demanding quiverso deliver your O2

not understanding the terror mythroat ensued is through.

White, blinding void ofleaves of grass of earthis foreign now.Autumn’s flush too soon,the frost came early that year.

`

`

“girls and glasshouses”, cyanotype and watercolor (2015)

narcissus (2014)anna ladd

through p. 35

It was only in my last two years that I have felt like I can begin to explore my femininity and my sexuality—I have always been uncomfortable with these parts of myself, maybe because they were expected of me, but I remember being 16 and cutting off all my hair because too many people told me that it was pretty.

A big part of my exploration of my body has been through taking pictures of myself every day. My face, my body with and without clothes, my favorite and least favorite parts. They were never taken with the intention of sending to anyone, they just became a daily part of my routine—finding out about myself, what I liked and didn’t like, through my appearance and the ways I was willing to photograph it.

Gel transfers of selfies on handmade paper from my last haircut

canyonanna laddmy thighs are littered with crevicesbut i think i like how it feels when your fingertips find them—my instinct says to pull back, to squirm, to flinch, to repeat these motionsuntil my body resumes its position in a self-inflicted vacuum,untouchable.i’d let spikes grow out of my legs if i couldi’d let my arms be carnivorous if it didn’t meani would have to chase you off with them.oh my fucking god, i moan,having a body is the worst thing in the world, i whine,i would rather be a floating aura of senses that knows how to speak.i am only half kidding.some days i want to start over completelyand crawl out of this mess of skin and spineand wake up with new limbs, a new head,legs without canyons that feel like they are miles deepthey remind me that growth is gradualwhen sometimes i need it to be sudden.

my thighs are littered with crevicesbut i think i like how it feels when your fingertips find them—my instinct says to pull back, to squirm, to flinch, to repeat these motionsuntil my body resumes its position in a self-inflicted vacuum,untouchable.i’d let spikes grow out of my legs if i couldi’d let my arms be carnivorous if it didn’t meani would have to chase you off with them.oh my fucking god, i moan,having a body is the worst thing in the world, i whine,i would rather be a floating aura of senses that knows how to speak.i am only half kidding.some days i want to start over completelyand crawl out of this mess of skin and spineand wake up with new limbs, a new head,legs without canyons that feel like they are miles deepthey remind me that growth is gradualwhen sometimes i need it to be sudden.

jessica halemjessica halem

a love letter to sad musicals

Theatre as escapism is so prevalent in discussions about musical theatre. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard the phrase, “people go to the theater to escape their problems.” I disagree wholeheartedly...for me at least. Maybe someone out there is going to the theater to escape their problems, but I’d like to ask them how that’s working out for them. I’m sure their problems are still there after the curtain falls. I go to the theater to face my problems head on and to learn how to overcome them. I want to feel every emotion played out on the stage. Only then will I feel the catharthis of letting my worries and problems go.

I love sad musicals. It sounds like a paradox, but hear me out. In musical theater writing, it is said that a song begins when emotions are heightened. When dialogue can no longer support the motion of the moment, the character sings. I cannot spontaneously break into song. I don’t have the talent to compose a worthwhile piece of music on the spot nor do I have a capable singing voice. I can, however, vicari-ously feel the emotions being felt on stage, through song. I can feel my own confusion and pain when in The Last 5 Years, Cathy Hiatt sings, “Jamie is over and where can I turn / covered in scars I did nothing to earn.” I can face my own insecurities when Bebe in A Chorus Line sings, “different is nice, but it sure isn’t pretty / pretty is what it’s about / I never met anyone who was different who couldn’t figure that out / so beautiful I’d never live to see.” I’ve never lost a close friend or relative, but I feel the raw sad-ness and grief in Spring Awakening’s “Left Behind” when Melchoir sings, “all things he ever lived are left behind / all the fears that ever flickered through his mind / all the sadness that he’d come to own.”

I allow myself to feel deeply whatever the characters (and actors) are being put through. If they are in pain, I feel the same weight in my chest. Only after weathering the storm in the safety of the theater will I be able to face my own anxieties and issues. Only after going on the roller coaster of emotion that is Next to Normal will I be able to appreciate Diana Goodman singing, “you find some way to survive / and you find out you don’t have to be happy at all / to be happy you’re alive.” I am only able to truly appreciate and believe in that statement, inside and outside of the theater, if first I have felt her pain, and thus confronted my own.

So yes, I love sad musicals. They make me truly feel something, and thus truly feel alive. They remind me that I am not alone in whatever emotion I may be swamped in. They tell me that “even the darkest night will and end and the sun will rise.”

melissa brownimage by

shannon keelanshannon keelanshannon keelanshannon keelanshannon keelanlady parts tea and inklady parts

from the artist:

This piece confronts the fire of sexuality. A fire that’s often removed

from our brain and morphs into a drive that can become out of our

control. Sometimes we are disgusted by our drive and other times

we enjoy the separation that comes from it.

subtle ceiling

through p. 42visual journaling

o.g.speach

sleeping naked for the first time with someone you love on a summer night with thewindows open because it’s hot as hellwaking up at three am and doing it and it’s the best thing because it feels like a dreamyou are together in the shower and later, on your chest there is a reminder unsullied bythe water for the rest of the daythe one you love making you eggs****a bite mark bruise on the top inside of my right thigh, finally not a bruise atop a bruisea bruise on unmarked skinhands that smell like touching mesink your teeth into my thigh like the flesh of a peachit’s the same consistency, firmness, with a bit of give

miles rossmiles rossmiles rossmiles rossmiles rossmiles ross miles rossmiles rossmiles ross miles rossmiles rossmiles ross

acrylic on canvas and newspaper

miles ross miles rossmiles rossmiles ross

miles ross

comic

F I E L D N O T E Sart through collection

additional artist information

caroline cocossa clcocossa@gmail.comA Massachusetts native currently studying in New York trying to get something out there. A fan of places and people and things. Heavily considering running away to the forest, but then what good is a Communications degree? joseph dussault http://t-tb.bandcamp.com/https://soundcloud.com/t-t-b-1

jessica halem jessica.l.halem@gmail.comJessica Halem is a third year student at Northeastern University, pursuing a dual major degree in Media & Screen Studies and Theatre Production. She is currently working as a programming intern at 54 Below in New York City. She enjoys theater, music, television, her friends, bagels, and musicals that make her cry.

nick hasko nghasko@gmail.comthemostbandct.bandcamp.com/releasesindia1.bandcamp.com/album/everything-is

shannon keelan shannonpdk@gmail.comShannon is a Boston based artist getting her bachelor’s degree in communications and theatre. You can expect a website of some sort when she gets her act together but for now you can email shannonpdk@gmail.com if you’d like.

anna ladd aladd@uarts.eduannamakesthings.tumblr.comannaladdphoto.comAnna Ladd is a Philadelphia based fine art and portrait photographer. She is pursuing a BFA in photography at the University of the Arts with a minor in film and works with a mixture of digital and analog processes, focusing on personal experiences and pieces of writing. She likes Breaking Bad, burritos, and dogs of all sizes.

avery robertson robertson.av1@gmail.comarchitecture student

miles ross (twitter) @amyfieldmousehttp://amyfieldmouse.tumblr.com/http://artsyfieldmouse.tumblr.com/i’m at any given time an artist, drummer, 16 year old girl, vinyl fiend, cat person, bookworm or any combination of the above.

olivia stephenson oliviagraystephenson@gmailOlivia Gray Stephenson is twenty one and from Texas. They study art history and pursue pho-tography and writing on the side. They can be reached via email at oliviagraystephenson@gmail, but please visit their writing blog and photoblog as well (itsracingthroughmyveins.tumblr.com and r4bbitheart.tumblr.com, respectively)

subtle ceiling subtleceiling.tumblr.comsubtle ceiling is mixed media artist, performer and workshop facilitator. I make what I can from whatever items, moments and spaces I flow through or collide against. I’m interested in DIY. decolonization, intersectionality, healthy healing + coping, solidarity and resistance through radically existing within the white-supremacist capitalist cis-hetero patriarchy.

bianca zabalaBianca Zabala was born in Quezon City, Philippines, and has considered herself in transit ever since. She is currently pursuing a Bachelor of Arts in History, and is using poetry as a way of relearning to be honest. Get in touch on tumblr @sleepyenjolras or twitter @bzabalas.

F I E L D N O T E Sart through collection

inquiries // submissions

SUBMIT: Issue No. 5

editor@fieldnotesarts.orgfieldnotesarts.org

Field Notes is always seeking art and written work, under the broadest of definitions, from as many willing voices as possible. If you have put yourself and your experiences into some printable form, please do not hesitate to send it our way.

Issue No. 5 will be centered around duality - an effort to explore the spaces of contradiction, split selves and multiple truths within us. We are seeking works relating to this prompt, whether directly or loosely; but, of course, we will still review and accept submissions of any form, content, and topic.

More detailed information on the prompt, submission guidelines and due dates can be found on our website.

To ensure your work will be reviewed and accepted in a timely manner, please submit no later than March 1st.

We look forward to hearing from you.

field notesissue no. 004