Mega*Zine Lost&Found #8/2014 ENG

EMPTINESS Mega*Zine Lost&Found #8

ENG #8

EMPTINESS Mega*Zine Lost&Found #8 Mega*Zine Lost&Found #8 EmptinessTABLE OF CONTENT

Photo on the cover by Magdalena Franczuk

003_PRESENTATIONS: GALLERY - Magdalena Franczuk018_POETRY SECTION - Jacek Mas!owski019_PRESENTATIONS: GALLERY - Robert J"dras026_POETRY SECTION - Leszek #uli$ski027_PRESENTATIONS: GALLERY - R%a Puzynowska032_POETRY SECTION - Adam H. A. Michniewicz033_PRESENTATIONS: GALLERY - Max Petrone043_POETRY SECTION - Agata Atka Cichy044_PRESENTATIONS: GALLERY - Yvette Bessels050_POETRY SECTION - Aneta Mla&-Touanda051_PRESENTATIONS: GALLERY- Paola Leonardi061_POETRY SECTION - Anna Buczkowska B'czek062_PRESENTATIONS: GALLERY - Agnieszka (ozi$ska072_POETRY SECTION - Dorota Karin073_PRESENTATIONS: GALLERY - Zorn Varga081_POETRY SECTION - Jan Siwmir082_PRESENTATIONS: GALLERY - Maike Born089_POETRY SECTION - Joanna Ma!oszczyk090_PRESENTATIONS: GALLERY - Jean-Christophe Sartoris105_PROSE SECTION - Adam H. A. Michniewicz106_PRESENTATIONS: GALLERY - Karolina Paluch117_MUSIC SECTION - Mateo Gallito120_PRESENTATIONS: GALLERY - Christian Martin Weiss137_POETRY SECTION - Katarzyna Kowalewska138_PRESENTATIONS: GALLERY - Reylia Slaby143_PROSE SECTION - Maria Dunkel152_PRESENTATIONS: GALLERY - Oytun Gral159_POETRY SECTION - Victor Venerdi160_PRESENTATIONS: GALLERY - Aleksander Ikaniewicz175_PROSE SECTION - Adam H. A. Michniewicz177_PRESENTATIONS: GALLERY - Philip Faith192_MUSIC SECTION - Fado194_PRESENTATIONS: GALLERY - Christa Dickson199_POETRY SECTION - Piotr Kumor200_PRESENTATIONS: GALLERY - Craig Gum210_POETRY SECTION - Nina Ja&nikowska211_PRESENTATIONS: GALLERY - Magdalena Graj222_FOLLOW US223_(OUT)RODUCTION


Presentations - Gallery Magdalena Franczuk

Magdalena Franczuk, student of Photography at the PWSFTviT, Lodz. In my photography, I create a world on the boundary of fables and reality. My aim is to spread my work across a wide range of senses - each has its own temperature, taste and scent. My inspiration draws on, among other things, the paintings of the old masters, photographs from the end of the XIX century and devotional works. To describe myself, I try to create "knick-knack" photographs, which have their beginnings in dust and continue to attract dust. Aside from photography, I deal with the theory of Photography and lead workshops.

https://www.facebook.com/magdalenafranczuk.fotografia



Strangelands



The Inner Ice


Poetry Section - edited by Piotr Kasperowicz Jacek Mas!owski

"Ground"

here where you standahead going out and for each otherbut at the same place so time and

space also somewhereright next door?a transformation

IN BUTTERFLIES HAIR

"November's lamentation"

windowlike a stone

sparkles from a distance

light likesword

stings in the the eyesand movingin the middle

on the edge of the woundhatches

wordof complaint

swells


Presentations - Gallery Robert J"dras

Ulica

My name is Robert J"dras. I'm 47,

I'm an amateur photographer.



Bez nadziei



Mj dom



Mroczny las



Ostatni



Pomost



Urodziny


Poetry Section - edited by Piotr Kasperowicz Leszek #uli$ski

"The flower of amaryllis"

Margaret is not there, I imagined her,when she walks towards me, leaning dark curtains of the night,

it is not her - it is my hope, this is a dreamdreamed for years and swaying as amniotic fluid,when she writes to me or is waiting for my letters,she neither writes nor waits - I'm talking with my

loneliness, argue with her ))or get familiar, I tell herhundred times a day: only you I have, you bitch, you are my

only life and death.When Margaret has tears in her eyes seeing my emotions,

these are only my tears, I would like to seeif she was next to me,

when I wait for her for hours, circling from the door to the window,I listen for steps in an endless corridor

of impatience - but she doesnt come, cause someone who is imaginedcomes not coming, touches without touching, promises

not giving hope;even when Margaret attracts me between her legs

and leaves no doubt that she is real,it's just a flower of amaryllis blossoming on the windowsill,

to cover her non-existence.

"A Separation"

On the platform is stunned Separation.

As a pillar of salt,as milestone rooted to the spot,

metering space and time.

The spacetime,this great ocean of solitude devoided of edges,

prairie blown by emptiness, horizon with no interior.

Under the dome of the station rages like the Suite of Schoenbergmusic of metal piercing tones and concrete echoes,

instead of stars, the craters of the moon are falling down,emptiness has the taste of iron,

rusty dust settles on the collars and hands of men,on the hair of women waving their handkerchiefs from windows

devoured by the Jaws of the Tunnel,sinking in the Grand Aquarium of Darkness,

where jellyfish of inertia implicate Departure in the whalebonesof dumbfounded disbelief.

Lunar Pierrottouches his collar flange,loosens its oppression,

catches his breath.

And nothing improves,and it even gets worse.


Presentations - Gallery R%a Puzynowska

R#A PUZYNOWSKA ROZABorn 1984, WarsawGraduate of the International School of Costumography and Clothing Design (Warsaw). Graduate of the Faculty of Painting, Academy of Fine Arts (Warsaw). In 2007, she studied for a BA Hons in Fine Arts at the University College of Falmouth (Cornwall, UK). Shes currently studying at the National Academy, New York.Has participated in, inter alia, the Moving Districts International Audiovisual Workshops, Budapest (EUShorts festival, Budapest), designing the costumes for music videos and theatre productions, and has taken part in a number of exhibitions of paintings, interviews and discussions about Art.Her images can be found in private collections in Poland, Great Britain and the United States.

https://www.facebook.com/roza.artist

Venus - Aleksa Lundberg, 210x95cm, 2012



Venus - Clara Kumrall, 210x95cm



Venus - Kasia Wo&, 210x95cm



Venus - Kim Lee, 210x95cm



Venus - Star Moyo, 210x95cm


Poetry Section - edited by Piotr Kasperowicz Adam H. A. Michniewicz

"Ecrir"

People write to me.Different people.

They write crookedly,unintelligible.

Briefly, perfunctory.Not for me -

- for themselves.No content.Only signs.

They count on the answer.

So let them.Let them practice maths.

In fact,they want comments

many friends.Even if

strangers.So write, please.

Because I removed the account.

"Desecration"

When I saw youat sunriseyour hair were so beautiful.How is it possiblethat, along with the sunset the spell has been broken?Tomorrow you will be venialas work and school.

When we met for the first time you were an aristocrat. You were an exception you woke up the demons. But how to love you now, when many know how you taste?

The world did not leavea white thread on us.We do not knowwhat a fresh breeze is.Pigeons diedon our eyelids.They do not wait for rain.

It hurts,that in today's world,of the really beautiful thingspeopledo somethingso vulgarlyanimal origin.


Presentations - Gallery Max Petrone

Treff 100x200 cm, 2013

Massimiliano Petrone was born on March 4, 1983 in Turin, Italy.

He graduated in 2003 at the Renato Cottini High School and continued his studies at the Accademia Albertina di Belle Arti.

He lives and works in Turin.

www.massimilianopetrone.comhttps://www.facebook.com/MaxPetrone



Levante 150x200 cm, 2014



Andy Campbells 50x70 cm, 2014



doubleface(mask)without a soul 100x150 cm, 2013



Frida - 50x60 cm, 2014



HATE - 200x200 cm, 2013



Jenny Saville - 150x200 cm, 2014



Morrissey - 50x70 cm, 2014



RonnyMc - 50x60 cm, 2014



Walt Disney - 50x70 cm, 2014


Poetry Section - edited by Piotr Kasperowicz Agata Atka Cichy

"no thing, no body "my drummer

you are not no thing or no bodyyou are five lines on the map of silver plates

of the daily set

sometimes they loose the keythose with whom composedyou are in a perfect rhythm

when a drop vibrates the silence coming backdoesnt cry trembles with silence at the corners of your mouth

do not ask me who weeps after youwhen mortality closes the eyes the indifferent tears

today your tear painted and the rain on the roofwith drops on a five line playsforgive me if I move the plates

with forgotten breatheven though I'm running always Im closer

even if you doubt the durability of spider silkI'm stuck with a drop at her end

with rain I return again in parallel to youin vibrating cacophony of wind chimes

until I dry up on your cheekagain caught in the unfulfilled farewells

flatly testify thou are alltill I soak into your skin

me autumnaltrembling shroud on the frame of a snare drum

20.09.2013

"I'm like the arctic wilderness..."

I'm like the arctic wildernessI'm good it is just the dehydration

I'm starting a race against the timethis place is like a closed intersection

you cannot continue to go here everything endsas young black-tailed prairie dogs we adapted to the prevailing conditions

last lap to leave everything and focus on winningwith haunted smile

to avoid obstacles without colliding and win at the finish linesimple hardworking woman scrubbing your floors

with a hump on her backbecause a defamation may be the use of red lipstick

and exquisite perfume

hollow emptiness forced laugh of growing impatiencesound postcard from you

an object from the pole of philosophical fairy tale

I'm not unhappy because you can please fateI'm an object in all terms

close to the direct observationor shortly after it

catalyst of nothingness

during the trip31.12.2013


Presentations - Gallery Yvette Bessels

Originally from the Netherlands, Yvette Bessels moved to the UK in 2008 and lived in several different places and countries in the past six years, including the Netherlands, Germany and Australia. Now settled in Cambridge, Yvette has focussed her photographic efforts towards classic photography techniques, including the use of medium format roll film, salt printing and wet plate collodion photography. Favourite subjects include portraits, fashion, urban exploring, death/ decay and the surreal. The serie of abandoned coalmine Lacheratte.

https://www.facebook.com/YvetteBesselsPhotographer


Presentations - Gallery Yvette Bessels


Poetry Section - edited by Piotr Kasperowicz Aneta Mla&-Touanda

"DeScratchTions"

I'm not running awaywater tightly fill the cracks

silver tile and crystal refractionsbelow zero there is no emptiness

only the conswater again, doing her work

scratch creates a formoven has already cooled

under the pads peculiar alphabetyou can feel all of these types of depth

another scar in the same placeunimpressed, destruction

a squeal of broken fingernailjust a scratch on the surface

water constantly doing her work...

"Apnoea"

soexactly

one shotnaive game of boats

the other side of the coin has a different glossdust on a still warm elbow

with scabs pavedway outthis one

and million of crumbstwitches before the feet

the mucus on the fish's eyes perfectly matchesthe tamed gray

ambiguous smiletightens swine string

(there is no room for happiness)a great abyss over the fields

no marks of springI'm looking though for a drop of blood

nothing will surprise me...


Presentations - Gallery Paola Leonardi

Paola Leonardi (born Italy 1980) is a London based photographer, working commercially as well as on her own projects. Her work is concerned with the representation of cultural identity, its shifts and states of transition. She is also a lecturer in Photography at University Campus Suffolk.

Paola Leonardis series Undrawn Hours was created at NES Artist Residency in Skagastrond, northen Iceland, during February-March 2010; it presents a photographic exploration of the remote Skagi peninsula.Scourged by winter storms and drained by the economic recession, this area is littered with abandoned farms and unused summer cabins, broken sheds and decommissioned boats, a stark reminder of the depopulation and decay of local farming and fishing industry.Leonardi uses the photographic medium to trace the human imprint on the territory, a lyrical depiction of the shift in human geography that has lead to the abandonment of the countryside and decline of manual industry.The harsh weather made human encounters rare and the structures that remain have become relics abandoned in a sea of hay and ice, reminders of a past human presence.

https://www.facebook.com/PaolaLeonardiPhotography


Presentations - Gallery Paola Leonardi


Poerty Section - edited by Piotr Kasperowicz Anna Bukowska B'czek

"Wall"

wall

jagged with helplessnessand such announcements

on it

for rentvacant of the soul

and a hanging bridge between

no words for exchangeand images on the interior walls

torn curtains of the sensescracked windows with high c of ecstasy

dried pots of not watered beingssmall matter strewn about

hawked through the left arm on the floorof creaking days

built on the sand of escarpmentfor renovation

with a soul hidden in the mouse hole

and in the distancefireworks

cheaplyon time

unspecified


Presentations - Gallery Agnieszka (ozi$ska

I'm a Biologist, Paramedic, working in the profession, a guide of searching dog, I am a mum, a big fan of tomato soup, but above all I love to take photographs, I adore analogue photography, I love photography of the moment, recently I b e c a m e a h u g e f a n o f d i g i t a l photography, in taking pictures I value the contact with people, and the specific relationship between phtographer and photographed , I know that "Big is only what beyond the strength" l.s.

Edytorial prepared during Plener Fotograficzny in Rzeczka, 2013.

"No smoke without fire" photo: Agnieszka (ozi$skamodel: Paula M!ynarskamake-up/ hair: Alex Kwiatkowska


Presentations - Gallery Agnieszka (ozi$ska


Poetry Section - edited by Piotr Kasperowicz Dorota Karin

"Karin's Prayer"

give me a clear pure voicein which spring gives orders

give me a sunny voiceto let fruits ripening faster

give me a beauty of shapeand the ability to jump from branch to branch

give meindefinitely

telling people

that I exist

"Demolition"

I pawned at a pawn shop two stringsno one invites me to the concerts

I planted seedlings in the garden of hungerI expect much after this crop

the greasy mouth already are interested in

I live like other knick knacksI breathe (although this is an bashful disease)

I eat hot dogs

I devote all forcesfor wreckingown D N A


Presentations - Gallery Zorn Varga

My name is Zoran Varga. I am a 26 years old freelance photographer based in Budapest, Hungary. I have always been interested in arts in general, mainly music and photography. During my college years I decided that the latter is something I would like to do full-time so I set up my own studio in 2008. My main interest is fine-art photography but I shoot fashion, portraits, concerts and weddings as well. I have had several exhibitions in my hometown as well as publications in magazines. Im into directing, shooting (with camera), making music, singing, playing the guitar or some games on my PC. In the foreseeable future i'd like to focus on my own projects, like creating photo series of dancers on the streets and rooftops of Budapest, or photographing Madonna depictions inspired potraits, and learning new methods of expressing myself and my ideas.My favourite quote: Learn lots. Don't judge. Laugh for no reason. Be nice. Seek happiness.

https://www.facebook.com/ZoranVargaPhoto

NVSBL



deer dance



dissociative



ediolic spectra



embryo 2



fall



pustota



silent shout


Poetry Section - edited by Piotr Kasperowicz Jan Siwmir

"Blades"

visible todaytomorrow we will put the shadow on the rocks

like a black lookalike of each grass blade

only the time will staydreamily drifting through the stumps of memories

but it will not be seenin anyone's eyes


Presentations - Gallery Maike Born

My name is Maike Born, Im 19 years old and I lived my whole life in Dsseldorf, a western town in germany. I started to admire photography at the age of sixteen with taking just normal selfportraits, like everybody do sometimes when they need a new profile picture on facebook. With inspiration of a lot of conceptual photographers Ive started to become more serious with my art and created certain scenes around my portraits. I began to use my friends as models for my sometimes weird ideas, like covering in milk or flour, as well as making them sit on a wet forest ground.As I began to take one photo per day for an entire year, called The 365 Days Project, aiming to improve my skil ls and become a better photographer, I continued to capture my own feelings and behavious in self portraits. From that time on I, myself, play a big role in my works, as I am able to be my own model and therefore to capture a certain feeling or thought. It is more like my own therapy, taking self portraits, to conquer myself.I am completely self taught, but still hungry to learn more about photography.With my growing passion I plan to study an art based course in the following year.

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Maike-Born-Photography/187698267908063

Monster



oh no



portrait



Recreation



Silhouettes of Skeletons



Space Dementia



untitled


Poetry Section - edited by Piotr Kasperowicz Joanna Ma!oszczyk

"Marienbad"

The June night in Marienbadsmells like Muskat, martini and sulfur

Women beautiful and wise,filled with magic

at noon of late summerstroll through hell of memories.

Yet danceyet dress of white silk.

Turn away from the mirrorsTo not seen in them

by chancethe infinity.


Presentations - Gallery Jean-Christophe Sartoris

Are you crazy

After six music albums, fed up with all those glitches and blips, I couldnt go with it, the complete black hole!So I decided in 2005 to follow a new way toward photographic clicks. My themes are about everything, nothing and specially emptiness as well as nostalgia with images Id like to got for memories.I also wish to share the humanity deserts which are around us.

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Jean-Christophe-Sartoris-Photography/111052107961



Be Careful, Please! Only Positive Energy Allowed Behind This Point



Did You Receive The Radiogram



Freedom is on of the most precious gifts...given to men by Heavens



I'm playing like Paul Newman, giving the boy a tanning



l seem to be losing stability



l think that Solaristics is at an impasse



Mangatronics cannot get anything



Seamonster



Seamonsters 6



The History Of Mankind Is A History Of Horrors!



We'Re In The Washroom On One Of The Ships Of The Vogon Constructor Fleet



What we need now is a good rain to wash away all footprints



You brush past people. People bump into you



You're Invisible And You'd Go To Space Camp


Prose Section Adam H. A. Michniewicz

WoundsWounds. The title of an album containing the paintings and reproduced works of prominent contemporary artists.

But more importantly, to me it became the germ of an idea about wounds in the context of dying, in every possible dimension, as everything is so multi-faceted nowadays. Having seen all this compiled artwork, I immediately fell asleep,

or, more precisely, took a short, unplanned nap. The dream failed, but it didnt hurt. It didnt hurt at all.How can one deal with life, death, dying, fear and suffering without thinking about wounds? But that is exactly

what allows us to contemplate their existence, their essence even. The time has come. Waiting any longer would cause painful misunderstandings. For when the accumulated lack of knowledge strikes, the response is immediate and on all fronts. And thus the dimensions of wounds manifest themselves.

It is easiest to begin with the physicality in this sense wounds do not differ from numerous terms that accompany human existence: scratches, burns, frostbite, the remnants of dangerous accidents such as car crashes, horrifying war injuries and all kinds of disabilities. These often mean an obvious lack of something an amputation. Our bodies can be a map of pain and torture. This is how we were created and some may take it as a sign of weakness and inability to adjust, compared to other species. But if all the words mentioned above, frostbite, scratches, disability and

so on were placed in a category called mind, the result would be an interesting and widely-known phenomenon: mental wounds. Or mementos. I decided to consider an even narrower problem. My thoughts were preoccupied with self-mutilation, and this could easily lead to mutilating myself. Just like discovering any secret. It does not hurt at all. When we have something under control, of course we feel, but we can be resentful only towards ourselves. It is quite challenging to resist the

aggression within. Sometimes everything coincide, as we get used to the danger by thinking about it, analysing it in the smallest detail. The wounds are terrifying and cathartic as well, though not exactly comforting. Not in the most obvious way, at least. The scars remain. When a friend of mine was called up for military service, one of the doctors grumbled about the scars on his left arm. A result of immature antics of times long gone. He called it "a pathological case of past stress-alleviation." The

recruiting officer, however, though he had not uttered a word, called it "the map". What he meant was a map of suffering needed to step into a man's world, the environment of adults who must inspire respect otherwise they will never really exist. So, can wounds have a positive dimension? Certainly they can. And even if youre not convinced, you have to admit that there are at least some situations when we have to consider their dual nature.

Which wounds are the worst? And why shouldnt we write about them, show them? Sometimes only the strongest

stimulate work. And humans, mischievous and careless creatures, forget so easily. Time heals. Time hurts.


Presentations - Gallery Karolina Paluch

Photo: Karolina Paluch h t t p s : / / w w w . f a c e b o o k . c o m /koralinatakesphotosModel: Klaudia Szersze$Make-up: Alex Kwiatkowska h t t p s : / / w w w . f a c e b o o k . c o m /AleksandraKwiatkowskaMakeUpArtiststyle: Alex Kwiatkowskahair: Damian Kowalczyk


Presentations - Gallery Karolina Paluch


Music Section - edited by Jan Gromski Mateo Gallito

Mateo GallitoMateo Gallito (Matus Kohutek) Pianist, composer, dancer, singer, a guest in various bands (eg: Marantana Dunya, Pressburg jazz system). Dancer in folk bands, "Lucznica", "Dopravar". Pianist in the choir of the University "Comenius", pianist, dancer and author of "Flamenco joven", "Encuentros f lamencos", "Creacion f lamenco", "Simfonia Flamenca". The leader of the "Remedios" artistic jazz-flamenco team (he participated with "Remedios" in the final contest of jazz music organized by the Slovak Jazz Association). He participated in a guest appearance as part of Gipsy Kings concert in Bratislava. At the moment he is dancing flamenco in the musical "Don Quixote" (Theatre Wustenrot, B r a t i s l a v a ) a n d t h e B r o a d w a y m u s i c a l "Carmen" (Karlin Musical Theatre, Prague). He has worked with the Symphony Orchestra "Viva Musica", with Juan Polvillo, Ismail Fernndez, Pilar Ortega, Aracelim de Alcala, Albert Garcia, Maria Jose, Felix de Lola, Maria Angeles Gabaldon, Martin waiter, Manuel de Tane, Timna Brauer; in the Czech Republic, Austria, Germany, Luxembourg, Poland (Lodz, Wroclaw, Poznan, Lublin, Slupsk, Grudziadz), Slovakia, and Hungary.

Mateo Gallito is interviewed by Jan Gromski of Mega*Zine Lost & Found

L&F: You are Slovakian, where did your love and passion for flamenco come from? When did you realize that it is precisely this kind of music you want to deal with and devote your life to?M.G: As a young boy, I was living with my parents next to a resort for so-called "difficult" children. Ninety percent of those kids were gypsies. There wasn't a day when we wouldn't hear someone playing the guitar, or singing some gypsy melodies. Their language itself was interesting for me. As you know, flamenco comes from Spain, but it was brought by gypsies and so in this music, in this singing and playing, you could feel a similar note, the "essence", similar to flamenco. Together with my brother we began to sing. Gypsy music has fascinated us, we listened a lot to the Gypsy Kings and folk bands. At this time ... It was about fifteen years ago, in Bratislava, I saw a poster of some flamenco band. The name "Andalusia" was all over the posters; it was very colorful with some dancers on the bill. We went to a



concert with my brother and we knew that this is it. We knew we were Slovaks, so we decided to reach into the source. We started to go to Spain, and there I realized what flamenco is.

L&F: What brought you to Poland?M.G.: It's a different story. In 2007 I met my future wife here in Lodz, at one of my concerts. I fell in love a n d s e t t l e d h e r e permanently.

L&F: Who is, or was, your master? From whom did you learn to play, dance, sing?M.G: There isn't just one person. A lot was taught to me by Juan Polvillo, a dancer from Seville. At the "Komenskeho" University, where I studied, I had the pleasure of working with many great musicians. First of all, I listened to a lot of music and this was a great lesson to me. I have always been inspired by ethnic music (from different regions and countries), I listened to a variety of great guitarists, the king among them was without a doubt the recently deceased Paco de Lucia.

L&F: Do you think that music studies are necessary to deal with music?M.G.: No. Ive met a lot of musicians, and really it all depends on the case. There are musicians who can hear everything and play everything, but feel they lack basics, and there are those who have the basics, and are not able to improvise a simple melody. They cant play a note without a manuscript.

L&F: You teach children and adults, run courses and flamenco workshops. Do you like to teach? What gives you the greatest satisfaction?M.G.: I enjoy teaching. Pedagogy is our family tradition; I never had any trouble with it. I get greatest satisfaction from teaching children, although it is no simple matter. It's so interesting, how to show movement and gesture so that the child can understand. It is intriguing, and sometimes surprising, how children guess different elements and how they try to put them into practice. Certainly teaching is not how I can earn money. I do it out of passion.



L&F: What do you consider as your greatest professional success?M.G.: The difficult question finally arrives! (laughs) I was the co-author of some programs which were definitely pretty good. For my greatest success, I might consider the "Simfonia Flamenca" with guests: Ramon Martinez and Jess Corbacho. Symphony Orchestra "Musica Viva" in Bratislava in December 2008, performed my compositions and arrangements. It was a wonderful concert, which resulted in a studio recording, and above all gave me recognition, my first commercial success. I must admit that it gave me a lot of satisfaction to hear my works performed by the orchestra, along with some great guests. I will definitely compose more than play. Composing, creating choreography, always turns me on.

L&F: And how would you rate your interpretation of flamenco music?M.G.: I do not think my technical skills are sufficient, I'm still learning. I can imagine that someone will play better and more stylishly than me. At the same time I'm not trying to imitate, I prefer to choose my own unique interpretations.

L&F: What are your music plans for the future?M.G.: I would like to gain a patron who would allow me to realize my musical projects - dancing in theaters in Poland. I know it is not easy, but Im sure Ill get there eventually.

All photos from Mateos archives.

DISCOGRAPHY:Vendaval (2004, Hevhetia records, Sk)Reina de Saba (2005, Produkcny dom Forza, Sk)Remedios live (2006, Una Musica, Sk)Dunya (2007, Austria)Cardamon (2007, Hevhetia records, Sk)Carmen (2008, EMI records, Cz)


Presentations - Gallery Christian Martin Weiss

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Christian-Martin-Weiss-Photography/462315397183462

http://www.christian-martin-weiss.com

darkness light darkness, a tribute to Jan *vankmajer, model: Iris Reimer



metamorphosis, model: eisfieber, Costume: Dana Mikelson



i am a bird now I, model: felicitas molnar, Costume: Dana Mikelson



i am a bird now II, model: felicitas molnar, Costume: Dana Mikelson



i think its gonna rain today, Model: Desiree Haupt



via dolorosa X, model: Harry Melcher (the maniac)



beautyful agony, model: Desiree Haupt



transition, model: Anna-Maria Hefele



rare bird,model: Annika Liebe, costume: Christian Martin Weiss



Ianus, model: KatSpy



stay, model: Anna Maria Hefele



shatter, model: Sitt



reagens, model: Anglique Lang



reflector, model: Anglique Lang



confused, model: Desiree Haupt



ein jeder Engel ist schrecklich, model: Kathrin Heck



within, model: Kathrin Heck


Poetry Section - edited by Piotr Kasperowicz Katarzyna Kowalewska

heirloom

what is death if not the fire? the liekindles in the throat. lower are falling the silent crimes,

the crumbs, which didn't manage to catch the african children.flammable tears are dancing in the womb of raped. flying sparks

on glazed eyes in envy. there is more bloodin flames, than freedom in churches. the terror is waking up

and scratches the body. on the banks the lava clots. on the inside,on the ruins, grows the hole - after you.

difficult agebaby steps - repeating mantras in the herd, eager for sugar

we melt pepper in mouth, we defend ourselves against the stranger,turning around aimlessly, mixing relations, because chemistry enslaves,

nature overgrows - justifies the blood in the name of the cut off history - before its flowering. often death visits us -

in the mirror. we swathe face with bandage, remove the background,any context of coexistence is undesirable. we raise

the temples, the factories of gases, each one it's own as a hump. Cleansedby the dirt, inlaced in the barbed wire we fall asleep in the slag.

the livid sky is overtaking the pain.


Presentations - Gallery Reylia Slaby

Born in Osaka, Japan, Reylia Slaby is a photographer now based in Nara. From two years old she modeled. Initially a graphite pencil artist, she slowly made a transition to photography. Her work includes photography, graphite pencil art and web design.

I was homeschooled and educated myself on the arts from 14 years old. I was a semiprofessional graphite pencil artist from around 16 years old, but I had always been doing photographic work as a side business. But from the spring of 2013, my love for Fine Art Conceptual Photography blossomed, and here I am today.My work has been featured in places like Vogue Italia and En-Vie.I have had no previous gallery representation.

http://www.reyliaslaby.comhttps://www.facebook.com/pages/Reylia-Slaby-Photography/193606957360902

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Prose Section Maria Dunkel

The shades of the void

He drifted through the cosmic void and watched the stars floating around like fireflies. Although they seemed

close enough just to reach out and grab one of them, they were far away, so far away that their gravitational fields

could not stop the vacuum from carrying him.

From Earth the blackness that filled the night sky was fascinating; like a curtain conceiling all the greatest secrets

of the Universe. But in the very centre of it the beauty was dying. The chill reached the flesh even through the thick

space suit. Without biting or sending shivers down the spine. It was this kind of chill that lurks under the cocoon of

woolen blankets in wintertime, the chill that even steaming cocoa could not effectively banish. It made him painfuly

aware that outside, beyond the thick fabric protecting his feeble albuminous self, the temperature was lethally low.

There was no food nor water. The oxygen was also bound to run low, eventually. Ironically, every sustaining

breath meant approaching death.

Moreover: no sense of up or down, utter confusion, overwhelming solitude and unlimited space.

He could only drift and feed off the fact that even long after his demise his suit-enclosed corpse would keep

pointlessly floating in the void.

* * *

He could hear his lashes rustle as he blinked.

The air he inhaled had a rich taste compared to the pure oxygen from the tank. It was like an elaborately

composed bouquet for someone used to drinking moonshine.

The warmth and silk sheets enshrouded him. The incredible envigorating warmth that filled every fiber of his

being with reassurance that the nightmare was over.

He opened his eyes and saw the ceiling supported by smooth wooden beams with spiderwebs woven between

them. He raised himself slowly and the sheets fell off his chest.

He was lying on a futon in a room paneled with tight-fitting mats, the characteristic smell of dust hanging in the

air. Gentle light entered through the windows covered not with glass, but with delicate structures made of wood and

gray paper.

Wako rose to his feet, stretched a bit and picked up his clothes. He quickly put on a silk shirt and loose, clumsily

patched up trousers. His hostess was kind enough to lend him a needle and silk threads, but she had no intention of



mending his clothes for him. Her approach to cleaning was similar and the whole house was dusty as a result.

Wenever Wako did some cleaning she expressed gratitude, but otherwise they rarely met.

He opened the door made from the same materials as the window. A tray stood on the floor in a dark narrow

corridor. A bowl of rice, a bowl of soup, a roast fish, a small kettle of tea. Wako took everything and turned to the

corridor. He passed by many sliding doors. At first he kept getting lost in this enormous house and the garden around

it. He learnt about one fourth of the rooms, but he never reached the end of the garden.

He didnt need to know much. The house was filled mostly with books, weird pictures and boards covered with

signs and numbers he couldnt understand. There was also a kitchen and a bright dining room, as well as a meditation

hall. Wako felt unwelcome in these rooms, as if the house itself considered him an intruder. The vast private rooms of

his hostess were off-limits to him.

Wako preferred the garden to the dark and cluttered house, and so took his breakfast out to the deck, sat cross-

legged on the bare wood, set his tray aside and started eating.

The sun shone bright, flooding the place with light. Gravel paths meandered through the jungle which must have

once been the lawn. They were still somewhat visible courtesy of Wakos removing the bigger weeds as he walked.

The hostess probably used those paths from time to time as well, as she would often disappear for quite some time,

even skipping meals. In such cases, he had to come to the kitchen on his own.

In the chaos of overgrown weeds, the vegetable patches looked like fortresses. The hostess tended to tchem as

she did to the scattered cherry, apple and plum trees. She also fed the fish living in the garden stream. At one point,

the stream and the path crossed. Wako had gone on a very long walk once and discovered to his utter disappointment

that the stream was not natural. Behind the house was a huge pond accomodating a buzzing filter where the stream

began and ended. The fish were sentenced to live in a closed circuit until the hostess decided to serve one of them.

The hostess was his earliest memory. Everything before her dissolved into murky nightmares about drifting

through the endless void. He saw no connection between it and the house. These recurring dreams carried way too

much fear for him to analyze their nature, source or effects. He was not ready yet, even after weeks spent in this safe

Japanese house.

He awoke one day lying in sweaty silk sheets, his head filled with ice-cold nothing. The hostess sat beside him

Japanese style, with calves and feet flat on the floor. Her hair and eyes were incredibly black. He couldnt decipher her

age, but she was certainly past her girlhood. She claimed to be in her thirties.

Where am I? he asked.

In my house.

Where exactly? he asked, but suddenly a more important question appearedWho am I?



She was silent for a while, looking at him emotionlessly.

You do not know? she asked.

Christ almighty, I dont know! he whimpered frightened, getting up.

Calm down, she said gently, a subtle smile bending her petal-shaped lips. You are safe here. The drift brought

you.

A cold void took over his thoughts, filled them with hunger, thirst, disorientation and death drawing closer with

every breath. And fear, primal and crippling.

The hostess noticed his predicament. No wonder, since he started trembling like during a seizure.

You are like a protagonist in an old story. Like a wako, a pirate found with amnesia on the beach, she said

jokingly.

He took a deep breath. The image of the sea calmed him down. Sea doesnt disorient you. The water, cold as it

may be, doesnt cause such fear. If it gets into your lungs, it kills you instantly. But if he was brought by a drift, perhaps

he clutched to some plank after his ships destruction... Perhaps the dreams of the void were caused by hypothermia

and floating in cold water for too long.

The hostess called him wako; a good enough name, considering he couldnt remember any other. He never

gave her a name.

Here in this traditional house where he ate rice from her fields and drank tea prepared by her, where he saw the

sun rise and set, the void seemed far away... in fact, the thought of drifting in space seemed ridiculous. Like a

nightmare born of trauma of the sinking ship and floating among the debris until the water brought him to the shore.

Although the garden was surrounded by mountains, he was sure that after reaching the end of the path and crossing

the pass... Yes, he would certainly see blue waters mingling with golden sand. This must have been where the hostess

found him during one of her excursions.

He never went to check it. Only once he gathered enough courage to say during dinner:

I think I should leave. To see whats... well... beyond the mountains.

The hostess looked at him from across the table. Her eyes resembled onyxes of noble cut set askew in a bezel of

raven lashes. She always had her hair in a high bun with two nephrite sticks pointing to the sides like fangs.

Of course, you are free to go, Wako, she said raising some rice to her lips. But I would not do it yet if I were

you.

Yet? Meaning I can do it one day?

Yes, she said with a calm smile and steady certainty.

When?

Take your time. Do not push yourself.



Do you think I could... get over those dreams? he asked desperately. Defeat them?

The hostess slowly put her chopsticks down. Her fingers were surprisingly rectangular. She resembled a marble

figure whose creator sculpted the face in painstaking detail, but couldnt be bothered with its hands.

You should not fight, she said calmly. Life is not a battlefield. Open your mind, accept what is yet to come. Do

not struggle to escape from that which frightens you; it makes you splash desperately in the water instead of floating

with the flow.

Strange advice it was, and not easily followed, but Wako had already learnt that the hostess seldom spoke

clearly. What seemed at first like philosophical gibberish often bred great results if applied. That was why he listened to

her... from time to time.

* * *

Wako went to take a bath after breakfast. He didnt fancy the place, but knew that lack of hygiene was

unacceptable. He didnt know his own name and had no idea where he came from, but the amnesia didnt make him

any less socially adjusted. He undressed every night only to get dressed in the morning, he bathed regularly and

couldnt use chopsticks. Besides, his fair hair and green eyes gave him away as a non-Asian, so he didnt really se

why he should learn this particular skill. Thankfully the hostess had a few sets of plastic European utensils.

The bath was situated behind the house and reminded him of an unpleasant bamboo box. There was no regular

tub there, only a tall pool and a marvelous showerhead flooding his head, face and back with waterfalls of hot water.

The filter buzzed tirelessly in the wall. It made Wako just as uneasy as the closed circuit of water in the stream,

calculations on boards and plastic forks. They seemed out of place in this traditional Japanese household with its

cherry blossoms, paper doors and pirate tales.

On the other hand, perhaps he simply couldnt remember them? Perhaps they escaped his mind like his name

and all the events that brought him there?

He pondered for a long time drenched with hot water, listening to the monotonous buzzing of the filter. He finally

shook off the excess water and came out from under the shower. He wiped the thin layer of steam from a mirror. He

picked up a razor and began to shave.

He took the towel, soap and razor to his room. Then he entered the corridor and followed a weird sound (a gentle

tapping, almost like sparrows chirping) into the dining room and opened the door.



The hostess sat at the table, building the Wall. Her bricks were rectangular Stones made of bamboo wood. Each

one was adorned with a colorful sign. Coins, bamboo, kanji; the winds of four corners of the world; a red dragon, a

green one and an invisible white one with a blue outline; stylized flowers; symbolic seasons. Mahjong.

Wako sat in front of her and started building his own Wall. They were both silent, only the Stones tapped, cirping

like sparrows. Playing mahjong was their ritual, one of the few things they did together. It was always the hostess who

initiated them and she did so often. She liked the games philosophy which Wako couldnt grasp. She smiled at her

Wall characteristically, bending her shapely lips like a cat.

He didnt kow what he felt for her beside gratitude and sympathy. He couldnt call her a friend, as they barely

knew each other. He thought himself capable of loving her when she was away, but whenever she returned, he felt no

warmth or passion. She was aloof like a sculpture which could be admired from afar, but never embraced.

She adjusted the long kimono sleeve which disturbed her in building the Wall. She always dressed the same way,

in black silk, tying a wide modestly adorned obi around her waist. She had a numer of similar outfits that differed only in

minute details. The sleeves reached the ground, wide, flowing and utterly impractical. Wako didnt want to be nosy, but

couldnt resist and asked her once about her weird clothes. It is a sign of mourning, she said in a way that made

further discussion impossible.

He didnt see her for two weeks afterwards. She couldnt have been more blatant about reminding him of the

boundaries between them. He accepted it and never asked again, just as he never entered any of her rooms. He

wasnt particularly interested, in fact. He felt safe in the warm cocoon of stagnation that enshrouded him in this house.

It protected him from the fear that lurked everywhere else.

Mahjong.

The Stones chirped as they touched.

I dreamt about the void again, Wako said qiuetly.

You seem to do it every night, she noticedi.

I do. Your go-with-the-flow therapy doesnt really work.

She raised her onyx gaze from the table and smiled at him.

Are you sure you go with it?

He shrugged.

I dont think its a regular fear, he said. You cant beat it like arachnophobia.

It is not a fight. You do not need to beat anything.

You keep saying it, but what can you know? Youre a nihilist.

She raised her thick black eyebrows.



A nihilist? she repeated, amused.

Well a buddhist. She raised her brows even higher, so he continued: You pursue nirvana. You pursue nothing.

Buddha mentioned a snuffed out candle. Hush and its gone. Thats nihilism. How can you understand my fear of the

void?

The hostess bit her lips, her cat-like smile gone.

Nirvana is not nothingness, Wako. Neither is it the state of being a pinkish jelly on a high, she said.

He chuckled, she smiled widely, too. They kept playing silently for a while.

Tell me about your void, asked Wako. You know mine. Its cold, lonely and deadly.

The hostess nodded.

Nirvana comes first, Wako. It frees you from samsara, the cycle of life and death. It frees you from suffering and

illusions. While in samsara you are but water filling one flask after another. In nirvana you are free, you turn into a

mountain stream.

You sure like water analogies.

They just work, she replied and shrugged. One of my teachers once told me that each one of us is in fact a

stream with no beginning or end.

You were supposed to talk about the void, not shapeshifting, he said jokingly.

She smiled shortly.

Fair enough. Imagine there is no time and look at this Stone. It is here now. Now I am taking it and it is gone. It

depends on time and my actions, but the Stones existence in here is a mirage, right? He nodded uncertanly. It is the

same with us humans, our egos and all phenomena. If you separate anything from the huge system, if you delete the

outside influence and time, you will see that nothing happens on its own. Everything is relative. Everything is

connected. She smiled. this is the simplest explanation of the Buddhist void and now you tell me if it has anything to

do with nihilism or your fears.

* * *

Night brings the nightmares. Every child knows it.

But Wako was awake. He was walking the silent dark corridors. He couldnt get away from an irrational

impression that the hostess might appear from around the corner. In this violent vision, her kimono flew open like

ravens wings. She held a knife, her cheeks were cut open from her lips to her ears like a kuchisake-onna, a demon

from a Japanese horror story.



Of course nothing of the sort happened. The hostess must have been asleep in her futon. Wako went on the

deck, put on woven reed shoes and walked the gravel path under the abundantly starry skies.

He decided to go with the flow.

He wanted to free himself, to escape fear and questions like Buddha had escaped the spellbound samsara. His

mind was cleansed by a purifying stream of thought that bred from their last conversation. Wako suddenly realized that

it was time to discard the lies.

There were no mosquitos, flies or fleas there.

He never saw any birds there.

There were no seasons there.

No one ever visited, no one ever wandered there by accident. No place in the would could be this desolate.

He was safe there, shielded by a cocoon from the cold and deadly void. But the cocoon was woven from lies

rather than silk.

Go forth, go forth.

* * *

Even up close the mountains were breathtaking, if a bit shapeless and unnaturally small. Wako stretched his

hand and placed it on a cold curved wall. The scenery seemed like an inclusion in the glass.

Life under a dome. Life in a cocoon.

In the spot where the path led him he noticed a barely visible outline of rectangular door. Black spots cut an

artificial mountain scenery, merely a perfect picture. There was no hi-tech opening button, just a simple lever.

Wako looked up to the sky with its artificial sun and the garden basking in its seemingly natural light. He couldnt

see the house, hidden behind tall grass and trees.

He pulled the lever. The door hissed like an angry snake and moved aside. Wako entered a corridor completely

different that anything he had seen there before. The door hissed again as it closed behind him. A green light turned

red and Wako felt that he was being raised in the air as the gravity field weakened around him.

He floated in the corridor, sleek and narrow like a beasts throat. He held the handles protruding here and there

from walls like fungae, directing his impossibly weightless body. He felt slightly nauseous, but otherwise unimpressed

by the gravity change. He arrived at the spot where it did not exist at all.

He stopped at the window, a black circle in the wall, and looked out.

Stars shone meekly in the cold, endless darkness.



Wako felt a wave of heat. His throat hurt, his hands trembled. His cocoon was suspended in the void the whole

time, he was trapped in it like in the suit all these days ago. He kept fooling himself for so long. Perhaps his oxygen

tank was long since empty. That would certainly explain the pain in his chest. No! it was his heart rushing as if it tried

to break free. His stomach curled into a ball and pressed against the diaphragm. That was the cause of the pain.

He escaped. He rushed back towards the door. The gravity returned, the gate of paradise opened. He run on the

gravel path and fell. He lost a shoe and tiny white stones cut his foot. He was breathing heavily and looking stubbornly

at the garden. His heart kept on pounding, threatening to burst in half any moment.

If that was the price he had to pay for the truth, then truth be damned! This fear would never let go of him. He

would never feel safe.

He wheezed like a horse forced into a suicidal gallop. The wind, so gentle, so artificial, carressed the swaying

plants. A bee landed on his trousers buzzing loudly and mover around examining it with its fuzzy legs until it realized

its limited senses had been fooled. Then it flew away.

Wako rose to his feet and walked forth.

* * *

Forgive me, she said as he approached her sitting on the deck, her back straight and feet flat on the floor. You

were too frightened. I wanted you to find out on your own.

He sat beside her and played absent-mindedly with a blade of grass, examining its lush green form with his

fingertips.

You sure took your mourning to the extreme.

She looked down at her hands. No answer.

How did I get here?

You were drifting when I went outside. You were in a bad shape, unconscious. You were lucky I managed... well,

suffice to say you were almost out of reach.

Quite a coincidence.

Yes. You were lucky indeed.

What is this place?

Just a ship, a one-man cruise. I am merely a human element. Intelligent machines take care of everything and I

take care of them. Are you really curious where and from where we are going?

Wako stayed silent for awhile.



Yes. No, he said. When will I be able to leave?

We shall reach some research station in due time. There you will be free to stay, find another ship... Whatever

you please.

So its up to me or you?

I do not mind you, if that is what you wish to know, she said. You may stay. You may go. It is all the same to

me.

Obviously. He was yet another element of scenery, not unlike beehives, an orchard or the stream.

He nodded, got up and went to take a shower.

* * *

He understood the idea behind that house. Someone in mourning, who decided to escape the world into the

endless void in order to seek their personal nirvana would have gone insane without it. That place was a desolate

tower, a thousandfold more beautiful than the glass castles from old fairy tales.

It was a refuge as well as an anchor.

He decided to believe that he never reached the end of the path.


Presentations - Gallery Oytun Gral

My name is Oytun Gral, I am a chef in istanbul and an enthusiast Photographer since 2008. I started photography with travel photography, then i had more interest on portrait and landscape photography. As all photographers i like to reflect the world from my camera as i see it.

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Oytun-Gral-Photography/170323099677265


Presentations - Gallery Oytun Gral


Poetry Section - edited by Piotr Kasperowicz Victor Venerdi

Another day in the life of pavements

Forgive me that I didn't look you in the eyes, passing by.I was in a hurry to the end.

He never tells the truth.Cheating day by day, promising that onceall kinds of we glue pain on the envelope,

loneliness sending to hell.

Forgive me that I didn't look you in the eyes.Again I looked at my feet.

On the pavement there is still so much sadness to collect.

Today I died a little bit differently.Stuffing awareness with a fresh batch of pain,

I did not pay attention to the fact that yousmile still.


Presentations - Gallery Aleksander Ikaniewicz

Born 13 April 1986 in Szczytna, and I feel still related with that place. Coming from a family of photographers, he has been familiar with the art from a young age. However, he really became entrapped in Warsaw, where he studied New Media Art at PJWSTK. He graduated in Film and Television Production at WSR. Thanks to his education in graphic design and film, he has worked with many famous names, especially athletes (sfd.pl, Sport Masters, Polski Zwi'zek Kickboxingu). As a photographer, he has worked with the music press (Magazyn Perkusista, Magazyn Gitarzysta), wedding and fashion magazines (a cover session for the New York Ellments Magazine), as well as individual groups (Bracia Figo Fagot, Hunter, Behemoth) and sports personalities (a session with Piotr Moczyd!owski, Kyokushin Karate vice-world champion). His work has been displayed in Poland and the rest of the world. He was opening with Joanna Nicewicz and Nicholas Javed. He has always revelled in strong contrasts, distinct patches and uncompromising lines, which can be seen firstly, in his graphic work, and then later in film and photography. He specialises in commercial photography, and so places a strong emphasis on its technical side. He delights in post-production and manipulating artificial light. He particularly enjoys portrait, nude and fashion photography. He does not like glamour and ripped-up underwear, because he believes it's tacky/embarrassing.

https://www.facebook.com/OloKK

SpiderPhoto: Aleksander Ikaniewicz, Model: Wiktoria S., Hair: Bogus!awa Chmiest, Style: Jacek Poprawski



Queen Of The Damned

Photo: Aleksander IkaniewiczModel: Wiktoria SzadkowskaFashion Designer: Ma!gorzata CharaMUA: Renata Bator


Prose Section Adam H. A. Michniewicz

Solitude

Nowadays it is the theatrical puppet that embarks on the incredibly difficult task of describing human life, skillfully highlighting various aspects of our existence. This was in turn the reason for making a puppet the hero in the story of solitude, isolation, alienation and rejection. Thus writes Beata Nessel-(ukasik in her publication, cutely named The Many Faces of Solitude. Bruno Schulz, Franz Kafka and Samuel Beckett in the Polish Puppet Theatre. The faces of solitude: can it really have many faces, like a person? Even more so, in fact. After all, arent we all assigned at least one face? And at least means there may be more, especially in modern times. A puppet turns out to carry a far greater emotional significance than our decrepit species. It is, of course, a fairly magnified, fatalistic approach; yet it is logical and truthful enough. The puppets can picture solitude, show it, become it. To my mind they can also alleviate it. It is no mystery that these seemingly childish toys reveal the spectators weaknesses. Beata Nessel-(ukasik claims that this dead construct is the only thing able to fully look into itself, the only thing capable of thorough self-assessment. Does this imply the need to puppetify not just the author, but humanity as a whole? Perhaps, since we are seldom able to use revered silence and solitude like we should. And this is a unique time, a time when we

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