The 22 Magazine


Enemies of the South by Holly Pester and Emma Bennett
November 20, 2013, 12:10 am
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: , , , , , , ,

MORE INFO



A Tale of Why We Are So Fucked—As a Species by Lisa Douglass.
September 9, 2013, 10:19 pm
Filed under: WRITING | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Before the Baby Salty Jesus birthed us and we became our non-human selves—it is written that we had once been human. We were real live human beings that liked to kiss and tell and do the Holiest of the holies in front of the video. But that was before the spider incident which later conflates into the Satan incident, which follows:

Once upon a time, in the middle of winter, one winter when we were really fucking cold in our beds and wearing our see-through hot pink number without panties, somebody came to visit us in our rooms. It was the first night after the brand new white sheets and the first night of the spider who stared at us with his beady eyes on our bedspread—wherein we went—what the fuck?—why is that spider’s legs spread out like he is about to run the 100 yard dash and why do I feel like he is conscious and wants to talk to me about something quite important?

We were all ears.

On this night of the spider, we looked again and there was a man, this man was Satan.

Remember: Before this happened—We had known how to love one another without fear and we had understood that one text does not make or break any relationship of value and we had been unafraid to do what we liked because there was no fear to do the Happy.

But, what happened was we wanted to be cool, more than we wanted our hearts deepest desires and Satan knew that on some level when he came to us in the nighttime while we were fast asleep in our angelic poses in our beds without wrappers or crumbs but still in a cute outfit. On that night that Satan came, we opened up our beautiful orphan eyes and said to the Bad son of God because he was more competitive than Jesus and corrupted souls through deviant means:
“hi.”
Satan the Lord of Darkness had a little contract with him and he was charming and good looking.
and Satan goes: “hi.”
We felt our wholeness right then and there. We were no longer ordinary—we were visited by Satan and that fed our enormous but undeservedly so’s ego.
It was terrifying how like a human Satan seemed and how handsome and how we hoped he would text us the next day. (We smoothed our hair in the face of it).
But we weren’t scared of new things at that point, we were still innocent with pure hearts.
What Satan said was hey, you seem cool and I’ve been watching how everyone else kind of looks to you as the model of cool and how you have a hard time with commitment and significant others, so I was thinking you might want to join a club:
The Club of Not Feeling or Caring and Impure Hearts but Look Cooler Than Everyone Else Club.
We thought we might.
He made it sound so fancy.
So, Satan the Lord of Darkness made us sign a commitment to not feeling human emotions at the expense of our inbred coolness. So, we were like: “OK, what do we have to lose anyway, we are always trying to avoid feelings and stuff by eating too much or too little or buying shoes and obsessing on how to wear our hair in order to be neat and different.” But, really we just said, “OK.”
Because we want to be considered cool and like we aren’t over-thinking this shit.
And we signed.
The contract basically said, anyone who loves you from here on our will be seen as the enemy and Lo and Behold it motherfucking was.
After that our hearts were closed off. God and the Baby Salty Jesus were disturbed and kept sending us people who wanted to love us, but we only saw them as suspects in a larger scheme of our newfound paranoia of all things cute and adorable and we read into everything with the one thought: What can this person possibly want from me? Fear Fear Fear Fear Fear Fear Fear Fear Fear Fear Fear I’m Scared, Etc.
Only to be cured with copious amounts of anonymous sex and vast amounts of designer shoes for the girls or car stuff for the boys.
And that is how we became non-human and unable to love.
Please send $200 to Lisa Douglass at her PO Box
PO BOX 48342
Los Angeles, CA 90048
For this most important fact that is unchangeable and why we are all so fucked.
The end.

Lisa Douglass spent her summer watching a stalker through her window and wondered if she could go outside via the roof. Only, whenever she tried there were sheets of chocolate lining the stairs and it seemed so messy. Lisa became tired and unclean. She hoped the stalker was eating well and that he had a change of clothes, adult diapers and all. Lisa Douglass was trapped, and that meant eating copious amounts of Nutella and sleeping all day under her makeshift indoor rain device. Sometimes she had visitors and they got wet, but no one knows what she did with them after. Just that during the visitations they learned to talk in baby dinosaur language and how to fashion a trap for a medium sized human being.



365 by Owen Lucas
August 20, 2013, 11:06 pm
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: , , , , , , , ,

The last days were difficult.

That central joist had been

Removed, and the big top

Fell, billowing, and he was

Not much further from us,

In truth, but transposed in

An uncertain way, become

A stranger. The words he

Spoke had an antic quality,

And his face moved beyond

Itself, as to the limit of its

Physical properties. The new

Medicine worked him down,

And he would cry bitterly,

As children do, without cause,

Unreasonable to himself,

And call to God and mother

Indiscriminately, thinking

Them perhaps to be one.

His brothers drank whiskey

And smoked and spat from

The porch and spoke softly,

Coming in to him and staring

For a few minutes twice a day.

The signal flame and its dark

Remnant. Fuel, and a caulk

Of wax petals, drooping out.

He wore a white nightshirt

Like a child’s, sweat it yellow.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

An instant rose to him, one

Morning. He drew upright and

His mouth opened and he

Shuddered and smiled and

Fell back to his pillow—

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

“Es ist ein Traum,

Ich will ihn weiter träumen.”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Owen Lucas is a British writer living in Norwalk, Connecticut whose poems and translations have featured in journals and magazines on both sides of the Atlantic. His recent work can be read in Agave, Off the Coast, Burningword, Pacifica, Electric Windmill, Clarion, and RiverLit. In September, Mountain Tales Press will publish his first chapbook, “Afterworks”. For more, visit owenlucaspoems.com



The Inhabited World by Mohamed Chakmakchi
August 19, 2013, 11:03 pm
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,
…………………………….
Ptolemy on the banks of Egypt’s Mediterranean shore, old drunkard,
weaning from the cosmos a guide for his treatise of relics.
This matter of the sciences, the natural philosophy that led him
to me, and conversely, me to you, to this, this inhabited world.
…………………………….
Each hour, those constellations blink and spurn knowledge,
I laugh out loud, hissing “thunder creaking forward into brains,”
like a splinter of thoughts, or an ice particle, in deference to
winter’s end, melting towards the center of reverie and vice.
…………………………….
Now on Ptolemy’s Alexandrian port where the ships led us to you,
And us to Syria there is a booth–Yes, that booth there!–where a boy selling
fruit hides in his pocket, buried beneath his linty smile, the truth.
That Eve was lost- the apple his now, inside it a worm for Ptolemy.
…………………………….
The stars only twinkle when the devil in his pocket smiles
Back his fanged hiss and hammer. The worm, spurned, swallows
The lint in the boys pocket and takes whole the form, the color,
Of Eve’s apple. “Why, the poor thing didn’t even know it was gone from her.”
…………………………….
So I speak in tongues and release the boy. It is my rotten apple now.
You keep the stars; their lives are not mine to hinder. But here
as Ptolemy wanders the barren fruitless ports of Roman Egypt,
Greek Alexandria sleeps a mid-day slumber, pockets for lint remain.
…………………………….
Tired and barren in our inhabited world. The devil has it!
…………………………….…………………………………………………….
Mohamed Chakmakchi is a writer of Iraqi origin who has lived in the US,
Europe, Iraq and the Arab Levante. He studied at NYU. When not raising
his cup with friends, he works on his novel, poetry, theatre and essays.
VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV
VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV
VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV
VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV


Donny Miller
August 7, 2013, 11:07 am
Filed under: ART, PHOTOGRAPHY, TEXT | Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

you are everything
WEBSITE



Summer Break.
May 27, 2013, 2:02 pm
Filed under: The 22, VOLUME FOUR | Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

Swing ride - Hoppings

The 22 will be on break from June-August. We will be returning with Volume 4 (The Collage Volume) and the blog in September. While we will still continue to accept submissions for the blog, acceptance letters will not be sent out until September. Submissions for Volume 4 are closed. Volume 5 will be announced in September and the submission process for print will re-open at that time.

Thank you and enjoy the summer!



One Night Stand: A Biblical Epic on Mastication
January 21, 2013, 12:46 pm
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

By David Moody

Lord, forgive all my foxiness. Remember us humans, us cruising
to nightclubs and not braking to dead stop, us stepping—
no hand rail—in black pumps and boot-cuts up to the slut box
then forgetting to dance. Us keeping secrets. Our leaving no tip.
Sometimes in a good fuck I speak carpentry—spackle and jack
tape, Jesus rib, caulk. I awoke this morning naked as a jay bird. Buzzed,
wearing glasses, I held on to no one but my body pillow, Sacagawea,
keeping her warm. Almost a godsend, God, almost.

I confess I want guidance. Guide me to the country of Charity,
that hard-knuckled woman, her deep ankle boots. Can she have red
hair or is black a must? I imagine her hips as I often do hips—chisels
and axes that hack at a crowd thralled to some DJ.
This woman shapes through body’s rhythm her own thrumming
god. Fox beast, incisors, torso warped thing. Its own twisted shape a way
of confessing. To choke without a throat, slowly, on praise.

From what is this thing we have gnawed happiness? How
has it tasted all of our lives? God of Smudged Chins. God of
Half-Virgins. We wedge fingernails into the gaps between backboard screws
and corner beams. With a wonderful quickness we know bed as world.
God, what I’m saying is that I suspect heaven
was planned with a right hand drawing blueprints on napkins,
the left hand still-buried in some idle fur.

Forgive me but nightclubs are like your mouth, like my bedroom
with its ceiling too low. The off-kilter whir of fan blades replace
any belief in collar-starch morals. Forgive the room’s stucco.
Forgive the drunk nothings this tile floor revibes. No,
nothing’s wrong with yesterday’s meats. Sometimes, though, I am
little more than gaps found between words—good and then
morning. A click-click that lingers. I cannot tell if its high heels or teeth.
If I am flea, Lord, and not a fox, I insist one thing: you must bite, hard.




David Antonio Moody writes out of Tallahassee where he pursues a PhD in poetics at FSU. Former poetry editor for SawPalm and Juked, David is production editor of Cortland Review and Southeast Review. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Sweet, Eleven Eleven and Spillway.



Freshwater
November 15, 2012, 4:14 pm
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

by Nadra Mabrouk

You wanted to use a caterpillar as fish bait.
The soft fuzz of its pinky-long body
squirmed as though in slow motion
and you, not able to cut into its mouth, shivering,
threw it back in the grass.

And I thought we could take this bike anywhere -
Instead, we stop,
lay it on the ground near my chalky ankles.

a half naked woman’s shoulders near us, tanner than us — she is a bear:
waiting for the small gloves of fish
to tug, then grabbing them off the hook with large fingers
and swollen palms
as though her growth depended on them.

And what does our growth depend upon?
Exoskeleton? Thin needles inside fish?
The sturdiness of understanding the variations of the skeletal system?

I turn to prickling hairs on your thin-skinned elbow
and rub my cheek against your ribs.
You place your fingers on the sinking earth of my face
as though tracing hunger on the cheekbone
as the woman limps away.

She leaves with a basket of fresh bodies.
Something to slice open, squeeze lemon on,
cradle in your mouth and feel whole.

In a thought made of silk,
I am cutting softened peaches into puddles of vanilla,
a dessert, after salting the center of a cut salmon:
pink tongues on a refrigerated platter.

After we eat – a marinated silence
and hands, smelling of the river,
something swift to salvage us.

But instead,
You fill your hands with the grainy metal of the handlebars
and walk ahead of me,
footsteps slow and dry in the heat.



Nadra Mabrouk was born in Cairo, Egypt where she spent only five years. She has ripped memories of the country. Her family has since moved from one apartment to the other so she is familiar with different pieces of Miami yet does not know what it is like to mark your height as you grow in an old house to compare to your siblings. She wrote two poems in fifth grade and then picked poetry up again in ninth grade. Since then, she’s known this may the definition of concrete. Sometimes, she will have a swollen eye and takes a cyproheptadine pill to block the allergic reaction. But the side effects are brutal and any loud noise makes her feel as though the insides of her body are vibrating. This is why the world should be quiet and listen to the soft jazz of the air. She is a junior in Florida International University studying English and working with the University newspaper, The Beacon, as a managing editor and reads poetry submissions for Gulf Stream, the University’s literary magazine.

 



Eduardo Fonseca.
September 7, 2012, 5:21 am
Filed under: ART | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,


WEBSITE.



What it does.
June 26, 2012, 2:39 pm
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,


 By Shanita Bigelow


               I am not a man.
               Were there a place for this kind of truth, it would rest like a hand at rest, only as heavy as
it tends/needs to be.
There are numbers and signs and bedposts and other treasures left for streetwear.
            In your mouth I found a mound                          and in time it will uncover itself, reveal
the buried, your ancestry kept beneath, sublingual and integrating, sublingual and dissolving,
sublingual, making its way through your vessels, shining light in new space, building mounds of elbow
and knuckle, pancreas and gallbladder, your eye.              It is not what it does,
not the purpose of a purpose anymore; rather, a guise—calm teeth compelled to mercy and
your eye, the one made of dried tubers               and plantains, the one well versed in the forsaken,
the sacred. In your palm a repository for yes.
                                                                                                                      Yes.                              Yes.         Yes.
There is a shaker being shaken at this very moment and could you hear, you might dance or fright,
you might swallow or listen.              Shake then. The answers you seek exist not in the cumbersome
notes, the copious, not in all those hands, your eye, but in the flavor, the flavor of yes and/or
thank you.               Yes, thank you.
                   If salmon were a gun and smoked, how would you maneuver                        the catch, gesture,
maneuver fork and knife through barrel and flesh—scaled is the freshness of our decrees for the
sanctity, for the answers.                     And life can exist in new measures, line after line after line after. Do
not forsake the smoked gun, the smoking salmon, the smoke.
                                                                                                                    What you’ve left of me today is more
than enough for two. Maybe, I said. Maybe.               Keep in mind what you keep in isolation. There are
carts for this kind of mercy. Call it fear or something like it or not. Call it anything but sorrow
because sorrow does not exist. Not as it should.                                                                    Instead
we are left to want for more and watch the bleeding, the smoking, crying out for another and
another and another, our tongues lost in a cannon, combustible and ugly, grimy like how you said
you’d be there.                               Watch as the pain rejects any exposure to this that does not exist.
Have we forgotten? Again                         and there is another line, more/mere mercy and other things
like webs or candor or a golden rhyme.                                                      Memories are stacked, steeped
                                                                          in what we know of it and then.




Shanita Bigelow, originally from North Carolina, currently resides in Chicago where she works and writes. She has work published or forthcoming in the DAP Journal, NAP and African American Review.



The back door.
May 29, 2012, 4:43 am
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

By Erica Manolith.

I don’t understand,

your life.

The sick look by the back door,

porch screen, flapping in the wind.

You don’t seem to notice the human,

of the humans around you.

Perhaps this makes you vomit?

Where are your skills?

Where is your voice?

It’s a vapor,

it’s a screen in the wind,

it fades,

it aches,

it has nothing to say,

and from nothing,

there is born,

nothing.

 



Erica Manolith is a writer living in Northwestern Pennsylvania. She is currently finishing her degree in France, and is home for the summer writing poetry for sport.



A Desert Poem.
May 15, 2012, 5:26 pm
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

by Jane Macavay

If this were the desert,

a separate sea,

what then of that drum we left sitting on the bench that day in Tyman park?

Do you think it decayed?

Broke down,

skin first,

then the bells?

Did anyone try to save it?

Who cares?

 

Left over: a feather, slick and a little greasy,

rested on the edge of that sad instrument,

trembling in a hasty breeze.





Jane Macavay is an musician and writer born in Baton Rouge. She now lives in New Orleans with her sister and three parrot’s. She has been published in various small reviews and magazine’s and her forthcoming book of poetry “If it’s not for Breaking, Is it for Smashing?”  comes out in the Summer of 2013.



Volume 3: Writers Deadline Extension.
May 9, 2012, 8:34 pm
Filed under: The 22, VOLUME THREE | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

A little update on Volume 3 of The 22 Magazine, we are currently still in the process on deciding on contributors for Volume 3/III/Three. As always the decision has proven to be twice as hard as more and more talented folk submit. That being said, we are still looking for the perfect pieces of written word (particularly fiction or nonfiction pieces) to accompany most of this beautiful art and music. We will be extending the deadline for writing submissions only to June 12th. Included below is a list of “inspiration” or ideas about what we are looking for in a story. Good luck and thank you for all the amazing submissions so far. Truly an honor to review them all!

HOW TO SUBMIT.

Inspiration list:

Geometries
Car Crash
Math
Numbers
Arctic or “Hidden” worlds
Plants
Monsters
Birds
Evolution
Mutation
War
Maps
Deconstruction



love letter in prison code by Steven J. Fowler.
April 4, 2012, 3:33 am
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

dear Honzo

I came home & opened the bay windows

that appeared over our garden

the grass was cut

the treefruit bulbed

but a wounded horse was left behind and abandoned

please come and fetch it now

lest you forget to do so

and I am left

to clean up its mess

after all

Sophia is pregnant

and my other son is using a new razor

he is ready to ‘take care’

of your horse

STEVEN JOHANNES FOWLER (1983) is the author of four collections Red Museum (Knives forks & spoons press), Fights (Veer books), the Lamb Pit (Eggbox publishing) and Minimum Security Prison Dentistry (AAA press). He is the poetry editor of Lyrikline in the UK and 3am magazine. He is a full time employee of the British Museum.



THE WEEKEND: MARCH 30-APRIL 1st.

EDITOR’S PICKS:

Drew Maillard Solo Show: “Living In Interesting Times”
http://www.mfgallery.net/DrewMaillard/DrewMaillard.html
03/31/2012-05/05/2012

MF Gallery, fine purveyors of the eccentric and bizarre, are proud to present the collected works of one of their own. “Living In Interesting Times” is an exhibition of the drawings, paintings, prints and sculptures of Drew Maillard. There is an ancient Chinese curse that goes “May you live in interesting times.” Drew Maillard was born and raised in America in the last quarter of the 20th century… A fascinating era to be sure. He is a product of his environment. Nature and nurture; habitat and conditioning combined. Drew’s adolescence was divided between comic books, horror and sci-fi films, and fantasizing about girls he didn’t talk to. Also there was Punk Rock and L.S.D.. After spending some time in the army and leaving his hometown in upstate NY, he received his Bachelor Of Fine Arts degree from SVA in 2000. His life experiences and travel, as well as an interest in scuba diving and ju-jitzu is what informs Drew’s crazy crazy artwork.

Continue reading



Cafeteria, State Street.
March 6, 2012, 4:02 am
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

by Frederick Pollack

Salisbury steak with a thick
vinegary gravy, stringbeans with the sodium
of preservatives still on them, jello –
could it be jello? – for dessert,
or apple pie I was supposed to like
but never liked, attempting
to cover every part of it
with ice cream. Meanwhile
talking – I remember talking, not
listening (to anything), or silences
(though they must have existed),
or even how Mother looked.
And one decoration, fading orange-red
on a grey wall, three medieval jongleurs
in motley, one with a lute,
their smiles wrong, their dance improbable.

I still don’t understand
why divorce required
the privacy of a honeymoon, sending me
to the apartment of an aunt
on the South Side or one
on Morse – other places
where the Thirties endured the Fifties.
(I’m sorry if, over time, that’s become
obscure.)  Was it to give him
the wherewithal, the “space”
(as people said later) to begin,
as he did once, to choke her?
Other times she accompanied
me overnight to these outposts,
whispering in kitchens
while I watched Victory at Sea.

She wouldn’t have written this
but, could she see it,
she would question the tight-lipped style.
I would explain that it augments, rather than deadens,
the emotion and focuses
the reader.  And she would say,
You’re protecting yourself.
  As on his deathbed, Father –
handing me an envelope
containing, essentially, money – managed
to gasp, You have to be protected ...
(It was dreadful how much I agreed.)


Frederick Pollack is the author of two book-length narrative poems, The Adventure andHappiness, both published by Story Line Press.  His poems and essays have appeared in Hudson Review, Southern Review, Fulcrum, Salmagundi, Poetry Salzburg Review, Die Gazette (Munich), Representations and elsewhere.  Poems have most recently appeared in the print journals Magma (UK), The Hat, Bateau, and Chiron Review.  Online, poems have appeared in Big Bridge, Snorkel, Hamilton Stone Review, Diagram, BlazeVox, The New Hampshire  Review, Denver Syntax, Barnwood, elimae, Wheelhouse, Mudlark, Shadow Train and elsewhere.  Pollack is an adjunct professor of creative writing at George Washington University, Washington, DC.



The Week/Weekend IS BACK.
February 18, 2012, 12:23 am
Filed under: THE WEEK/THE WEEKEND | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

We are pleased to announce, The Week/Weekend, an inclusive list of shows and events going on around NYC and Brooklyn has returned and is better than ever.

How so? For starters, we’ve got a brand new input page. This means that folks have direct access to getting their event listed. While we will still retain the right to editorial discretion, the process is now easier than ever. You also have the option to submit your event for review, or to be an “editor’s pick.” Events will be listed on the blog as usual on Monday’s and Friday’s.

To get your event listed for The Week you must submit by midnight Friday.
To get your event listed for The Weekend you must submit by midnight Wednesday.

To get started visit: http://www.the22magazine.com/EventSubmission

Submit your event by filling in all the fields in the correct format and follow up with an image by emailing images directly to the22magazine (at) gmail (dot) com. Images will be chosen for use at the discretion of the magazine. Do not send more than one image. Please do not send enormous images.

We hope you are excited by this new streamlined process and thank you for your continued support of The 22 Magazine! If you see any hiccups as we finalize this process, please email us at the22magazine (at) gmail (dot) com and let us know what the problem is.



Randy Mora.
February 16, 2012, 4:58 am
Filed under: ART | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

WEBSITE.

Continue reading



federico hurtado.
January 9, 2012, 4:20 am
Filed under: ART | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Continue reading



La nouvelle annee de la orphan by Annette Morteau.
December 31, 2011, 6:01 am
Filed under: POETRY, WRITING | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Je connais ces arbres.
Ils ont parlé l’année dernière dans les tounges familiers.
Je veux les voir changer, verdir, jaunir, or, rouge vermillon-infâme.

Est-ce que je sais tous les noms ? Cette année est-elle un souvenir ?

Pour savoir comme ce qu’il se sent pour avoir lieu dans le passé.
Pour marcher ces manières, examinant toujours, avec ce qui pourrait avoir été.

C’est ce qui j’connaître-que ce qui est la poussière, doit se retourner pour épousseter.

Ouvrez la fiole remplie de frelons cacophoniques.

La lumière du soleil bleue,

une foreuse traduisant des ombres en or.

Translation: 

I know these trees.
Last year they spoke in familiar tongues.
I want to see them change, green, yellow, gold, vermilion-infamous red.

Do I know all the names? Is this year a keepsake?

To know what it feels like to take place in the past.
To walk these ways, testing still, with a what could have been.

This is what I know-that which is dust, must turn over to dust.

Open the jar filled with cacophonous hornets.

The blue sunlight,

an auger translating shadows into gold.



THE WEEK: Dec 5-9.
December 5, 2011, 6:51 pm
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MONDAY:

Photographing the Dead: The History of Postmortem Photography from The Burns Collection and Archive
Postmortem photography, photographing a deceased person, was a common practice in the 19th and early 20th centuries. These photographs, from the beginning of the practice until now, are special mementos that hold deep meaning for mourners through visually “embalming” the dead. Although postmortem photographs make up the largest group of nineteenth-century American genre photographs, until recent years they were largely unseen and unknown. Dr. Burns recognized the importance of this phenomenon in his early collecting when he bought his first postmortem photographs in 1976. Since that time he has amassed the most comprehensive collection of postmortem photography in the world and has curated several exhibits and published three books on the subject: the Sleeping Beauty series. Tonight, Dr. Burns will speak about the practice of postmortem photography from the 19th century until today and share hundreds of images from his collection.

FIRST BOOK BROOKLYN HOLIDAY PARTY & FUNDRAISER
first book–brooklyn is a nonprofit organization dedicated to getting new books to children in need.  join us tonight for their first annual holiday party and fundraiser.

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A SPECIAL 22 FUNDRAISER FILM FROM JEFF BURNS.

Every wondered why 22? Here’s a couple of fun reasons from Jeff Burns, cohort in Gratuitous Art Films and Vol. 1 Contributor.

More than ever we appreciate the unique, unusual, weird in life and we’re willing to share it. The 22 Magazine brings together folks worldwide.

Different viewpoints equals fun art.

New York can be an intimidating place but it can also be a home. To keep these unique, incredible artists, writers and musicians from New York and otherwise around, we need your help.

Please consider donating, even something very small. We are still struggling to meet our goal and we know there are folks out there reading!  We’re not asking for much. A few dollars goes a long way. We’ve added a $5 and a $250 option to the donation and you’ll note a very awesome tote bag or t-shirt is available at the $250 level from contributor and comic artist, John Jennison.

We know, it seems like a-lot but it’s just the tip of the iceberg. There are so many amazing projects we’d like to really give a jumpstart to and your’s could very likely be one of them.

Thanks for listening again and please consider giving today.

~The 22




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