Issue 1 Digital Supplement
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Party Hostel
By Steven William
The airplane leveled out and landed with a thud. She gripped the armrests by her sides and closed her eyes. She had been on an airplane many times before, but had never gotten comfortable with the landing, always jarring, always frightening. The passengers next to her slowly defrosted from their naps or calmly gathered their things while the airplane slowed to a crawl. She itched to stand up, her legs craving the hard, steady ground.
“Damas y Caballeros, bienvenidos a Bogota.” The passengers, nearly all Colombians or Colombian Americans, shuffled off of the plane in an orderly fashion. All of them thanked the pilot and flight attendants in proper, clean, Bogota Spanish and stepped onto Colombian soil, or at least Colombian tarmac. Michelle shyly walked past the flight crew and muttered ‘gracias.’ She turned bright red and hurriedly left the plane before seeing their reaction.
Although many of the signs in one of South America's biggest airports were in English and Spanish, she was assaulted with what sounded to her like what might as well have been Japanese, so foreign it sounded to her. She struggled to catch every tenth word of directives from airport employees or from conversations between reunited family members.
She stumbled forward with the crowd of Colombians when a portly police officer intercepted her.
“American?”
She nodded, caught off guard.
“This way please, ma’am.” The officer escorted her to an extremely short line of blue passport wielding Americans. She stood in front of a kiosk of an immigration officer. The middle aged woman looked up at her with kind eyes. “Donde. Te. vas. A . Quedar.” She spoke slowly and clearly. Michelle knew enough Spanish to understand that she was asking where she would be staying. She fumbled in her backpack and pulled out a printed out piece of paper with the address of her hostel. Tierras Viajeras. She placed the paper on the table and pointed at what she assumed was the address. The woman nodded and stamped her passport. She stepped out of the airport with her carry-on backpack (She was traveling extra light like all of the travel podcasts told her to) and tried to hail a taxi.
People jostled and shouted over one another to compete for taxis. The taxis jockeyed for parking spaces and passengers cut one another off to enter them.
Colombia. She wanted to go somewhere different, to shake her senses, to go near but far. Asia seemed too far away, too different, and Europe seemed too familiar. She worked next to a girl from Colombia at her job who took her to Colombian bars and restaurants in her city and she was fascinated. It all seemed to fall into place. Colombia called her. She could learn what was widely regarded as the cleanest, most well spoken Spanish meanwhile connecting with some of the friendliest and most fun people she had ever met. So she took some time to arrange her work schedule (she worked from home, after all) and decided she would spend a month in the South American country.
The sky was grey and overcast, with the deep grey clouds sitting nonchalantly on top of the green peaks that engulfed the South American metropolis. It was fresh outside, due to the elevation, and Michelle dug a hoodie out of her backpack and threw it on.
The graffiti sped past her, endless graffiti on the sides of buildings, highways and bridges. Everywhere she saw concrete. Concrete buildings sprung to the sky like trees. They passed by the city center, bustling like any major city around the world. They passed by run-down neighborhoods where rebar stuck out of concrete and middle aged men sat on plastic chairs drinking beer. She felt a knot tighten in her stomach.
What if her parents were right? Eventually the car found itself in a complete standstill. Cars and motorcycles weaved between lanes, and it became clear to Michelle traffic lights and stop signs were merely a suggestion. She gripped the handle above her seat. The driver looked in the rearview mirror.
“Mucho trancón. Somos como la India.”
She smiled. As they continued on her journey it became apparent to her that somehow this chaos worked. They pulled in front of a quiet street outside of la candelaria, the historic district of Bogota. The streets were cobblestone and the buildings were missionary white.
“Gracias!” The driver received his pay with a tip. He stepped out and popped the trunk, swung out her backpack and placed it on her back. He was a portly, paternal man probably in his mid fifties. “Mucho cuidado por aqui. No andes con celular en la calle. Aqui esta usted segura pero no de papaya.” She nodded along, understanding nothing after mucho cuidado and papaya.
Her parents had begged her not to go. Her mother heard the word ‘Colombia’ and images of cocaine, kidnappings, guerilla war and Pablo Escobar came to mind. It didn’t matter how many times she showed her statistics of just how few Americans had been kidnapped by the cartel or how murder rates in the country had plummeted since the days of Pablo Escobar; her mother was firm.
“You are not to go there.” She told her on the phone.
“I don’t live in your house nor do you pay my rent mom. I’m going and I’ll be just fine.” She had replied, trying to sound firm and adult, but the truth was that the more they argued, the more she doubted her decision.
The boy behind the desk had long greasy hair that hung over his face while he picked at a guitar mindlessly while staring in the distance. She plopped her pack down on the floor next to the desk and again pulled out her reservation.
“Welcome to Colombia.” He said in excellent English. He set aside his guitar and escorted her to her room, a basic private room in a hostel. The hostel was an old house, with a few private rooms and three dorms. Two mixed and one female. She waved at the small group of people sitting in the lounge drinking tea, they calmly waved back.
Everything she had read online had informed her of how cheap this place was, but she was shocked that she was getting a clean bed for the equivalent of 20 dollars. The boy went back to his desk and his guitar, she tossed her bag on the floor again, sat down on the bed, and stared at the wall.
After she took a shower and put on one of her four changes of clothes, she headed downstairs to the lounge. The same group as before was sitting around drinking coffee. She made herself a cup from the carafe, grabbed a guidebook from the shelf, and sat down on the couch. The walls of the lounge were decorated with graffiti, signatures from past travelers, landscapes of Bogota, pictures of French actors and Latin American
authors smoking, and plaques with cheeky sentences such as “to drink or not to drink, what a stupid question.” Her eyes migrated over to the bar where she had initially served herself coffee. Behind the bar the shelves were filled with bottles, front to back. Next to the shelf was a massive spinning wheel, with party rules on it such as ‘kiss the bartender’ ‘choose someone to take a shot’ and ‘take off your top’ in English.
‘Shit.’ She thought. ‘I’m in a party hostel.’
“How are you going?” the accent and the slang could only be Australian. She looked up to see a pasty, skinny white guy with long hair, a colombia jersey and a bucket hat.
“Fine thanks.” She smiled politely and sipped her coffee.
“Ah, American.” He grinned sharply. “So what do you think of Borgorta so fah?”
His accent was so Australian it was almost cartoonish, like an American faking an aussie accent.
“I’ve only just flown in but it seems bohemian, industrial, got a rough edge to it. It reminds me a bit of New York.”
He frowned. “It’s alright I guess. You should really get to Medellin at some point. The pahty is retahded.”
She cringed at the use of the word retarded, it had been a long time since she had heard that word used so casually, probably since high school.
“I don’t really party much.”
The Aussie shrugged. Michelle’s eyes migrated to the corner of the room, where a group of four, obviously American college kids were pouring over a map of the city and frantically debating what to do with the remainder of the day. She looked up at the clock. It was already 2 o’clock.
Closer to the breakfast bar, two fair complexioned young men poured hot water into a gourd with a metal straw sticking out. ‘Argentines.’ She guessed. They chirped to one another enthusiastically, sounding like two Italians who are surprised by how good their Spanish is.
By the bookcase, a girl with dark skin and long braids was reclining in a bean bag and reading a book in Spanish. Michelle looked to all of these travelers for salvation from her Aussie interlocutor, but they all continued on in their own worlds.
“Fancy a walk around?” The Aussie said. He had a large grin plastered across his face.
Michelle hesitated briefly but eventually assented. Her stomach was growling and although she was tired from the trip, she figured she should take advantage of these last few hours of daylight.
Her feet were unstable stepping over the historic cobblestone of la candelaria. Accordion based music poured out of bars and restaurants, and people sat on the sides of the street selling wares spread out over blankets. Woodwork, mochilas, paintings, coffee. The buildings were roofed with an eye-catching terra cotta tile.
They turned a corner and arrived at a plaza with a fountain in the middle. Students were sitting at park benches drinking beer, families were strolling around the plaza and street musicians were plucking at their guitars. A few children were going from table to table selling flowers and chocolates. “Venezuelans.” The Aussie said. “Fuckin everywhere.”
The pair found a restaurant with outdoor seating and a view of the plaza. Michelle always loved people watching. In her little experience travelling, she always tried to find plazas or parks and watch people go by, strolling through their days. This is what fascinated her most about traveling; observing that in even the most far flung reaches of the world, people still took out the trash, dropped their kids off at school, went to buy bread and walked with their lovers in the park.
The Aussie ordered a beer and although she again hesitated, she followed suit. The waiter who looked to be around her age plopped down a bottle of beer in front of each
of them that read ‘Club Colombia’. It was a sweet, easy drinking, amber lager. She took a sip and clunked the bottle back down on the wooden table and took another moment to appreciate where she was. She had looked forward to this trip for months; and here she was in south america, the land of the opposite seasons, the land of the amazon and the andes, the land of simon bolivar and maradona, the land of the incas and the conquistadors.
“How long will you be in Colombia for?” They had ordered empanadas for the table, and the Australian, whose name was Jake, had already devoured one and was attacking another.
Michelle took a swig of beer. Although it wasn’t hot, the cold beer felt good sliding down her throat. The bottle sweated when she put it down again. She told him her plan, to travel for about a month.
“Oh mate that is not enough. I feel like you’d need at least three to explore this whole country.” He shook his head and began to describe his journey. He had taken a flight from Melbourne to Santiago de Chile and had been solo backpacking his way through South America. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to make it into Brazil or go north to Mexico, so for now he was lounging in Colombia.
Michelle felt a light of possibility flicker on in her brain. How adventurous! The possibilities! The people she’d meet! The idea of not knowing where she could end up in a month excited her. The Aussie necked his beer and called over the waiter. He turned toward her.
“You gonna have another?”
It was clear he was looking for an excuse to have a second beer without feeling guilty. She shook her head. She may well have, but she still had half of her first beer and was thoroughly enjoying it.
“I had a job in sales in Melbourne. Good pay, decent enough apartment, but I just felt like something was missing. I wanted to do something different. Every Aussie and their brother goes to Asia, I wanted to do something different. It’s been six months and my journey doesn’t even feel close to finished.”
After hearing six months she nearly choked on her empanada.
“Six months! How the hell do you afford to feed yourself?”
“The dollar stretches.” He shrugged. “That’s why I’ve spent so much time in cheap countries. Colombia is seriously cheap. Chile, not so much.” Their food arrived. They both got the signature dish of Bogota, Ajiaco, a chicken stew with cream and potatoes. To Michelle, it tasted like a home she never knew; both familiar and exotic.
“The potatoes here are so fuckin fresh eh?” The Aussie said after his first bite.
Michelle concurred. The flavors were simple, but savory.
“Are you going to free cerveza night at the hostel tonight?”
“Free?”
“That’s right. Well not really. You just pay a 20000 peso cover to get in. Then free cerveza.”
It took Michelle all of 20 seconds to decide that that was the last thing she wanted to do and shook her head enthusiastically. “No, college ended for me about five years ago.
I’m going to turn in.”
“Lighten up!” Jack said. “You’re in a foreign country. Isn’t this your first big trip? You can vomit all over the floor and noone will care!”
She cackled nervously but was deeply unamused.
By the time that they got back to the hostel the party had already begun. The aussie opened the door for her and she was instantly embraced by the music, and the swarm of bodies compacted in a tight space. She paid her cover and was instantly handed an aguila beer. She passed one to the Aussie and took one for herself. They clinked bottles and while Michelle looked at him with apprehension, the Aussie grinned so wide he finally revealed a missing tooth.
“Oh this old thing?” He grinned proudly. “Don’t grab the back of a car while on your skateboard.”
She could tell that story was supposed to impress her but she merely nodded and scanned the crowd. The Americans from before were doing shots and complaining after each one. The Argentines were chatting away happily with a couple of blonde girls with fjalraven jackets who could only be Scandinavians, and the dark haired girl she had spotted reading earlier. While the two blondes appeared to hang on to every word the Argentine’s said, the dark haired girl stared off into the distance.
“Fancy a shot?” The Aussie had already crushed his beer and fished out another.
“I’m fine, thank you. Prefer not to mix.”
He shrugged and headed to the bar, passing out shots to the Americans. The bartender doubled as a dj, bobbing his head to the newest reggaeton hits, although outside of the Argentines and the one dark haired girl, no one else spoke Spanish.
Michelle felt old. The youthful expressions, the eagerness to get wasted in a foreign land without really stepping out of your comfort zone, the college mentality of looking for casual sex once out of the purview of one’s parents. She began to contemplate placing her beer down and heading upstairs when she heard someone calling her, although not by her name.
“Hey! Nancy!” Michelle looked around. What an old fashioned name. She thought. Surely none of these 20 year olds had that name.
“Nancy! Nancy!” She located where the sound was coming from and immediately spotted the hand waving frantically towards her. She didn’t have to think for long to understand what was happening here, this was a situation familiar to women across the world. She put on her best smile and made her way to the dark haired girl.
“Hi!” She put on her best familiar voice and hugged her, only just realizing how short the dark haired girl was. She arrived at her nose at most. The Argentines grinned, looking pleased at the arrival of yet another female interlocutor.
“So good to see you! How was your first day in Bogota?! Tell me all about it over here.” The girl gripped her arm and led her to the back patio. Before Michelle could get a word in, the dark haired girl plopped down in a lawn chair and heaved an exaggerated sigh.
“Ugh. Argentinos. Se creen lo maximo.”
Michelle looked at her puzzled.
“They are like, in love with themselves.” The dark haired girl’s english was good but heavily accented in the way that a foreigner who studies English but has not lived in an English speaking country would. She took a sip of beer. “Thank you.”
Michelle smiled. “Not a problem. Seems like men are the same across the world huh? Some of them don’t take no for an answer.”
“It’s fucking bullshit but we have to protect ourselves.” The girl agreed. “I’m Gabriela.” She extended a hand. Michelle shook it and introduced herself.
“How do you like my city?” Gabriela asked.
“It’s a bit rough around the edges but I love it. It has lots of character. What are you doing at a hostel in your own city?”
“Free cerveza.” She said, motioning to her beer with her head. “Although this is clearly not my scene. I did not think this was an American college dorm."
“Me neither.”
The pair deepened their conversation over a couple of more beers on the patio, bonding over a love for Paul Thomas Andersen films and sushi. Time flew by when Gabi pulled out her phone to reveal that it was already midnight.
“I’ll tell you what, I’m fucking tired and it’s too late for me to show you anywhere that’s decent and safe to get to at this hour. Do you want to climb montserrate with me in the morning? I can pick you up. It’s a fantastic view of the city.”
Gabriela snuck out the back, ever careful to avoid the Argentines while Michelle snuck into her room. By now the music was blaring and she could hear shouting, pounding on wood and laughter. She checked her phone. It was twelve o’clock, her body and mind felt tired from all day travel. She wanted to shower so she grabbed her towel and a change of clothes and headed to the shared bathroom, but before she was even halfway down the hallway she heard what could only be moaning from inside the locked bathroom. She headed right back into the room, took off her clothes, and climbed into bed, deciding to change hostels tomorrow. Her eyes closed slowly, but she awoke abruptly to the sound of fists on her door.
“Let’s fucking party!!!!” Two very drunk, very American female voices yelled through the thin wooden door. Michelle wrapped the blanket over her head tightly and decided not to move, not to make a sound. Just like in Jurassic Park, if she didn’t move, they couldn’t see her.
In the morning she took advantage of the unoccupied shower but took great care to not touch anything, not the walls, not the floor. The cold water shook her bones, the toothpaste jolted her awake and made her feel alive. She dressed quickly in leggings, sneakers and a sweater and headed downstairs for breakfast.
One of the Scandinavian girls was asleep on one of the bean bags with a boy’s jacket covering her torso like a blanket. Michelle tiptoed through the war zone and served herself coffee, only realizing as she passed by the Nordic girl that she was being held by one of the Argentines who was so catatonic she contemplated checking his pulse. She served herself coffee and observed the chaos; bottles of beer everywhere, a bra hanging from a stool, chips all over the floor. She shook her head like a disappointed mother, said goodbye to the concierge, and stepped out into the morning.
Gabriela picked her up in a trusty but uniform compact citroen and weaved through aggressive drivers, street vendors, stray dogs and motorbikes efficiently and nonchalantly. They parked before a steep and luscious mountain stabbing at the clouds above it. Cable cars brought passengers up and down. Gabriela caught her looking at the cable cars and broke her heart.
“We are walking.”
Michelle felt daunted but didn’t complain. For two hours, the pair huffed and puffed their way up through steep, zig zagging trails to the top. Atop the mountain, an old church nestled between peaks. She could see the Latin American metropolis spread out below them, millions and millions of people, intertwining buildings filled with families whose lives were even more intertwined. She looked out onto the horizon, and for the first time on her trip, she smiled genuinely.
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Bio: Steven William is a literary fiction author based in Connecticut. His work focuses on themes such as travel, culture clashes, fish-out-of-water, and how human movement is impacted by the world around us, and vice versa. William is an ESL and bilingual teacher by profession, and a husband, dog dad, writer, traveler, reader, martial artist, amateur cook, and craft beer lover by passion.
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Essay #3
by Chunbum Park
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Haley Indorato’s “Snowdrops” is a jubilant and exquisitely rendered figurative work. The male figure reclines clothed and with an ample presence on the wide expanse of grass and Snowdrop flowers. The build of the figure is strong, young, and healthy. The sleeveless shirt is striped in teal and blue, which are cool colors that offset the warmer toness of the grass, in opposition or relation to it. The man also put to his side an olive green hat of modest design, revealing the man’s lush, curly hair, and the pants have holes on the knee area, revealing that the man is wearing black stocking inside.
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The artist also recalls the history or the canon of art by engaging with the motif of the reclining figure, which includes Olympia by Edouard Manet. She reverses the traditional relation of the male painter and the female muse by painting the male subject as the female painter.
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Indorato investigates the masculine other through painting, becoming the male subject through mimetic representation and simulation or internalization of the male subjecthood. Everything leaves off signals, traces, data, and appearances: Indorato may be able to represent the male subject so faithfully and genuinely through observation and mimesis. Through the absorption and sincere investigation of the available data and experiences, the artist puts together a theory or an idea of what constitutes the male in relation to the female. By measuring the positioning and the layering of the outer shells, Indorato can surmise the core nature of the male subject.
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Why does the shadow of the tree extend a straight line across the man’s chest? The artist made this decision to highlight the contrast between the male body and the female physiognomy, in which case the shadow would follow the surface of the breasts as arcs. But it is also something kinky or erotic that is suggested by the artist, to whom paint is a seductive material representing the flesh.
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The cool undertone of the flowers and the grass, as well as the tree’s shadows, make the figure’s pink flesh pop. The flowers carry an illustrational quality in closeup areas while becoming abstracted into loose brushwork in the more distant areas. Indorato clearly loves oil paint itself as a material and a medium. This love leads the artist towards an earnest exploration of color in relation to form and light.
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Without becoming a repeat of an Impressionist painter, Indorato re-engages with a particular mode of figurative painting that is strongly concerned with light and color. However, the colors in Indorato’s work pops a great deal more, while the forms have almost graphic quality in terms of the rendering, giving more punch and efficiency to the painting style. A hybrid between impressionism and contemporary figurative painting, “Snowdrops” indicates a promising and original direction.
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Essay #6
by Chunbum Park
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Rene Saheb’s “Life and Freedom” is a pottery-like sculpture that is a highly wholesome and lyrical expression of humanity. Adorned with traces of fruits, vegetal patterns of abstraction, and face and architecture-like elements, the piece speaks of liberation for not only her people in Iran but also everyone seeking life and freedom all around the world. Greens, reds, and browns richly texture and characterize the surface of the texture. Some of the fruits appear like figs, while others could be equated to olives, grapes, or even small apples. These all point towards a paradise of sweet indulgences and pleasures of life.
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The vessel is also a beautiful monster with teeth coming out of the lining or edge of the opening at the top. If the vessel could be used to store grains, then it consumes such valuables like a hungry monster in certain times and emits goods in other times of need, like a generous god or goddess. Two eyes that merge with the arched columns to form a face gaze back at the viewer, but, because the viewer can look around the sculpture, s/he or they can also circumvent the gaze and experience the portrait’s rear side of abundance and delight. But the sculpture is not a creature but really a goddess that represents the spirit of the land or paradise. The eyes declare to the viewer that the resources are not for his/her/their taking but must be respected as belonging to the rightful owners (the people of the land).
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The work then becomes a statement about a mythical, original state of the world prior to colonization and conquest. Imagine a garden at or prior to the Stone Age, when people hunted and gathered for food, rather than fighting each other for resources. The place could also be a state of the world prior to western imperialism and exploitation of non-western people’s lands and resources. Devil’s advocates may argue that western imperialism is not any different from eastern imperialism (think of Ghengis Khan), but we see that this western project is and was unified along and defined by racialization, or the process of delineating racial boundaries. Western imperialism has attempted a global project of systemically subjugating and exploiting the non-white other within a theory of racial difference and cultural superiority. In this aspect, western imperialism was something profoundly evil, oppressive, and unforgivable, which is why it now masquerades as global capitalism, which we now label neo-colonialism.
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The sculpture is then both a statement indicating the past prior to the conquest and also a representation of the prosperity for the conquerors in the present. Victors write history, which means that the history we know and the system of knowledge itself are flawed, biased, and distorted enterprises. The mouth of the goddess is ambiguously formed because the conquered have no say in the inscription of history, while the conquerors keep silencing the truth from screaming outward to the rest of the world to testify on the
criminal nature of the entire social structure.
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What appears benign at first suggests that the pleasures of life may be taking place at the expense of others on the other corners of the globe. Or, in a more simple and innocuous interpretation, the pleasures of life cannot be taken for granted because they are part of our rights to life and pursuit of happiness, which must be protected with vigilance for democracy and fight against tyranny.
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Bio: Chunbum Park is an artist from South Korea, born in 1991, who received their BFA in Fine Arts from the School of Visual Arts (2020) and their MFA in Fine Arts Studio from the Rochester Institute of Technology (2022). Born a male, Park likes to cross dress and depicts themselves as a woman in their paintings. In 2023, Park began writing exhibition reviews for various online and print magazines, including the New Visionary Magazine. They currently reside in Cliffside Park, New Jersey.​
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Essay #5​
by David Alexander
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Sissy Nunziata’s Blobette’s Universe is a bold contribution to narrative ceramics, built around a single saggy-breasted, red-lipped figure — “Blobette” — who is multiplied across vessels, tableaus, and environments. Conceived from a lump of clay during a lonely, wine-soaked night in college, Blobette emerged as an anti-idol: not Barbie, not a fitness-influenced ideal, but a vulnerable, angry, funny, and deeply human figure. For Nunziata, she became a soldier, angel, and guardian, a new kind of deity to embody the messy contradictions of womanhood.
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The power of Blobette lies in her repetition. In Blobette’s Bleachers, at least eight of these figures lounge, smoke, read, or gossip in a bleacher-like stand, surrounded by cats, ducks, wine, and weed — a comic yet tender scene of collective imperfection. In Garden of Blob, Eden is retold with two Eves — perhaps the same Blobette doubled — undermining patriarchal mythologies with humor and solidarity. Across the series, Blobette shifts roles: boxer, mermaid, angel. Each iteration suggests that imperfection itself is a source of resilience.
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Nunziata’s work resonates with the irreverence of the California Funk movement: Robert Arneson’s grotesque self-portraits, Viola Frey’s monumental clay figures, and the feminist reorientations of Betty Woodman, who showed the vessel could hold cultural critique as powerfully as painting. Equally relevant is Maija Peeples-Bright, whose colorful, animal-filled “happiness environments” transformed clay and painting into sites of humor, fantasy, and feminist satire. Like these predecessors, Nunziata uses exaggeration and kitsch to dismantle hierarchies of taste while foregrounding lived experience.
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At the same time, her practice aligns with contemporary peers like Dasha Bazanova and Lauren Cohen, whose cartoonish figurations translate vulnerability into wit to tackle personal and collective anxieties. Yet Nunziata’s insistence on Blobette as a recurring protagonist makes her unique: by endlessly reinventing one imperfect figure, she creates not just objects but a mythology. Blobette’s Universe becomes a mirror of contemporary life — absurd, funny, furious, and deeply human.
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Bio: Dave Alexander (b. 1962) is an artist who pursues layered, abstract works that probe memory and meaning. His series—known as confettis, swatches, and snapshots—reassemble fragments of photographs into new narratives, blurring the line between photography and mixed media. Through deconstruction and collage, he highlights the fluid, unstable nature of images in today’s culture of endless circulation.
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Alexander studied under photographer David Freund at Ramapo College of New Jersey and later pursued an MFA at the Visual Studies Workshop, working closely with Nathan and Joan Lyons. He also trained at the International Center of Photography. His work has been featured in exhibitions such as the SPRING/BREAK Art Show in New York and Los Angeles, curated by the fair’s founders Andrew Gori and Ambre Kelly. Beyond his practice, Alexander co-founded Harry Apps, Inc., a mobile software company, and Yellow Cat Gallery, a curatorial project with artist Dasha Bazanova.​​
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