Michael Walrond

Menu Current Volume Archive About Us Submit Categories Michael Walrond Artist Bio: Born in Everett, Washington, Michael David Walrond (b. 1986) is a talented emerging fine art photographer based in Seattle. His career began at a creative agency, specializing in styling, set decorating and design. In 2017, the creative director, Christopher Alain Everett, encouraged him to pursue his own art and gave him a Leica Dlux. He discovered film photography the following year when a friend and fellow artist sold him a Canon AE-1. Entirely self-taught, he has since been showcased in solo exhibitions in San Diego and New York, and group shows across the United States and Europe. His work has been published in P Magazine, Osphilia, Others Magazine, Lomography, Artizians Magazine, and Supersonic Art. His latest monograph, “SHDWSOFDUST: A 7 Year Anthology of Analog Photography Work,” debuted in October 2023 with Snap Collective. Website: mdw.22slides.site Instagram: @inpraiseofshdws

Claire Peckham

Menu Current Volume Archive About Us Submit Categories Claire Peckham Artist Bio: Claire Peckham (she/they) is a photographer, writer, and collage artist from Seattle, WA. She holds a BA in English, a BFA in Photomedia from the University of Washington, and an MFA in Fine Art from the University of Oxford. Her work has been exhibited and published at Photographic Center Northwest, Outskirts: feminisms along the edge, Art Review Oxford, and many more. Grounded in the aesthetics of formal photography, Claire’s work explores negative space and how it manifests across landscapes, language, memory, and the human body. She currently lives and works in Seattle. Website: clairepeckham.com Instagram: @clairepeckham.art

Adrienne Elyse Meyers

Menu Current Volume Archive About Us Submit Categories Adrienne Elyse Meyers Artist Statement: I am drawn to images and scenes that linger, that sit suspended in time and continually resurface, that moments we return to over and over. My practice centers on creating paintings that offer glimpses into daily life, that reflect on the sweetness of sapphic intimacy and tenderness, and engage with a sense of transcendence or strangeness that seeps through the everyday as it is lived and remembered. A lover stretches out in the morning light, an empty train station sits silent, charcoal embers glow at the end of the evening, smoke from fireworks hovers over the lakefront, and shadows flicker on the wall. Paintings produce the sensation of film stills, suspended between voyeurism and intimacy. Soft tones, brushy layers, and deliberately unfinished elements invite viewers into scenes in soft focus, when the eyes flutter, the sun fades, and the curtains are drawn. Warm tones peek through thin washes of paint, establishing a sense of warmth and closeness. Embracing the atmospheric, the tender, and the strange, these works tell stories of how we build connection, embrace awe, and find comfort amid apprehension and precarity. Artist Bio: Adrienne Elyse Meyers (b. 1994, Houston, TX) is a visual artist who was born and raised in Southeast Texas and currently lives and works in Chicago. Meyers studied in Houston and Boston before earning an MFA from the University of Chicago, and she has exhibited nationally and internationally. Meyers’s current practice centers on composing paintings that bring together scenes of daily life, the tenderness of sapphic intimacy, and a sense of awe or strangeness that seeps through the everyday. Website: adrienneelyse.com Instagram: @adrienneelyse

Talia Bergman

Menu Current Volume Archive About Us Submit Categories Talia Bergman Artist Bio: Talia Bergman is an artist from a small town outside Spokane, Washington. Growing up there, she often felt isolated and alone, which caused her to turn to video games and T.V. She found her love of art in an art class and continued to teach herself how to draw during the 2020 pandemic. She went on to study art at Washington State University and graduated in 2025.

Mark Yale Harris

Menu Current Volume Archive About Us Submit Categories Mark Yale Harris Artist Statement: The purpose of my artwork is to invoke an awakening of the sensual. Stimulating a perceptual, internal, and intellectual response for the viewer: a visual that speaks to life’s experiences. Creating symbols of universal connection underscores the relationship that one has to another and to nature. Art conveys my nonverbal view of life. An ongoing portrayal of myself, my behavior, adventure, exploration, risk taking, and non-acceptance of convention and the status quo. Constantly in search of the new and different – I am fascinated with the unconventional. Life has a hard, aggressive side, as does much of my work, represented by rigid, angular lines. However, the soft side is also apparent, visible as curves and soft forms. Combining different elements, I bring forth a duality in the sculptures that I create. Using the invaluable experience of the mentorship of Bill Prokopiof and Doug Hyde, along with my own vision, I have created an evolving body of work in alabaster, marble, limestone, and bronze. I was recently working on a commissioned piece and, while working, reflected on why I carve stone, a very primitive art form. The client had sent me a photo and specific dimensions. My process is to first draw it out dimensionally and then make a small clay model before beginning to sculpt. Then I start my work, in this case on a block of white marble. I measure and measure, then cut, then measure and then cut again, then recheck my drawing – and repeat. Finally, hopefully having made no mistakes, the figure begins to emerge. It is a great feeling of accomplishment! It is that mental challenge that inspires me to carve in stone. I thoroughly enjoy the cerebral exertion and concentration that is crucial to bringing something out of the stone, something that you really cannot do with clay or any other medium. Artist Bio: Sculptor Mark Yale Harris realized his true passion – stone carving – in the 1990s. In Santa Fe, he was mentored by Bill Prokopiof and Doug Hyde. Harris’ alabaster, marble, limestone and bronze works express the inherent duality in mans’ essence. Prior to this shift, Harris spent many successful years in the real estate/hotel business. Harris’ 250+ recent/upcoming exhibitions: Museum of Western Art; Musée de Peinture de Saint-Frajou, France; Coos Art Museum; Royal Scottish Academy of Art; Cape Cod Museum; Yellowstone Art Museum; Booth Western Art Museum; National Sculpture Society; and Ventana Fine Art. 120+ publications include Abstract: Contemporary Expressions; Artwork Gallery Magazine (Kyiv); MVIBE Magazine (Athens); Modern Renaissance Magazine; American Art Collector; Fine Art Connoisseur; Sculpture News; ART UP MI (Milan); Southwest Art; LandEscape Art Review; and Magazine 43. Represented by 18 galleries (US/UK), he has works in museum, state public art venues, hotel and hospital permanent collections.

Uber Ride, RDU Edition

Uber Ride, RDU Edition by Carol Everett Adams She’d no front teeth, but said more than any other Uber driver ever, asked me after every story, Does that make sense? Her eyes Ubering off the road as she checked mine in the rearview. We Ubered in the forests of her pitcherisk acres, Ubered on her many riding mowers, Ubered past the years her Pawpaw raised her up to hunt, so she’ll never go hungry, praise Trump, and good God, but our hearts hurt for the woman in the news who Ubered from the Blue Ridge Trail. But you know, her own cancer-passed brother once rented a convertible just so her niece and nephew could have something like a coaster ride. They perched on top of the back seat, arms up, flew and laughed and laughed, and Lord, even I could remember the sun that day,  like I Ubered down someone else’s street, does that make sense? Poetry Home Art by Keegan Baatz

Class Reunion, Homecoming

CLASS REUNION, HOMECOMING by Cathy Allman “You sure take a lot of sunrise photos,” the gray-haired woman who used to be drill team captain tells me when I scroll through my iPhone library to show grandchildren photos. No matter how much cake, or punch, or how many balloons, if not for the yearbook senior snapshots on our name tags, I wouldn’t know anyone. Did I even really know them when we graduated together in 1975? Decades of separation reunited. Captain Carry sees my shot of the river iced over, snow frosting the bare trees. “We’re in the winter of our lives,” she proclaims and sips white wine from a plastic cup. “No, this is fall, maybe even Indian summer. Is the phrase ‘Indian summer’ politically incorrect?” Photos flicker almost like a movie until I find the new baby photo. I hold my granddaughter in the chosen frame. Her open baby eyes are locked with mine. I have some knowing glance of adoration that responds to her blank curiosity, almost an unspoken prophecy of love beyond the overlap of mortal time. Yes, the days are getting shorter, but my garden is full—some tomatoes still green, some red and ripe, some rotting on the vine. The boys of summer have finished their pennant race. The World Series is here. Football is robust and populated with Swifties. Anyway, I like winter. I don’t ski. I hate being cold, but when I go back home after this reunion, back north, I will again be transformed into a child when I watch snow fall. Landscapes draped in white-cold sparkle. Leafless, tired vistas brand-new when frozen. She says, “So cute” in response to the grandchild picture and shows me her own shared albums. So goes the evening while the DJ blasts oldies. Tomorrow, I’ll return to retired status. But at this dance I’m suspended in a snow day, some surprise reprieve from the anxiety of exams—the hidden relief from the blizzard of childhood. Poetry Home Art by Ashley Hoiland

You Could Have Gone West, Acknowledgements

You Could Have Gone West, Acknowledgements by Kara Dorris Acknowledgementac·knowl·edg·ment  /əkˈnäləjm(ə)nt/ nounplural noun: acknowledgements    1. acceptance of the truth or existence of something.“there was no acknowledgment of the family’s trauma” 1979 was the year. The U.S. established diplomatic relations with the Republic of China, McDonald’s introduced the Happy Meal, Three Mile Island melted down, and you began attempting to conceive me, a baby girl, in the back of a ‘67 Camaro. You know, you sought balance, a future sister for a brother, one of each and all of that. The two of the 2.5 kids. Add in Lassie and all set.   At the same time in California, did Brenda Ann Spencer gather ammunition and orange juice, think all set, as she sat in her living room and opened fire on the elementary school across the street. Was she thinking to the person in the bell jar, blank and stopped as a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream? You know, the movie came out that week. And, somehow, that thought was translated into, god, I hate Mondays. Reporters. They never see subtext. She surrendered. So, what? I want to know if she longed for death. Could she not face, even at 16, the mile markers ahead? I don’t see how anyone can face the enormity, a mayfly life stretched into double infinity sign. The infinitely looping Route 66.    Don’t you ever wonder what could have been? What if Voyager I never revealed Jupiter’s rings? If the Iran Hostage Crisis never ended? What if you had gone west? If you never went to see Star Trek, climbed into that backseat, took down your pants?     ∞   Acknowledgements You could have gone west, just drove, let the road fill you up even as meth stripped you down, not that you hit the hard stuff then, just the pot and whiskey of a shotgun wedding.  You could have left your son. You hadn’t saved him from anything except oblivion of not being born.  You could have lost your shirt in Vegas. Watched Michael Jackson living off the wall. You looked like the lead singer in an ‘80s hair band, your long lank strands, your tall, lean frame.  Could have protested the canceled Mardi Gras with your mere presence.  Could have been more than a jack-in-the-box, said your name was Joe when you took that Wyoming waitress home. Could have fathered another daughter. Remember your first? You named her Eve, called her Molly. You dream of her still, how sweet and unknowable she was at the beginning, before she became known and knowing. Before she showed you in between places addicts must go.    ∞  Acknowledgementac·knowl·edg·ment  /əkˈnäləjm(ə)nt/ noun    2. the action of expressing or displaying gratitude or appreciation for something.“she received an award in acknowledgment of her work” 1979 seemed to stretch into 1980. A year of attempting to conceive. The Iran Hostage Crisis lasted 444 days. It was enough time to create new families. Was there an after? In An American in Paris, Jerry renames Lise, allows her to forget her occupation past; she pronounces his name with a French accent and suddenly his wartime is forgotten. Can there be an after disaster? Yes. Look at the trench coat, that belt you tie against rain, against time, was meant to hold grenades. And even though your hands blow shit up, you can’t pass yourself off as heavy artillery.    If Dirty Dancing had aired five years earlier, you wouldn’t have settled for him, another not-the-one. You could have carried a watermelon, not a grenade, not a kid, not the rain. Could have not lived in the trenches. But divorce shellshock lingers. What if you had headed west, been on American Airlines Flight 191 out of Chicago? Can death be a kind of life? Even as you slid into that ‘67 Camaro, as you lifted your peasant blouse, unbuckled your bra and leaned into his hands.     ∞  Acknowledgements You could have gone west, been a Vegas showgirl, a Midwest Rockette kicking thighs over chest on stage rather than over the backseat of a muscle car. It was supposed to be the time of your life. You could have scooped out the Grand Canyon with your hands, rode a donkey all the way down, bleached your hair blond, widened that streak of light and rebellion.  You could have become stewardess, flown Paris, London, Minneapolis, learned the sign language of leaving, of always assessing survival tools and nearest exits.  You could have left your son, a lesson you learned from his father. From your father’s father too. And I’m told that leaving one kid is easier than leaving two.  You could have fallen in love with shadows, the way light weaves and narrows, cul-de-sacs of shadows, shadows within shadows, of stones, in drawers.  You would have walked past me never knowing I was never born. You would have loved my shadow. You would have loved your own.    ∞   Acknowledgementac·knowl·edg·ment  /əkˈnäləjm(ə)nt/ noun    3. a letter confirming receipt of something.“I received an acknowledgment of my application”  Somewhere inside these bones, this brain, this heart, I know I wouldn’t rewind, just watch as addiction and depression climb into the backseat of a young man’s sick ride, a ‘67 Camaro. As a young woman’s shoulder pads and legwarmers sink into the floorboard, past, into the pavement, into roots of the overarching trees, ambivalent cover dripping sap against humid windows, no cover at all against the Texas heat, no Bruce Springsteen’s Cover Me, just that song, Do It To Me One More Time playing over and over again in the cassette player, until the ribbon gives out, tangles up, and rips, as all things rip, when you try to untangle.     Nonfiction Home Art by Claire Peckham

On the day we meet let’s tell the bartender that we’re freshly divorced

On the day we meet let’s tell the bartender that we’re freshly divorced. by Julia Rapp That we threw our rings in the Hudson River a moment ago.To celebrate, let’s drink alcohol that is the color of indoor pools.Tell me your last words. I will share the ways I have pierced myself.Let’s touch each other in a corner booth. Smash our bottles in the back alley.Enter a street where the people are fleas and the city is a wounded deer.It could have been our two-year anniversary, but I have been dead for years.We could start here, on a building that looks like a glass hive, and leap.No? Okay, let’s eat disappointing sushi on the hotel floor and keep talking.You want to live in a shade of purple that rolls along like a story without a plot.I want to live in a house made entirely of citrus, but San Francisco will do.Do I seem careless and radiant to you? I am trying to be a plot device.You tell me to stop kissing you like we’re married and I have just learnedthat you are dying. But darling, we are dying. So I must tell youthat I have lied— I do believe in that which endures. I (almost) do. Poetry Home Art by Mark Yale Harris