Dallas Athent

Life Within the Simulacrum: HTTPS://whatisthepurposeofgalleries.co.uk

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Life Within the Simulacrum is a featured column focusing on technology & social media, travel & literature.

BY DALLAS ATHENT

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(I Want To Make Something Huge by Camille Yvert, 2018)

The use of text and technology in art, though two varied subjects, share a similar issue–both of these themes are accessible in a way that almost any artist can produce fairly decent work using them. Anyone can make a painting that says something, and because it says something, it impacts you on the surface. Same with technology–it’s current, and since we live our lives with technology in the modern world and we are used to such objects, art utilizing this subject can be easily familiar to us on a personal level.

But it’s not often work in either of these mediums hits home in a way that you deeply internalize it, which was exactly what was so shocking about a recent show I saw in London, rightfully titled HTTPS:// curated by IKO at Sluice gallery. Upon entry, a large purple wall reads “Disappointingly Territorial” in dripping petroleum jelly–a work by Matilda Moors. Like a new-wave horror story, it blatantly depicted my own reflection as a young woman, navigating a need to create work out of crisis–a plea to be self-aware, honest and demonstrate talent for consumption all at once. These are common themes that transcend time for artists of all disciplines. However, they’re especially relevant during a technological revolution when the quest for love can so easily exist in the simulacra where we connect with others through web-based interfaces. Is this what the artist intended with this piece? I’m not sure, but it was a welcoming entryway to the other works in the show which equally addressed this particular sort of existential angst.

(View of HTTPS:// including work by Matilda Moors, Sam Blackwood & others)

Additionally in HTTPS://  Sam Blackwood created a piece titled Green Bottles, which consisted of bottles of wine with personal branding and flowers stuck in placed in clusters around the gallery. I visited the show weeks after it originally opened and the flowers had wilted. The progress in time was a morbid representation of what happens to the artists’ spirit as we succumb to self-promotion through the web. But maybe that’s just me projecting my personal issues. If you think this is the point of the exhibit in its entirety, however, keep reading. There’s a bit of a plot twist.

(Green Bottles by Sam Blackwood, 2018)

HTTPS:// had many other attributes that were carefully crafted, creating depth to what seemed so simple at a glance. There was a hard-drive that you could upload to your computer full of art by Chris Alton, a custom-made bench with plug-ins to charge your phone and IKO even provided free WiFi so attendees could freely find the artists online without draining their data usage. As I said, I initially gathered pieces of the exhibit were about both the pressure, longing and anxiety of having to self-promote as an artist, but after sharing this sentiment with Oly Durcan of IKO, he in turn, asked me a question. “What’s the purpose of an artwork in an exhibition that someone’s traveled to? We’re not telling people what the answer is. It’s an entry point.” I told him I felt like we were in the simulacrum (which literally 100% of people who have ever met me are probably sick of hearing by now, but hey, you’re here reading this review in my column just on that subject, so maybe you haven’t spent enough time with me yet–just wait!). More explicitly, I explained that when social media came out, it seemed a new way for artists to promote themselves while avoiding commercial influence, whereas now it’s the opposite. People now seem to make music, or paint or write in order to gain a larger following online. The validation through attention on the web has almost overcome the validation of someone buying your work. In the end, isn’t the point of making art to express your ego, or achieve love? Does social media not replace this purpose? I didn’t ask these last couple of questions in fear of seeming vain, but I thought it.

(Custom bench made by IKO for “HTTPS://, including “Live and Direct” By Dani Smith, 2018)

But Oly said something comforting. He said, “I think it’s a little like that, but it’s kind of–” and then did a motion with his hands like the scales were going back and forth. He was right. I was just being pessimistic 🙁 Upon further thought I realized the exhibition isn’t a critique of social media use in an artist’s life, instead, it’s about where does the experience of an artist start and finish.

I left the gallery wondering the same thing. I myself, have just moved to London and this was the very first review I’ve done of a show here. Where in the simulacrum do my relationships with those whose work I review begin and end? Life is art and art is life. We know this. In an attempt to make sense of it all, I went home that evening and made an Instagram post about my experience at the show, hoping it was somehow getting so meta and I could connect with my readers and the artists whose work I just admired. That was what HTTPS:// hoped to achieve, and dammit, I was going to try it out. I tagged Matilda in a selfie I took earlier that day in front of her work, as her’s was the one that stuck out to me when I first attended the opening–and then I got a notification hours later, that she followed me back.

IT’S KIND OF HARD TO EXPLAIN (IKO) is an artist and curatorial collective based in London that has been operating since 2017. HTTPS:// was on view from September 14th, 2018-October 6th, 2018 at Sluice Gallery in London

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Dallas Athent is a writer and artist. She is the author of THEIA MANIA, a book of poems with art by Maria Pavlovska. Her work, both literary and artistic has been published or profiled in BUST Magazine, Buzzfeed Community, VIDA Reports From The Field, At Large Magazine, PACKET Bi-Weekly, YES Poetry!, Luna Luna Magazine, Bedford + Bowery, Gothamist, Brooklyn Based, and more. She’s a board member of Nomadic Press. She lives in The Bronx with her adopted pets.

Life Within the Simulacrum: None Of Us Are Truly Together

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Life Within the Simulacrum is a featured column focusing on technology & social media, travel & literature.

BY DALLAS ATHENT

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It was 2:43 which meant in 17 minutes I’d have to call my Uber to get out of Paris and to the airport. The light poured in through the balcony, causing our sausage sandwiches and olives to glow. We had just picked them up from the local market full of people screaming at us in French about sausage links and cutting cheese by the kilo. Reminiscing, my friend Malik reminded me of a Four Loko party we went to long ago on a rooftop in Bushwick.

               “Yo that shit was lit.”

               “Kids don’t party like that nowadays,” I said.

               “Ha! Kids!” he remarked, as if we were so old.

               I reluctantly look at my watch again and said abruptly and with purpose, “I have to call my Uber.” He said he’d accompany me downstairs. “Ugghh,” I began, “I don’t want to say goodbye.”

               “C’mon Dallas. Don’t get nostalgic, get your stuff and go.”

He was right. Malik is wise and knows how to deal with things like sentiments. I, on the other hand, do not.

In the past two years I’ve been to Switzerland, England, France, Scotland, Iceland, Italy, Canada, The Caribbean and more, often multiple times and various cities. Within the U.S. I’ve visited Santa Barbara, Palm Springs, San Diego, New Orleans, Santa Fe, D.C., Boston and Ft. Lauderdale. I have two jobs. I work onboarding project teams into construction software, so I get to visit the construction companies and their projects wherever they happen to be building them. I’m also a writer, which means I’ve made friends with other writers who then work in a community around the world. I’m on a plane every other week visiting clients for work, and often, people in publishing and my colleagues in literature.

Of course, it’s hard to see so many places and not document it. I take a photo each day I’m traveling and usually share it with those in my network. It’s a way for me to communicate my experiences. Most people see someone who is having the time of their life trying new foods (sheep’s brain) and meeting new people (like the owners of a small Chateau in Thiers).

The truth is, each time I leave a place I have to fight off an existential crisis. I can see myself living just about anywhere. I connect with landscapes, be they be the vast abyss of the sea or laced with mountains. I look at the art, like the impressionist paintings with their shapes and pastels in Paris or the totem poles in Vancouver.

But something even stranger happens when you get to know people. You get attached. On a trip I took to Europe this year I started my stay in Edinburgh on the floor of my best friend’s dorm room. Edinburgh is a stunning city, full of crooked alleys and looming stone buildings you can get lost in. You see ghosts and drink in pubs with plaid walls, which provides a certain comfort, but doesn’t necessarily inspire most people who visit to go back for a second week in a year. For me it did, because my best friend Daniel was there, and I missed him.

Our moments together were wonderful and fleeting. We discussed poetry and literature, but every night I laid my head down I knew it was temporary, as this friend of mine was someone I once met with every weekend in New York coffee shops to write and on rooftops to party. Someone, who, in my 20s would bike past me each morning on his way to work as I stood at a bus stop for my commute, and would wave. In those days I thought we’d be best friends forever and we still are, but our relationship is based on sparse visits where we get together and reminisce, and know that time will ultimately bring us apart again. In our new relationship, we’re aware that time is something intangible and mortality will eventually put a halt on the amount of times we see each other.

While in Edinburgh we hung out with his roommates from Romania who were getting their Bachelor’s. They were maybe twenty. As we went out for drinks one of them told me about how he wanted to work in HR on progressive subjects. He was also highly interested in the #metoo movement. He seemed wise beyond his years. As we spoke over pints together in a pub that had live banjos playing and velvet walls, I wondered if the conversation mattered, because I would likely never see him again.

I have so many interactions like this. I make the most of my time in a place, doing my best to be fully invested and not take my luxury of travel for granted. I ask people about their lives, their days. I ask not what the most recommended restaurant is, but which one gives the best feeling. I always offer people to stay at mine if they ever come to New York since so many people do come to visit my city. It feels like a good way to keep the door open. So far, nobody other than those I’ve known for over seven years has taken me up on it.

When I got to Luzern after Edinburgh I met up with my friend Boni Joi, a poet I admire and someone I became friends with a few years ago while she was living in New York. She moved there with her husband, who’s Swiss. Her neighbor, who Boni’s very close with, offered up her apartment since she was away the week I was staying. I had a penthouse all to myself, overlooking the mountains and a small church, but most importantly, the woman left notes for me, saying she was happy I could stay there and to help myself to coffee and beer. The woman had her drawings and fashion designs up on the wall. She had little trinkets from her travels, and stunning kimonos hung in the bathroom. I knew so much about her but she knew nothing about me. I wondered if I’d ever even meet her.

The next day, Boni brought me up the mountains in a gondola, the fog allowing us no vision, which we passed through with time only to arrive on top of the clouds with a spanning view of the alps. The experienced was a reminder of separation, and how many microcosms exist within this one world.

At the top of the mountain we got some drinks in the one building that exists there — a little hotel with a restaurant attached. As we laughed, the sun began to set and we knew it was time – one hour closer to the handful of nights we may have together again.

The more and more I get on a plane, the more and more I fall in love. With cities, but mostly with people. There’s nothing like travel to remind you that you can never be everywhere in this life, but especially that we’re all essentially alone. The existential dread can sometimes be turned into a positive, (like not taking anything for granted, and learning to really listen to people), but it can also become overbearing. I go from airport to airport all by myself. I’ve been dealing with the fact that no matter how close I feel to people, I’ll always have to say goodbye.

When I got to Paris, my friend Daniel flew in from Edinburgh to meet me. We walked around the museums of Impressionists and I saw how they all loved. Many of them had short lives. I wondered if they counted their moments with a lover. If they put a clock against their experiences the way we do today.

My last day in Paris I went the a local market with Daniel and Malik. I was grabbing sausages while my two old friends were across two rolls of stalls, picking out gratin. Malik, now a local, was pointing at what Daniel should pick out. I saw Daniel laugh. I was an outsider, looking in, and yet I was there. I wondered what Malik’s arm pointing looked like from Daniel’s perspective, and if what Malik said that made Daniel laugh was something that would stick with him forever, or was just a moment we were once again sharing. It was a simulacrum I created in my mind–but it was also a real thing happening to two people. I was there, and yet not there. Time pressed down to us having to get back to the apartment so I could call my Uber. A melancholy washed over me once more, and I learned to swallow it, because if I didn’t, I could miss the moment.

–

Dallas Athent is a writer and artist. She is the author of THEIA MANIA, a book of poems with art by Maria Pavlovska. Her work, both literary and artistic has been published or profiled in BUST Magazine, Buzzfeed Community, VIDA Reports From The Field, At Large Magazine, PACKET Bi-Weekly, YES Poetry!, Luna Luna Magazine, Bedford + Bowery, Gothamist, Brooklyn Based, and more. She’s a board member of Nomadic Press. She lives in The Bronx with her adopted pets.

Life Within the Simulacrum: If the Internet Dies, Am I Still a Writer?

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Life Within the Simulacrum is a featured column focusing on technology & social media, travel & literature.

BY DALLAS ATHENT

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Recently I was assembling my portfolio. One of the magazines I regularly write for re-routed their archive and I panicked — I couldn’t find one of the best articles I’ve ever written in my life on their website anymore. So what did I do?

I Googled it.

“Philippe Avignant At Large Magazine Dallas Athent”

That should do it. And it did. There was the link, floating around in space. Even though I couldn’t find a way to it anywhere on their website, it still existed. I was still a person. But then I had to ask if anyone would ever find this article again. It’s quite possible only a few people before it’s gone forever. And ironically, if anyone does search “Philippe Avignant At Large Magazine Dallas Athent” to get directly to it they’ll likely now come to this article instead.

Growing up, I read magazines. If I was lucky I saved up enough money as a teenager to head into New York City and go to St. Marks where I’d find random zines and lit mags. I still have copies of those magazines today. Sometimes this still happens. I travel from city to city and always come across publications I never heard of and am happy to pick up.

But this kind of discovery now happens more frequently in the internet. We’re publishing more than ever. It’s so easy. Throw up a Tumblr, buy a .com and make it happen. Take submissions through Submittable. Share Google docs. It costs next to nothing. It can be done by your phone on the go and on the computer. It can be shared on social media for free. People share a link. Maybe some people click it and discover a new website. They then save said website, or follow it. Maybe they read more. Maybe they don’t.

But once all of these websites can no longer be maintained, and we find 404 errors, it’s like we never really wrote anything at all. What happens when the Editor of some online mag moves to Europe moves and lets the publishing trickle out? What if somebody just forgets to renew a GoDaddy URL? What happens in 100 years when historians are studying the art of today? Will all of our archives fade into oblivion?

The answer is — of course they will. Even things that are printed fade over time. Pages deteriorate with age. Things are thrown out. Nothing is permanent. We are flecks of dust in time and all we have is this moment. This is what the internet reminds me of. The internet is forever until it’s not. We are published writers until we aren’t. Links or it didn’t happen. But when something is in print, at least you can hold it in your hand. You can pinch yourself and then commit to checking out the rest of the book or magazine to read more, instead of xing out of a tab you may never revisit.

The act of sharing articles, essays and poetry has become more important than the literature itself. We share, therefore we are. If you’re not being published, you’re not doing anything.

So I have to ask, if the internet goes down, who am I? I honestly don’t know anymore. Even this essay is starting not to make sense. But that may not even matter because it could just become a random link that I have to Google one day to prove I wrote for PANK. The point is things are on the internet, and the internet isn’t real so I can’t measure what that means when life is lived in the flesh.

But at least I can share this link and prove I’m a writer, right?

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Dallas Athent is a writer and artist. She is the author of THEIA MANIA, a book of poems with art by Maria Pavlovska. Her work, both literary and artistic has been published or profiled in BUST Magazine, Buzzfeed Community, VIDA Reports From The Field, At Large Magazine, PACKET Bi-Weekly, YES Poetry!, Luna Luna Magazine, Bedford + Bowery, Gothamist, Brooklyn Based, and more. She’s a board member of Nomadic Press. She lives in The Bronx with her adopted pets.

 

Life Within the Simulacrum: My Name Is Not My Name

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Life Within the Simulacrum is a featured column focusing on technology & social media, travel & literature.

BY DALLAS ATHENT

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Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to truly be an artist. I walk a tightrope between two worlds. One as a creative soul who constantly lives on the brink of an existential journey, and then one where I’m just here to make money and survive.

See, I was never a person who just threw caution to the wind, said “fuck it” and despite all the risks, threw themselves into being a full-time creative dreamer. As a Type 1 Diabetic I literally can’t survive without health insurance. It just wouldn’t be possible without putting me into a crippling debt. Thus, I’ve always tried to maintain a full-time corporate career while straddling the world of art in my spare time. The thing is, in today’s internet world maintaining a full-time job often times maintaining a clean, Google-able record. Especially in client facing roles.

So I made a pen name.

And now my name is not my name.

For the reasons listed above, the practice of using a pen name is becoming more and more popular. I’m not the only one. Having a pen name means one also has multiple email addresses, people from one’s past commenting on status updates with said person’s real name, while said person’s name is displayed on all social media as their fake name. People who have known me outside of writing attend events and pause before addressing me, remembering I’m someone else. Thus, I’m a woman in two world – one where I’m me and then another one where I’m also me.

So how does life really change for someone who’s living between two names? It’s a bit bizarre at first but not the worst thing in the world. It doesn’t really split your identity. If I lived in two complete personalities which were devout of each other that would be easier. The tricky part is, you learn to live as one person, which a personality where certain attributes are more “highlighted” at times. At work I’m more aggressive. In writing I’m more open. In both scenarios, I’m confident, forthright and funny (if I do say so myself).

So does it really matter then, to have a pen name? For the most part, no. I’m a person and that’s that. But to others who have to live a semi-false existence due to personal paranoia when it comes to one’s career and “the man” I’d recommend the following when choosing your pen name:

Either chose something so fake it’s obvious it’s fake (like ‘Star Unicorn Fantasy’), OR use your original first name with just a new last name. If you choose a name that’s too normal it just feels like a lie. Which it is. So make it obvious it’s a lie, or just use your damn first name.

Ensure said name is highly searchable / Googleable and that nobody else has it. If you’re going to go through the trouble of changing your name for writing make sure you benefit to the fullest!]

Commit to it. Make sure everything you do, your emails, your bylines, every single article is in that name going forward. Make no compromises, or your identity as a writer will start to split into several Horcruxes like Lord Voldemort.

At the same time, be ready to admit that name is not your name (kinda like I’m doing by writing this damn article). It will come up, eventually. Whether you’re referring someone you know from writing to your job, or you get close with a fellow writer to the degree that they meet your brother or sister, your pay for a round with your credit card, it’ll happen. Own it. It’s okay. We’re all living within the simulacrum with a false sense of self anyway.

And Godspeed. I can tell you my name is not my name. And yours doesn’t have to be either.

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Dallas Athent is a writer and artist. She is the author of THEIA MANIA, a book of poems with art by Maria Pavlovska. Her work, both literary and artistic has been published or profiled in BUST Magazine, Buzzfeed Community, VIDA Reports From The Field, At Large Magazine, PACKET Bi-Weekly, YES Poetry!, Luna Luna Magazine, Bedford + Bowery, Gothamist, Brooklyn Based, and more. She’s a board member of Nomadic Press. She lives in The Bronx with her adopted pets.

Life Within the Simulacrum: Status Update

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Life Within the Simulacrum is a featured column focusing on technology & social media, travel & literature.

BY DALLAS ATHENT

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If you’re reading this, it’s probable that you follow or are friends with a lot of writers on social media. Perhaps, you, yourself are a writer. You are on PANK, after all.

Assuming this is true your social media feed probably looks similar to mine. Every day I see at least 10+ links a day shared by other writers about how grateful they are to get again have a poem or story published. It usually goes something like this:

“I’m so honored to have [x] published in [x]. Thanks to [person tagged] for being such a force in the literary community.

[insert link].”

I, myself, have posted such statuses. I’m sure you have too.

On each post, the hearts start flying. The tagged individual who’s responsible for publishing said piece will not only “like” the writer’s post themselves, but then comment or reply with an additional “<3” emoji. The rest of us writers will continue to like said post. Sometimes we even love it. Who doesn’t love it when a person we know gets published?

There, technically isn’t a problem with this. I’d be a horrible person if I thought support for fellow writers was a bad thing. (Truth be told, I may be horrible, but for different reasons.)

My bigger question, however, is out of allllll of those likes, how many people are actually clicking the link and reading? Dear reader, I regret to say that I think that number is likely dismal; I personally confess to only going out of my way to read 1/10 of the links that I “like.” While that’s literally embarrassing to admit I know I can’t be the only one adding hearts to things I never have any intention on actually reading.

As I ponder this truth, I even realize I’ve probably liked things in the past that are probably, in fact, abysmal with no idea since I never clicked the damn link!

The thing is, we can’t possibly read everything that comes through our feed each day, but does that mean we should keep reacting to it? In the past I’ve done this to show I’m somehow supportive of the person who shared the post, even if I knew I didn’t have the time nor mental capacity to read it.

But I’m starting to realize this is more harmful than it is helpful.

Being published seems to have become more about having a status update to share with people about being published than having people actually read said piece. So here’s a pop quiz question for 2018:

Which is more valuable to a writer’s career:

  1. Having one person read their work, and really getting something out of it
  2. 100 people seeing on social media that the writer was published but not reading their work at all

Honestly, I don’t know for sure so don’t feel like you failed anything if you don’t agree with me, but it certainly seems like the latter, and that’s, well, just downright depressing. But you know what? I have faith we can change that.

Dear reader, I call on you. Stop hearting things you didn’t read! Join me and stop it.

Stop. It.

Because the truth of the matter is, this does nothing for the literary community. It forces us to live within a simulacrum of success, meanwhile the hard labor we put into writing goes into a vacuum and is swallowed up by yet more links and publications. In a desperate attempt to move literature forward and be noticed not as a craft of the past, we mistakenly believe the more we boost each other’s posts the more we’re giving visibility to poetry and fiction, and this is actually doing the opposite. It’s causing us to have a larger sense of engagement, when nobody is really engaging at all. The best thing we can do is try and entice people who aren’t into literature to read our sites by NOT liking anything we don’t read, try reading at least one thing a day, and then actively commenting on what we thought of it. It may feel as if we’re taking away support, but in fact, it will put responsibility back on the literary community to be strategic, purposefully and create an overall, better experience for online publications.

Long story short, let’s just stop aimlessly clicking in an effort to be seen, shall we?

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Dallas Athent is a writer and artist. She is the author of THEIA MANIA, a book of poems with art by Maria Pavlovska. Her work, both literary and artistic has been published or profiled in BUST Magazine, Buzzfeed Community, VIDA Reports From The Field, At Large Magazine, PACKET Bi-Weekly, YES Poetry!, Luna Luna Magazine, Bedford + Bowery, Gothamist, Brooklyn Based, and more. She’s a board member of Nomadic Press. She lives in The Bronx with her adopted pets.

[REVIEW] Theia Mania by Dallas Athent

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9780979149566
REVIEWED BY CHRISTIAN NIEDAN
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Words in a book are more useful than the sentences they spell out. They can make beautiful shapes and patterns on a page that greatly enhance the messages they convey. Set those printed shapes and patterns beside hand-drawn artwork that compliments them, and you get a dynamic home for great poetry. Such is the construction of Dallas Athent’s new 66-page poetic tome, Theia Mania, with illustrations by Maria Pavlovska, and book design by Eve Siegel.
The book’s launch event was recently held (April 30) at Pavlovska’s well-lit high-ceiling studio at Mana Contemporary in uptown Jersey City, New Jersey. There, visitors got a closer look at the original abstract sketches used for her art/poetry collaboration with Athent. Those buying the book online via the publisher, AntiSentiMental Society (an imprint of Off the Park Press), will find a short paragraph describing the sketches as “delicately scrawled thread-like drawings that seem to mimic the internal landscapes described and experienced in these poems.”  The original studio wall-hugging illustrations range from toweringly large to book-sized in scale — an appropriate setting for the event’s lineup of poetry-reciting authors, which included Athent, AntiSentiMental Society editor Ronna Lebo, Brooklyn writer and filmmaker Prospero Vega, PANK senior editor Chris Campanioni, and culture chronicler Anthony Haden-Guest. It was the title of Haden-Guest’s memoir about Studio 54 (The Last Party) that helped inspire the launch event’s title: “Theia Mania: The Last Book Launch on Earth.” Indeed, the theme of Athent’s poems echo Studio 54’s long-ago aspiration to host a mix of the sublime and the profane in one swirling space. Hence the the English translation of the book’s ancient Greek title: “divine madness.”
A clue to that aspiration is the oversized presence of thick black words “Degenerate Deity” on page one. Flip a few leaves, and page 5 holds perhaps the most succinct poetic expression of that enigmatic opener:
i am a venus rising.
a venus rising
from the rain fell
to the gutter.
i pick pennies off
the ground
and buy keebler 
wafers from the
deli.
here we call them
bodegas.
i am a scumbag
goddess.
The shapes of such paragraphs live on the book’s right-hand pages — with designer Eve Siegel intuitively moving and morphing word groups around the white space to mimic Pavlovska’s left-page illustrations. Only on page 58 do the words finally cross the spine to stand beside a slim vertical illustration that resembles a dark tower of smudged letters. Siegel situates the nearby poetry lines in similar tight paragraphs, including Athent’s mini-ode to English artist friend Natascha Young:
SO I go to England. Where I belong. I see
the gray and brick and towers of mirth and
gloom. I feel the powers of nations rolling on
history and the river Thames, bones washed
ashore and discarded. And I feel rich. Richer
than a Sulton. There are clocks that could
have paid for my college. There are canes
with marble bells for handles that only a
diplomat could be seen with. We’re so drunk,
Tascha and I. My spirit: Tascha. The mother
of this earth and then some: Tascha. Project
Venus: Tascha. We had all the wine in the
world. All the wine on the table. And then we
had cheese.
 
“those were dark days.”
“those were dark days.”
those were dark days,
we speak of Wolverhampton.
Yet, Theia Mania’s recurring flirtation with dark themes is not of the naval-gazing goth variety — rather, they revel in electric-lit cityscapes of buzzing shadows, where the liquor-infused nightlife drives a writhing kinetic energy that is intoxicating and addictive. Athent emphasizes her modern urban themes with a sprinkling of smartphone shorthand, the text-worthy symbols seeming like printed sisters to their spoken siblings:
 
Pictures of an Atlas
playing baseball with a
semi-automatic weapon and the ball = my <3
 
This is what it means to be Atlas
This is what it means to be Dallas
The divine madness of Theia Mania’s many poetic meanings are allowed to swirl and soar thanks to a very effectively-structured trio-collaboration between author, artist, and designer. The artwork by itself is resonant but abstract. The poems, powerful but shaped as sentences. Together, and jointly reshaped with every turned-over leaf, the resonance and power of the combined product jumps across the pages… and off of them.
—
Christian Niedan is a Brooklyn-based writer and editor. He is co-coordinator of Brooklyn events for literary nonprofit Nomadic Press.