Cine se-adună

 

Mai aveam două drafturi în așteptare, dar o să pun foto-rezumatul de la Friends mai întâi, că iar rămân prea în urmă cu inventarul de bucurii din librărie. Sunt deja datoare cu două săptămâni de poze făcute pe semi-furiș, totuși.

O mică parte, proaspăt descărcată din telefon:

Vitrină cu fete în lumină de octombrie.

Coriandrul nu se-ascultă, se simte. La un brunch opulent organizat de regina Anca.

Măsline de la Paradisul Măslinelor.

Antropolog față cu coriandrul.

Occupy trotuarul.

Lui Bogdan i-am promis că termin disertația până-n februarie. Monicăi i-am promis că-mi public tema cu pești într-un loc frumos.

Daniel – când încă credea că mai există scăpare.

Daniel – când nu mai credea că există scăpare.

După atâtea degustări, poți să te trezești cu inelul prizonier în propriul păr.

Sau să te apuci să sfințești librăria cu un covor de lavandă.

Andrei, un muzician din Rusia, s-a oprit pe la noi.

Și a descoperit că ziua lui e în aceeași zi cu-a lui Miloš (Serbia). Și cu două zile înainte de-a lui Gligor (Macedonia). „Brate” era cuvântul-cheie în discuțiile lor în englezo-română-sârbo-macedoneană.

Anca.

Arte și meserii.

Fete și șosete.

Băiat și șosete. Șosete-prototip, s-ar putea să apară în curând în shop-ul lui crazy.

Așa se vine. Așa se pleacă.

Corina și acest zâmbet <3

Gălăgie.

Mimo și acest țuică-râs <3 prevestitor de rele pentru mafia de la putere, hear hear!

Oameni și cărțile lor.

După o analiză socio-filosofică a declarațiilor lui J Lo despre nudul propriu, publicat la 49 de ani (dacă credeți că în librăria asta se vorbește doar despre Ulise și prietenii săi, you are in the wrong, mai frends), s-a decis: Jenny from the block nu știe nimic.
Iar aici o scotea Elena la aer pe Virginia Woolf, proaspăt tradusă de ea și de Anca Dumitrescu. Și cu un design perfect semnat de Ray Bobar. Voi ați văzut ce coperți pufoase și superbe au cărțile pe care le scot fetele de la Black Button Books? Poate ar trebui să vă faceți un wish list.

Elena, pregătită pentru un autograf secret.

Anca. Aproape a rezervat o lucrare neprețuită din galerie.

Peggyța Guggenheim față cu peretele cu artă. A ales ceva doar pentru ea, normal.

Poza 1 pe care nu puteam să n-o pun în jurnal.

Poza 2 pe care nu puteam să n-o pun în jurnal.

Băiat cu pungă plină de cărți.

Băiat cu pungă plină de cărți lângă florile în care și-au îngropat fețele multe trecătoare.

„Mi-a făcut Cristina primul Polaroid aici.”

Când încerci să mai pui mâna pe câte-o carte mică ascunsă.

Dar renunți repede. Pentru că tocmai a intrat o fetiță cu fundiță și s-a așezat pe fotoliu cu Dave the Lonely Monster în brațe.

Și imediat după a ajuns și Teodora.

Care m-a desenat așa.

După ce-am citit vreo 5 cărți împreună, evident.

Pe final, în timp ce răsfoiam rapid cele 50 de literary postcards de Tom Gauld (ultimul exemplar rămas), a venit și prietenul fotograf japonez Tomo, care mi-a povestit despre Paris Photo și Grand Palais și despre Polycopies, un vaporaș care plimbă pe Sena (în timpul festivalului de fotografie) publisheri, galeriști și artiști fotografi din toată lumea, inclusiv din lumea noastră apropiată – participă Mihai Barabancea cu Probably Romania. Wish I were there.
Apoi am mai povestit despre puroaie internaționale și tot felul de horror-uri cotidiene, printre care și despre vecinii lui care fac tărăboi maxim, madama fiind o „totally pițipoanca” care i-a sugerat să se mute-n pădure dacă nu-i convine, oh, such romanian. Și despre o prietenă „a little bit credincioasă” care n-a vrut să-l învețe înjurături în română, și despre morfologia unuia (care e două, știu, pronume + verb auxiliar) dintre cuvintele cel mai des folosite de prietenii lui români: „m-aș”. Nu voi dezvolta, imaginați-vă ascultați-vă. :))

That’s not all folks, not even un sfert, dar tot e ceva.

 

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Încă o sâmbătă pe Quinet 9

 

Sâmbăta începe de obicei cu mine ajungând pe Quinet 9 între 12 și 2 după-masa, cu planuri de făcut etichete pentru expoziție, întrebări pentru interviuri, poze pentru Insta sau selecție de poezii pentru 5 poems. Îi găsesc întinși la soare ca motanii, în fața librăriei, umplând străduța cu chicoteli, și știu că nu e loc de planuri pe-aici, e weekend, să trăim și noi un pic. Vaza cu flori e așezată pe scăunelul care ține ușa deschisă, muzica cântă de una singură în sufragerie (ce bine te-nțeleg, muzico), obișnuiții casei fac vizita de rigoare, răsfoiesc, răscolesc, degustă secrete tari păstrate în spate. Cine știe, cunoaște.


Telefoanele ne trag de mânecă în sincron cu mesajele obișnuite: „veniiiiiiiiim!” și variațiuni pe aceeași nerăbdare.
Și vin cu picnicul la subsuoară: murături, șunculițe, țuiculițe, măsline, atenții. Le-nșirăm pe toate pe mini-masă, să curgă poveștile.


Mă pun pe desenat cu Mișu și iau o pauză mică: îl văd în lumina din fața librăriei pe Marius. Îl știu pe Marius de 9 ani, de când mi-am făcut cont pe Twitter (eu eram @sundaysux și spuneam multe prostii, el era @bluegod și încerca să-mpace pe toată lumea), și azi e singurul om cu steluță de See first pe Facebook-ul meu. Nu ne-am cunoscut irl niciodată, chiar dacă am învățat de la el mai multe decât de la mulți oameni pe lângă care-am stat în carne și oase. Ne-am îmbrățișat tare, sper că nu l-a distrus leneșul meu de porțelan din piept, și l-am poftit pe canapeaua roșie.

M-am bucurat și de Luiza, coechipierul lui de maraton cultural și una dintre persoanele de care-mi place mie mult, și nu doar pentru că suntem suflete pereche hoarders de cărți și ilustrații (ea și Mimo sunt Von Guggenheim-ele mele). Se pare că mai e și tipul de om căruia dacă-i spui cât de mult îți place inelul ei chibrit, vai de mine, ce superb, îl am și eu în wish list-urile de pe Pinterest de ani, îți răspunde: ah, l-am luat dintr-un flea market din Atena, ia-l tu dacă-ți place, eu îl port rar. Și poftim bucurie.

Apoi ne-am scurs toți: despre muzee și expoziții, despre viața aici și acolo și dincolo, despre cărți și desene și oameni.

Apare și Norișorul cu 2 reviste PIF noi, direct de la nenea din Paris, cadou pentru Vlad, pentru cine altcineva.

Nu apucăm să vorbim noi prea multe, dar mă simt cel mai norocos om când scoate un caiet firav și îngălbenit cu desenele tatălui ei, profesor de română. Nu știu dacă mă emoționează ceva mai mult decât jurnalele și desenele sincere ale oamenilor fără pregătire artistică. Îmi permit să expun câteva exemple, sper să nu se supere pe mine, sunt comori și nu vreau să le uit.

În soarele mieros de toamnă apar Teodora și Corina.

Apoi Adriana și Nicu ne recomandă Shoplifters, pe care tocmai l-au văzut la Les Films de Cannes, am notat. Ne petrecem restul serii desenând pe canapea, pe fundal cântă un băiat grec, recomandat de Radu, Vlad vorbește de ore cu doi porumbei, oamenii intră, se plimbă și agață câte-o carte, miroase-a ploaie, Teodora mănâncă măsline și bea suc de portocale, are un inel din ăla magic de la Kinder și îmi dă feedback pozitiv pentru portretele de familie pe care le-a colorat și urmează să le expunem în vitrină pentru poze.

*Poze făcute rapid cu telefonul, ca să nu uităm.

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5 poems (Vol. 3)

 

Another round of 5 poems landed in the magic-making hands of 5 local artists:
Ana Bănică, Adelina Butnaru, George Roșu, Ruxandra Șerbănoiu and Yanna Zosmer received the poems via e-mail only a week ago and sent them back to me as heart-warming illustrations.

I love Brâncuși’s words about childhood:
‘When we stop being children, we start being dead.’
So let’s keep our inner child happy and lively for as long as we can. The child who loves playing and laughing and learning and discovering the world. The one who’s curious about anything from tiny navel fluff to huge faraway stars. The one with the never-ending pile of questions. The one who won’t surrender before those rituals of adulthood that strip all life of wonders and magic.

The 5 chosen poems travel back to the much bigger
homes and classrooms and roads in our memories,
to smells and sights and sounds of
casual fears and small-scale lies and jumbo love treats.

Enjoy:

 



THE DISAPPOINTMENTS OF CHILDHOOD
by Michael Blumenthal

Perhaps a bird was singing and for it I felt
a tiny affection, the same size as a bird.
Borges

Imagine now, an affection the same size
as the thing it’s felt for: for the seed,
seed-like emoluments of liking and,
for the rain, droplets of tenderness
clustered in puddles at your feet.

And now remember how, as a child,
someone is telling you they love you.
How much does daddy love you? they
ask and you, childlike, spread
your arms as wide as a child can.

Little do you know it then, but the rest
of your life will be spent measuring
the distance between “that much”
and what love, in fact, is capable of –
the narrow width of a man or a woman,
their terrible thinness,
their small bones
growing constantly inward
from your spreading arms.

***
Published in Poetry Magazine (April 1984)
Copyright © Michael Blumenthal.

Illustration by Ana Bănică
instagram.com/ana_ban_ana_illustration
www.facebook.com/anabananabanica
www.caiverzipepereti.com

 



SNOW
by David Berman

Walking through a field with my little brother Seth

I pointed to a place where kids had made angels in the snow.
For some reason, I told him that a troop of angels
had been shot and dissolved when they hit the ground.

He asked who had shot them and I said a farmer.

Then we were on the roof of the lake.
The ice looked like a photograph of water.

Why he asked. Why did he shoot them.

I didn’t know where I was going with this.

They were on his property, I said.

When it’s snowing, the outdoors seem like a room.

Today I traded hellos with my neighbor.
Our voices hung close in the new acoustics.
A room with the walls blasted to shreds and falling.

We returned to our shoveling, working side by side in silence.

But why were they on his property, he asked.

***
From “Actual Air”, 1999
Grove Press, Open City Books
Copyright © David Berman

 


Illustration by Adelina Butnaru
instagram.com/adelina.butnaru
facebook.com/adelina.butnaru

 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY

by Louis MacNeice

In my childhood trees were green
And there was plenty to be seen.

Come back early or never come.

My father made the walls resound,
He wore his collar the wrong way round.

Come back early or never come.

My mother wore a yellow dress;
Gently, gently, gentleness.

Come back early or never come.

When I was five the black dreams came;
Nothing after was quite the same.

Come back early or never come.

The dark was talking to the dead;
The lamp was dark beside my bed.

Come back early or never come.

When I woke they did not care;
Nobody, nobody was there.

Come back early or never come.

When my silent terror cried,
Nobody, nobody replied.

Come back early or never come.

I got up; the chilly sun
Saw me walk away alone.

Come back early or never come.

***
© Louis MacNeice, Collected Poems (2013)

Illustration by George Roșu
cargocollective.com/georgerosu
instagram.com/theunavailablegeorgerosu
facebook.com/george.rosu

 



FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL

by Roger McGough

A millionbillionwillion miles from home
Waiting for the bell to go. (To go where?)
Why are they all so big, other children?
So noisy? So much at home they
Must have been born in uniform
Lived all their lives in playgrounds
Spent the years inventing games
That don’t let me in. Games
That are rough, that swallow you up.

And the railings.
All around, the railings.
Are they to keep out wolves and monsters?
Things that carry off and eat children?
Things you don’t take sweets from?
Perhaps they’re to stop us getting out
Running away from the lessins. Lessin.
What does a lessin look like?
Sounds small and slimy.
They keep them in the glassrooms.
Whole rooms made out of glass. Imagine.

I wish I could remember my name
Mummy said it would come in useful.
Like wellies. When there’s puddles.
Yellowwellies. I wish she was here.
I think my name is sewn on somewhere
Perhaps the teacher will read it for me.
Tea-cher. The one who makes the tea.

***
© McGough, Roger. “First Day at School.”
All the Best: The Selected Poems of Roger McGough.
Illus. Lydia Monks. London: Puffin, 2004.


Illustration by Ruxandra Șerbănoiu
ruxandra-serbanoiu.tumblr.com

 



FIRST LESSON
by Phyllis McGinley

The first thing to remember about fathers is, they’re men.
A girl has to keep it in mind.
They are dragon-seekers, bent on impossible rescues.
Scratch any father, you find
Someone chock-full of qualms and romantic terrors,
Believing change is a threat –
Like your first shoes with heel on, like your first bicycle
It took months to get.
Walk in strange woods, they warn you about the snakes there.
Climb and they fear you’ll fall.
Books, angular looks, swimming in deep water –
Fathers mistrust them all.
Men are the worriers. It is difficult for them
To learn what they must learn:
How you have a journey to take and very likely,
For a while, will not return.

***
Copyright © Phyllis McGinley (1905 – 1978)

Illustration by Yanna Zosmer
instagram.com/yannazosmer
facebook.com/yannazosmer
yannazosmer.com

 


I am most grateful to these wonderful creatures for jumping in so fast (they only had 1 week to squeeze the task in their schedules and send me the illustrations) and I’d be really happy around my belly button if you showed off your love by following their work and sharing this piece with a friend.

 

About 5poems:

I decided to choose 5 poems every month (there is a list, and it’s growing bigger and bigger) and share them with the world. A world that might just come to love them as much as I do. And with a little help from my friends, there will also be yummy custom-made illustrations.
Around each month’s end, the poems and their fresh illustrations will be revealed on a dedicated Instagram account – @5poems (yes, please, do follow us). All goodies will also be printed and exhibited in our pocket bookshop+gallery (Receptor / Cărturești & Friends). And when it’s time for another round, the previous small prints will settle into the family album – a permanent collection gathering all illustrations and poems featured monthly.
Check out: Volume 1 here. Volume 2 here.

 

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5poems (Vol. 2)

 

5 poems I love recently landed in the magic-making hands of 5 local illustrators.
Wanda, Dragoș, Anna, Andreea and Daia hosted the poems in their hearts for a week and now we’re sending them into the world as delightful illustrations.

Enjoy reading the chosen poems and zooming in on their amazing visual alter egos:

 



ONE ART
by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

(Published in The Complete Poems 1926-1979. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1983.
Copyright © 1979, 1983 by Alice Helen Methfessel.)

Illustration by Wanda Hutira
instagram.com/que_nais
www.behance.net/ceNais
www.facebook.com/wanda.hutira
facebook.com/Ostra-Berdo

 



AS PLANNED
by Frank O’Hara

After the first glass of vodka
you can accept just about anything
of life even your own mysteriousness
you think it is nice that a box
of matches is purple and brown and is called
La Petite and comes from Sweden
for they are words that you know and that
is all you know words not their feelings
or what they mean and you write because
you know them not because you understand them
because you don’t you are stupid and lazy
and will never be great but you do
what you know because what else is there?

(Published in The Paris Review, Issue 49, Summer 1970)

Illustration by Dragoș Boțcău
instagram.com/imagine_dragos
behance.net/dragosbotcau

 



THE PARADOX

by Sarah Kay

When I am inside writing,
all I can think about is how I should be outside living.

When I am outside living,
all I can do is notice all there is to write about.

When I read about love, I think I should be out loving.
When I love, I think I need to read more.

I am stumbling in pursuit of grace,
I hunt patience with a vengeance.

On the mornings when my brother’s tired muscles
held to the pillow, my father used to tell him,

For every moment you aren’t playing basketball,
someone else is on the court practicing.

I spend most of my time wondering
if I should be somewhere else.

So I have learned to shape the words thank you
with my first breath each morning, my last breath every night.

When the last breath comes, at least I will know I was thankful
for all the places I was so sure I was not supposed to be.

All those places I made it to,
all the loves I held, all the words I wrote.

And even if it is just for one moment,
I will be exactly where I am supposed to be.

(From No Matter the Wreckage, published in 2014 by Write Bloody Publishing)

Illustration by Anna Florea
1/2 of rivulet.studio
instagram.com/annaflorea
annaflorea.tumblr.com

 



POSSIBILITIES

by Wisława Szymborska

I prefer movies.
I prefer cats.
I prefer the oaks along the Warta.
I prefer Dickens to Dostoyevsky.
I prefer myself liking people
to myself loving mankind.
I prefer keeping a needle and thread on hand, just in case.
I prefer the color green.
I prefer not to maintain
that reason is to blame for everything.
I prefer exceptions.
I prefer to leave early.
I prefer talking to doctors about something else.
I prefer the old fine-lined illustrations.
I prefer the absurdity of writing poems
to the absurdity of not writing poems.
I prefer, where love’s concerned, nonspecific anniversaries
that can be celebrated every day.
I prefer moralists
who promise me nothing.
I prefer cunning kindness to the over-trustful kind.
I prefer the earth in civvies.
I prefer conquered to conquering countries.
I prefer having some reservations.
I prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of order.
I prefer Grimms’ fairy tales to the newspapers’ front pages.
I prefer leaves without flowers to flowers without leaves.
I prefer dogs with uncropped tails.
I prefer light eyes, since mine are dark.
I prefer desk drawers.
I prefer many things that I haven’t mentioned here
to many things I’ve also left unsaid.
I prefer zeroes on the loose
to those lined up behind a cipher.
I prefer the time of insects to the time of stars.
I prefer to knock on wood.
I prefer not to ask how much longer and when.
I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility
that existence has its own reason for being.

(From Nothing Twice, 1997. Translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh.
Copyright © Wislawa Szymborska, S. Baranczak & C. Cavanagh)


Illustration by Andreea Moise
instagram.com/theycallmelebski
behance.net/lebski

 



KEEPING QUIET
by Pablo Neruda

Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth,
let’s not speak in any language;
let’s stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fisherman in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.

Now I’ll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.

(From Extravagaria, 1974. Translated by Alastair Reid)

Illustration by Daia Grigore
instagram.com/daia_dianagrigore
www.behance.net/drag198b8f

 


I am most grateful to these wonderful creatures for jumping in so fast (they only had 1 week to squeeze the task in their schedules and send me the illustrations) and I’d be really happy around my belly button if you showed off your love by following their work and sharing this piece with a friend.

 

About 5poems:

I decided to choose 5 poems every month (there is a list, and it’s growing bigger and bigger) and share them with the world. A world that might just come to love them as much as I do. And with a little help from my friends, there will also be yummy custom-made illustrations.
Around each month’s end, the poems and their fresh illustrations will be revealed on a dedicated Instagram account – @5poems (yes, please, do follow us). All goodies will also be printed and exhibited in our pocket bookshop+gallery (Receptor / Cărturești & Friends). And when it’s time for another round, the previous small prints will settle into the family album – a permanent collection gathering all illustrations and poems featured monthly.
Check out Volume 1 here.

 

Continue Reading

5poems

 

It’s World Poetry Day today and less than a week ago I decided to make yet another stressful appearance in the inboxes of my fellow illustrators. In a sugar rush, I asked 5 friends if they were interested in making some super quick drawings inspired by… poems. Short poems. Short poems I’ve chosen for them. They said yes.

Here’s what’s gotten into me: until two or three years ago I had rejected poetry just like I’d shoo Jehovah’s Witnesses away. Or maybe worse. And all thanks to those dark memories from my school years, memories made of mandatory memorization terror (both of the poems, and the critics’ view on them), of lame lyrics I could never relate to and oh, man, the excruciating overdose of indecipherable archaisms.

Recently though, I gave poetry a second chance (thanks, Tara, for showing me the way to truly love it).

***

Back to the game: I decided to choose 5 poems every month (there is a list, and it’s growing bigger and bigger) and share them with the world. A world that might just come to love them as much as I do. And with a little help from my friends, there will also be yummy custom-made illustrations.
Around each month’s end, the poems and their fresh illustrations will be revealed on a dedicated Instagram account – @5poems (yes, please, do follow us). All goodies will also be printed and exhibited in our pocket bookshop+gallery (Receptor / Cărturești & Friends). When it’s time for another round, the previous small prints will settle into the family album – a permanent collection gathering all illustrations and poems featured monthly.

Here are this month’s chosen ones:



AESTHETICS OF BEING A BIRD
by Kenneth Koch

Eat brusquely
With a half-closed mouth;
When another speaks, glance up
But don’t respond.
After you have eaten
Take off
And sing
Portuguese songs — a fado, if you please!

(Published in The Paris Review, Issue 120, Fall 1991)

Illustration by Iulia Ignat
iuliaignatillustrator.com
facebook.com/iuliaignatillustrator

 



CLOUD STUDY
by Andrea Cohen

How do clouds
learn to be clouds?

They study what
Constable—seeing them—

saw: awe for sure,
but also a falling

away from any sense
of earthly surface. Zero

horizon. “Skying,” he called
his hundred sketches. Think

of the Great Wallendas stretching
netless above gorges: a cloud

learns not to look down.

(Published in The New Yorker, April 2016)

Illustration by Irina Georgescu
behance.net/irinageorgescu 
facebook.com/irinageorgescuillustration

 



SLEEPING

by Raymond Carver

He slept on his hands.
On a rock.
On his feet.
On someone else’s feet.
He slept on buses, trains, in airplanes.
Slept on duty.
Slept beside the road.
Slept on a sack of apples.
He slept in a pay toilet.
In a hayloft.
In the Super Dome.
Slept in a Jaguar, and in the back of a pickup.
Slept in theaters.
In jail.
On boats.
He slept in line shacks and, once, in a castle.
Slept in the rain.
In blistering sun.
On horseback he slept.
He slept in chairs, churches, in fancy hotels.
He slept under strange roofs all his life.
Now he sleeps under the earth.
Sleeps on and on.
Like an old king.

(Published in Ultramarine, in 1986)

Illustration by Irina Perju
behance.net/irinaperju
facebook.com/irina.perju.illustration 
instagram.com/irina.perju



JANUARY

by Charles Simic

Children’s fingerprints
On a frozen window
Of a small schoolhouse.

An empire, I read somewhere,
Maintains itself through
The cruelty of its prisons.

(Published in The Paris Review, Spring 2015)


Illustration by Amina Burloiu
instagram.com/amina.burloiu
facebook.com/minabua



THE TIGER
by Nael, age 6

The tiger
He destroyed his cage
Yes
YES
The tiger is out

(Published in “You Will Be Able to Say a Thousand Words”)

Illustration by Mura
instagram.com/madebymura
facebook.com/madebymura

 


I am most grateful to the girls for jumping in so fast (they only had 2-3 days to squeeze the task in their schedules and send me the illustrations) and I’d be really happy around my belly button if you showed off your love by following their work and sharing this piece with a friend, who knows, maybe you’ll get one of the art prints exhibited at the bookshop (they’ll be up there ready to be catcalled starting tomorrow).

 

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