Adelaide Literary Magazine No.49, June 2021

OLD PAINT COLORS

by Sheree LaPuma

Old Paint Colors

Before he died, we shared a common history.
The slow unfurling of breath, a womb, two
hands, a tapestry of goodbyes in sepia. A
placenta, grey, buried under the pine-straw

of winter. So many sad things planted. At first,
they were green. Pain, is a garden we are all born
into. We live in the house with the terracotta roof.
You grow like a sycamore in a world that wants to

reduce the density. Little girl, sweet girl, I am afraid
of the red in you. Your trumpeting mouth, that open-
windowed wound that grew from the blue in me.
We stand close, but do not touch, a cloud like coolness.

I hang my heart in the hallway closet. You leave your coat
on the floor. When father is lost to the great emptiness
of summer, the air streaming with jasmine is fat in its
silence. You take down all the framed family photos

but leave the cork board in the sitting room. I find myself
drawn to its two-tone center, an artifact of grief & release.
I want to mourn together. You leave me without words,
searching for color. The ash of day, my last remaining refuge.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

On The Second Anniversary of Your Death

The trauma repeats
There will be words spoken
into the void. Mouths
laden with ritual.
How you are missed. How they cannot
get your scent off the furniture.
I consider the redundancy of betrayal.
The hard truth owned. I taught our girls to love
the emptiness of winter. Not the birds,
Not the sun. Not the heart beating
inside my chest. Not me.
I do not forgive you for dying.
I do not forgive myself.
I have been rejected by everyone
I have ever shared blood with.
The risk of being non-essential, sometimes
I want the world to burn.
God is sitting on the sidelines cheering for
a flood. I have never had a single moment
where I did not hear voices, or believe
that death is the solution
for shame. Like rocks in an avalanche,
I have a powerful desire to dissolve.

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Revista Literária Adelaide
That One Moment Where Life…

Never minded my body much at twelve/breasts/
just enough/Not big/Not flat. I wore the same tee
Mom bought two summers past in Newport/Hang
Ten. I can still picture those gold stitched feet,
unraveling in the wash like life & its unreliable
comfort. There’s that moment when you can
see from what’s coming from every angle. I kennel
my fear behind a smile that has to be trained.
First, the boys. staring, a little too hard below the
neck. Then the girls, with their breath on your back.
Under a dark fuck-you sky, “Sheree is a Bitch”
scrawled on the sidewalk in Sharpie. I throw up,
my middle finger. Anger becomes the new starting
point. Bras, the post war housing. I stare down a
woman summing up my boobs. She is wrangling a
cloth tape like something to be conquered. “You
have nice separation,” she says. I bury my shame
in a cardboard box. Like a bullet stuck in the
chamber, my childhood caught & caged.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine
Poem in Which My Heart Disappears

My youngest, a daughter, takes a gap before
college, Yale. Her father hands me an empty
box. The message is clear, a day after
her 18th birthday he’s reclaiming a blessing,
left behind. How does a man
lost for a decade find his way home?
Beware of outstretched arms, sweeping
in like wind-driven rain.
Do not toast hellos, goodbyes
the fast retreating landscapes. I have seen
steel blades sheathed in blue eyes.
Father is good at slicing up roots.
Like the slap of a screen door at dusk,
grief, still warm to the touch leaves
me weeping into the shadows.

About the Author

Sheree La Puma is an award-winning writer whose personal essays, fiction, and poetry have
appeared in or are forthcoming in The Penn Review, American Journal of Poetry, Redivider,
Women’s Studies Quarterly, SRPR, The Rumpus, Plainsongs, and I-70 Review, among others.
Her poetry was recently nominated for Best of The Net and two Pushcarts. Her micro-
chapbook, ‘The Politics of Love,’ was published in August by Ghost City Press. She has a new
chapbook, ‘Broken: Do Not Use,’ due out with Main Street Rag Publishing. She received an
MFA in Writing from the California Institute of the Arts and taught poetry to former gang
members.

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DOLLHOUSE

by Linda Phillips

Dollhouse that’s why I’m afraid
you were afraid
I saved the dollhouse not of the dollhouse
for you and you knew it but our son’s babies
you knew in your womb
coming in the back door
babies played cheap not worth saving
we bought it off the street that picture now
rich folks’ castaway of babies playing with a dollhouse
by our back door
that’s why we saved it
not for cheap
but for babies
your children
more than one
with our son
the father

that’s why it’s still there
by the back door
not to remind you
but us
the broken promise
of children

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Truth Adelaide Literary Magazine
The Body Count

There in the chair between us Days like today, October Carolina blue days,
sits Truth, stopping in spectacular and muted colors
from marching on—a visit unsolicited. called down from high branches
Sculpted clean by a crystalline source, resemble that September
the visage belies time. New York City blue day
We look away. when no one called ashen bodies down
from shattered, exploding windows
Can this be for real? and that gaping egregious hole.
Beside us sits Truth. Alive. Two, holding hands in free fall
We dare not stare. Dumbfounded, landed on an innocent passer-by.
such moments belong to No one saw it coming.
midnight cockroaches at the flick Now two in adjacent rooms are called
of a switch, cats in a frozen to the end with restricted viewing,
frame before the hiss. added to the body count not even an airplane
driven into a tower could cause,
Momentarily blinded by the luminescence, in a flurry of code blues beyond
arms reach out to touch, fingers a building’s capacity to contain.
beg to do the work of blinded eyes
hungry for chiseled, for dimpled Seventy feet down to bedrock
for fine and full, furrowed, sculpted walls drip from the fight to hold back
craggy or seamed. the Hudson River,
wandering souls mingle with
Truth allows the groping, the stunned alive
palpating a throat for evidence. and up top
Is there air there? two deep pools wash and flush down
the sins of mankind.
Constricted:
a Holy Ghost moment when nothing How will this present death field be marked
registers, everything evaporates. beyond the newscasts, into
Truth marched on. the dimming of days?
Some deep hole to accommodate
astronomical numbers;
some amount of water to wash
away an incurable scourge;
some beckoning to mourn
the desperate quiet lives
that had no alternative,
not even a window.

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House Cleaning Revista Literária Adelaide
How Dare You Bring It Up

I scrub and scrub. I scrub I hated your poem, could not stop
the hell out of the house until the end, when satiated
yes, the hell sick to death with your father’s sadistic wink
cowering in corners how he sets you up like that—you
under the bed, out in the open the innocent child—
between my ears inside my head despicable.
murky and sticky like sludge
noisy as birds at dawn Uncanny
entrenched like soldiers of war the way your feather brush
drenched in mourning and just the right light
hungry for a soul in turmoil capture the glint in my own father’s eye
sickening the air unaware. before his wink
I scrub with lathered tears delivers the message.
to scour and tear and purge
what stinking stench pervades
the heart-rooms and wounds
festered over days and moons
dark nights and dirges
and now I scrub with raw hands
bare to the bone of despair
and there in the mirror
a novel reflection.

About the Author

Linda Vigen Phillips’s poems have appeared in such
places as The Texas Review, The California Quarterly, NC
Poetry Society Award-Winning Poems, Wellspring, and
Windhover, and are forthcoming in The Friends Journal
and Amethyst. She has two published YA novels in verse,
Crazy and Behind These Hands. She lives in Charlotte, NC.

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GASLIGHTING

by Amy Gautschi

Gaslighting SHHH…

Nothing can be found here It’s 5:00 a.m.,
There is no space to grow And my eyes
The walls are moving closer Flutter open.
I don’t know where to go In the dark.
Up is to the left Someone
Except when it’s to the right Has called a meeting.
Outside the sun is shining Ah, yes, of course.
But in here it’s always night It’s Brain.
At least Alice had notes Regret starts reviewing
And a white rabbit to chase All the stupid choices
But I’ve got no map I’ve made in my life.
To get out of this place Body groans and rolls over.
You’ve created a picture Annoyance complains
For others to see About wind
But just under the paint And ice
Is a different version of we And I hate winter.
Your madhouse is shifting Anxiety is worried
Escher’s got nothing on you About money
You’re spinning your web And getting a job
And I’m not getting through And what if I get COVID?
At least Alice had notes Sadness misses
And a white rabbit to chase Family
But I’ve got no map And friends
To get out of this place And hugs.
OCD is wondering if
Double masks will make it
Okay to play sports.
And what about the variants?

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“I’m Wide Awake” by Katy Perry Dissonance
Starts playing.
Body is not amused. I stroll through the woods in the park,
No, no, no — stop! Delighting in the soft pine
Stomach is thinking needles beneath my feet
About getting a snack And the quiet of the trees,
Since this meeting doesn’t Accompanied by gentle notes
Seem to be ending Played by sparrows and warblers,
Any time soon. In peace.
Body sighs. 317 miles away, a Black man--
Nerd remembers A philanthropist and bird lover--
That if you take a deep breath Sits in a park, watching the birds
And hold it for 20 seconds, In the trees and taking in their bountiful songs
It resets your amygdala And inherent beauty.
And calmness But his peace is painfully interrupted
Takes over. By a force of whiteness that
Body says “Let’s do this” sees him as a threat,
And shuts down Not a person with dignity.
The meeting. Mosquitos interrupt my reverie,
Body stretches out Attacking me and driving me out
And settles in. Of the woods.
Breathing slows. I run for the sanctuary
Body drifts off. Of the fields underneath
And Brain The embrace of an azure sky
Takes its agenda to Dappled with tufts of cotton.
Dreamland. I breathe in the fresh air.
Peace is found so effortlessly.
1,197 miles away,
A Black man,
Who used his skills and athletic prowess
To play football in college,
Goes for a run
Under the embrace of an azure sky
Dappled with tufts of cotton.
He breathes in the fresh air and exhales.
But his reverie is interrupted
By a storm of hatred in the form
Of white men
Who hunt him down, striking him with bullets
That stop his breathing forever.
There is no peace.

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Adelaide Literary Magazine

I delight in the light breeze That leaves her bleeding out
Tickling the hair on my arms On the floor,
And offering scents of honeysuckle Never to get back up.
And freshly mowed grass There is no peace,
As I head home. No quiet,
I do a little happy dance, No sanctuary,
Grateful for summer. Until there is peace,
Quiet,
2,080 miles away, And sanctuary
A Black man, For everyone.
Who loves animals, For hundreds of years,
Is dancing on his way home, America let things fester.
Listening to music So many of us went about our lives.
Through his ear buds We were complicit.
And thinking about what he will play It was always there,
On his violin when he gets back. Just beneath our consciousness.
But his reverie is shattered But now, we can’t unsee it.
When police descend upon him, And we cannot rest until all have peace.
Summoned by white fear,
And put him in a chokehold
For being different.
For being “suspicious.”
Two days later, he is gone.
There is no peace.
Later that night, I collapse into a soft bed
And drift off,
Listening to the peepers and crickets
Just outside our window,
And the gentle breathing of my husband
Beside me.
The house is silent,
And we are at peace.
1,075 miles away,
A Black woman,
Who saves lives
Without questioning
Their value,
Is sleeping soundly
Next to her love
When police burst in,
And there is an explosion
Of gunfire

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Peepers Revista Literária Adelaide
The Gift

“The peepers are here!” Someone painted the sky
I exclaim to the night, With raspberry juice and pumpkin purée,
Drawing on the wonder and awe Watermelon, peach fuzz,
From the year I was five. And orange creamsicles from Mom.

Why do their cherubic chants And they gently decorated every tree and bush
Compel me to sprint outside With generous tufts of cotton
Like I’ve heard the first call And tucked in the Earth with a blanket of down.
Of an ice cream truck? And they waited.
Why am I dancing on the lawn
Like a barefoot nymph? So stunning was this surprise
Because the peepers always come home When the birds awoke
And they never lie That they held their songs inside
About the coming of spring To contemplate the moment.
Although it may seem far beyond reach.
And the people stumbling out of their homes,
The peepers can see it Bleary-eyed and expecting another
Through the torrents of rain, day of toil and drudgery,
The errant snow squalls, Stopped to stare,
And the windblown sleet. Despite the thermometer’s
glaring report of five below.
They know it will still come
Despite a lockdown and social distancing, And some of them recalled
And handwashing until your hands bleed, That beauty and hope
And a virus that scares the world to death Are still alive,
As are we.
Spring isn’t canceled because of those things,
And neither are the flowers, the trees, Despite rampant storms of rage and hatred
Or the peepers, Fed by fear,
Who sing the earth to sleep each night. Roaming seemingly unchecked,
They saw beauty and hope.

Sharing the same dawn,
They remembered
That light is behind the darkness,
If you pause to look.

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About the Author

Amy Gautschi: I’m a new poet and have not published anything as of yet. My day job consists
of writing and editing for businesses and nonprofits. I’m also a songwriter, and I’ve written a
few nonfiction articles here and there. I live in the beautiful state of Maine in the U.S.

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VESPERS UPDATE

by Don Thompson

Vespers Update January 31st

In this season, the sun sets 1.
like an afterthought, its light The sun through an
already non-luminous. oily pond water smear
of its own light,
The hills mostly murk almost too dim to see by.
with some leftover mauve
that’s gone flat. 2.
Winter but not cold
But Venus burns a hole enough to convince—
in the West, intense stagnant air only
and more adamant than ever. a few degrees below tepid.

3.
Icebound up north,
tropics stunned by heat:
we’re neither nor,
lackluster, in-between.

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Sunday Afternoon Adelaide Literary Magazine
Mid-February

Cumulus out of Constable No remnant sheen on the doves.
loiter to the north, The land’s flat affect
left behind by a storm. of grays, gray-brown, and browns
isn’t even morose.
Calm now.
Non-evocative, except for
Pools of rainwater that sunlit, aluminum shed—
like cloudscapes a glare so distant
abandoned, unfinished, the eye reads it as white;
by weekend artists
who had to get back to work. and across the road,
an onion field, already sprouted—
green so vibrant
you have to look away.

About the Author

Don Thompson has been writing about the San Joaquin
Valley for over fifty years, including a dozen or so books
and chapbooks. For more info and links to publishers, visit
his website at www.don-e-thompson.com.

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AT FAULT

by Cheryl Heineman

Birding

They are raven-like, dark-winged
moving toward a tangled nest
or like crows circling
seeking their own kind
against a fog-ivory sky, the outline

is interleaved with comings
and  goings

birds-eye cries
flybys
of brush-wings

odors  from mud
hush-hush

swigs
of

frenzied red

but now, as I stop and sit, it becomes
light-blue sprigs nuzzling
rough-edged gaps
amid the white silence

and I see

the birds are skylarks

making merry

in the painting
and beyond
the framework

where joy flies on

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At Fault Adelaide Literary Magazine
Wanted

The shot was clean, right through the eye, Wild with spring tenderness,
the officer said, grabbing the fawn’s hind legs, the woods are blooming with flowers,
but invasive species are on notice.
and gesturing like an Olympic disc thrower,
he picked it up, and turning, flung it Long ago, someone named these foreigners:
Daucus Carota,
into the woods’ overgrown weeds. Queen Anne’s Lace, wild carrot,
Its body still twitching, I watched delicious contraceptive sautéed in garlic.

from afar the undignified tossing of a life, Lymus arenarius,
ended randomly, by a passerby’s car. sand-loving lyme grass, so prized
by basket weavers, pickers
Its spotted coat sputtered and quivered earned jail time in 17th century Scotland.
in the scrubbed sun’s light.
Alliaria petiolate,
I cannot imagine anything worse─ garlic mustard, poor man’s nutrition,
cradling my own child’s bloody head. richer than kale and spinach. It is
a problem. They say
I trusted you, his eyes would say.
we will be overrun
Usually, the deer come out at dusk. by baby’s breath, gypsophila paniculata,
I should have seen it coming. Its mother, the tiny, cloud-like blooms on Christmas trees.

not me, should have stroked its head, Be afraid. These plants play dirty.
should have been there, should have If we eradicate these invaders
maybe hate will disappear as well.
taught her child to leap higher, should have
known how to divine the crossing over.

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Garage Sale Rooster Revista Literária Adelaide
Gideon’s Bible

Because of rust, what you overlooked, I was told to check into a Chicago motel,
you paused for its bent rebar feet, just off a busy freeway, alone.
marred beak, and yellow A man named Rudy would come.
head topped by a crimson comb, It would cost three months’ rent.
for its wattles dangling A woman tells the story on the radio
over an Iowa green body, about her abortion forty years ago.
paint fading. Rudy showed up in a crumpled brown suit
Because your once bright, not with a paper bag in his hand.
leathered, arms carried grain
with innocent hands, you fed them, Maybe there shouldn’t have
the chickens, your simple mission for the day. been Gideon’s Bible
Then you saw one dragged. Then. in the drawer next to the bed when I woke
It was cruel, the head chopped in bloody sheets, the man gone.
bloody, feathered-black Maybe it wasn’t the time for insistence
the body flopped on, without a head, of life, as I rode the train back home
sight spurting past spring’s curled gardens bursting
from its veins, the noonday sky with so much lily of the valley.
red-fired with sharp streaks, slack, sudden.
. In the kitchen, a waiting
pot boiled on an old stove.
It had its own distress, that old pot.
Into the heat, the salt
the onions, the butter,
the body, finally quiet, fell
for supper, for you
on the farm who ate, because,
because you could not resist.

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THREE DAYS

by Peggy Hammond

Three Days Tsunami

An oak we planted Wishing a moment alone,
leans precariously the sea releases
into areas not its own. its grip on the shore.
One at a time,
An expert arrives, long fingers indulgent
advises removal. with starfish rings
Clinical, he ticks off the steps. lift, let go, recede.
Limbs shorn, trunk
cut into sections, hauled down, Fish, draped in oranges,
and if I desire, the stump taken, blues and yellows,
leaving a depression withdraw to
which time will mend. quiet corners.

We decide. Three days from now. They know.

That night Moody silence deafens my ears.
I observe the oak, Unschooled dirt dweller, I stand
knowing it absorbed our plan entranced by sand uncovered,
the way roots indecent, blushing its remorse
take in groundwater.
while kelp ladies jostle,
Even now lean into the pull,
its leaves seem to droop, green hair streaming,
its demise a certainty, toes curling for purchase.
no power of its own.
When the sea rushes forward,
I break for air, and
listen for love
in the sea’s jealous roar.

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Revista Literária Adelaide
Husk The Fall

A fool’s finger slipped Through static
our wheel from its cog, on the line
come words
and clockwork smooth life of repentance
shouted to a stop. but there is no
confessor here.
Summer air witnessed my plunge
into midnight mumblings. And yet,
hope rises from me,
Now, without you, thick as smoke
I harvest a son’s tears, from a thurible,
perfumed,
rid pantry shelves heady,
of small hopes gone sour. intoxicating.

Outside, cicadas chorus incessantly.
One by one, backs split

and they emerge,
tender and new.

Inside, my own husk
pinches and binds,

my own song
rises and merges.

About the Author

Peggy Hammond’s poetry appears or is forthcoming in
High Shelf Press, San Antonio Review, Inklette, West Trade
Review, Rogue Agent, Ginosko Literary Journal, Trouvaille
Review, Amethyst Review, Two Thirds North, Cordella, and
other journals. Her full-length play A Little Bit of Destiny
was produced by OdysseyStage Theatre in Durham, NC.

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INTERVIEWS



JULIE REED

The Winner of
the Second Annual Adelaide Books

Children’s Book Award

1.  Tell you a bit about myself – something not found in an official
author’s bio. Do I have any unusual creative habits?

The character Stella, of Stella’s Umbrellas originated when trying to keep my daughter, Stella,
for whom the character is based, occupied during my older daughter’s soccer game. Fair
skinned and red-faced from the heat, Stella and I decided to walk to the car to get an um-
brella to provide some shade. She loved writing stories at the time, so I suggested she write
a story about a little girl who owned magical umbrellas. I do my best creative thinking when
walking my dogs in nature and oddly, when folding laundry. I think tackling mindless chores
without any interruption allows for a creative flow to emerge. I also write songs in my sleep.
One of these days I’ll remember to place a notebook by the nightstand to help me remember
them in the morning.

2. What was my first story (article, essay or poem) and when did I write it?
When I was a young teen I used to write poetry for my grandmother. She and I were very
close, and in lieu of a birthday card or thank you note I would share a poem to express my
thoughts and feelings. Occasionally, I still enjoy presenting a gift to a friend or family mem-
ber accompanied with a poem.

3. What am I working on right now?
I am always concocting future adventures for Stella to discover.

4. W hat do I deem the most relevant about my work? What
is the most important to be remembered?

With respect to Stella’s Umbrellas, I love her character’s authenticity. She really marches
to her own beat and does so by making her little world a better place each day. Ultimately,

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Adelaide Literary Magazine
I intended my story to show how important it is to be kind and how much our words can
positively affect people.
5. What authors and books have influenced my writings?
As a child and as a parent reading to my children I have always been drawn to rhyming chil-
dren’s books. I still have my original copy of The Giant Jam Sandwich, story and pictures by
John Vernon Lord with verses by Janet Burroway. Thanks, mom, for reading it to me a billion
times! I also adore Priscilla and the Splish-Splash Surprise. I love Nathaniel Hobbie’s creative
word usage. Jocelyn Hobbie’s illustrations transport me to a happy place where there is al-
ways a silver lining.

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LAZARO MARIANO
PEREZ

Shortlist Winner Nominee of
the Second Annual Adelaide Books

Children’s Book Award

1.  Tell us a bit about yourself – something that we will not find in the
official author’s bio. Do you have any unusual creative habits?

I rarely write anything without coming up with the tittle first. Most of my ideas come from
the tittles and the tittles come from everywhere, the lyrics of a song, the verse of a poem, a
dream, a videogame, or even a folktale. Sometimes I’ll think of an interesting concept like
“What if there was a sketchbook that brought things to life”, but don’t have a story to go with
it until much later, so I just have this post-it note on my phone full of random ideas and seeds
of stories that have yet to manifest themselves. Occasionally I’ll write a story in Spanish first
and then translate it. The process helps me find unique metaphors and word phrasing that I
feel give my writing a different flavor and texture.

2.  Do you remember what was your first story
(article, essay, or poem) about and when did you write it?

My first story called “Omi” revolved around an African warrior on a mission to save the chief-
tain’s daughter. I wrote it around 2010 for a Creative Writing class in college and I fell in love
with writing fiction ever since. I had always liked telling stories and writing poems as a teen,
but I’d never written any fiction longer than two pages until “Omi”.

3. What are you working on right now?
I’m currently working on an epic fantasy/sci-fi (and a dash of horror) novel called “The Gift
of Water”. The story focuses on four teenaged characters as they each play a vital role in the
struggles of three kingdoms over the most valuable treasure in the world of Solara, water.

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4.  What do you deem the most relevant about your work?
What is the most important to be remembered?

I’ve often felt stuck between two worlds on many aspects of my life. I’m a mixed child, so
growing up I always felt like I had to choose between being “white” or “black” in order to
be perceived as one of them, but never both. Same goes for language and culture, I know
English and Spanish, but my family only knows Spanish, so there’s a lot of my current life I
don’t get to share with them. The list goes on. I think the tensions of being from two prover-
bial worlds as well as growing up in a period of extreme poverty in Cuba always comes up in
my writing. I often explore themes of identity, isolation, injustice, courage, family love and
endurance despite incredible hardships.

5. Authors and books that have influenced your writings?
The first book I ever read (for fun) was Emilio Salgari’s “The Black Corsair”. I was ten at the
time and was immediately pulled into this world of adventure, pirates, and swordfights. I
loved it so much I read the rest of the series and never stopped reading after that. I draw
a lot of inspiration from Chinua Achebe, George R.R Martin, H.P Lovecraft, Edgar Allan Poe,
Andrew Sapkowski, and folktales from every culture. Some of my favorite books are “Things
Fall Apart, The Last Wish, A Song of Ice and Fire, The Famished Road, and The Old Man and
the Sea”. Norberto Fuentes’ “Condenados de Condado” and my grandfather’s accounts of
what he saw during the early 60s (the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Bay of Pigs Invasion, and the
Cuban Civil War) inspired me to turn a short story I had been working on called “Abiku” into
a fullfledged novel. It became “Facing the Sun” which I finished and published last year. I
aimed to tackle themes of manhood, love, violence, and maturation through the eyes of an
11-yearold Cuban boy and a splash of magical realism. This story has a special place in my
heart as I was born and raised in Cuba for more than half my life.

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MARIANNE SONG

Shortlist Winner Nominee of
the Second Annual Adelaide Books

Children’s Book Award

1. T ell us a bit about yourself – something that we will not find in the
official illustrator’s bio. Do you have any unusual habits?

One of my key creative habits is reading newspapers and magazines every morning in pursuit
of artistic freedom. I find The New York Times especially inspiring, and I enjoy reinterpreting
its photos and cartoons based on my own memories. I allow the vague montages of the
narrated aesthetic images to continuously roll through my mind while I match each clipped
picture with my fragmented memory. Then, I begin storying my response to the inspirational
image associations with colors. Every drawing is bordered with the nostalgia of my search
for the innocence and purity of childhood. The colors are an essential part of the process to
fill the inner emptiness arising from the unbridgeable chasm between my desire and reality.

My talent does not lie in depicting realism. For example, in elementary school I had to de-
vise a way to draw roses by showing several layers of petals. Later, I applied geometric shapes,
specifically triangles, to my Rose Garden piece. Since then, I have focused on creating abstract
paintings that reflect my stormy emotions.

2. Do you remember what was your first work about and when did you create it?
From 2008 to 2010, I was a commercial real estate agent dealing with Korean clients in
Shanghai. My own vanity endlessly conflicted with my authentic self. The reckless pursuit of
wealth and happiness turned out to be a blindfold. The self-conceit lay in my social position,
which was attached to working for a Fortune 500 company and various Korean conglomer-
ates. The exploration of my deep sense of alienation from my career sparked an artistic fire
so intense that I purchased a canvas and oil paint to escape reality.

I found myself absorbed in painting a girl sleeping in rose bushes and basking in the eve-
ning sunset. The girl seemed so happy and innocent, free of any expectations and responsi-
bilities, as the blue sky turned violet-red and the rose blooms burst open with wild abandon.
I realized that my avarice had imprisoned my true self in an unsatisfying and meaningless

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job. My rebellious artistic spirit clashed with the persona steeped in servitude that I was
forced to adopt when working with clients. I was wandering and lost, confused about my life
purpose, unsatisfied with the rewards I reaped, and humiliated at having to prostrate myself
before my clients and bosses. While painting my geometric-patterned roses on canvas, I
prayed to God to guide me to my place in the world, where my talents fit perfectly.

3. What are you working on right now?

Currently, I am writing a historical and biographic non-fiction with a focus on feminism, titled
The Portrait of a Witch. The protagonist is Na Hye-seok, a South Korean artist who pursued
self-love in her painting and writing. Her bohemian, care-free intellectuality and narcissism
not only liberated her from a patriarchal and Confucianism-oriented society but distorted her
reputation like that of a witch. After being forcibly divorced because of a love affair, she lost
all of her social positions and was treated as a pariah. Her intense and stormy life was remi-
niscent of a witch hunt, during which women would be persecuted for their belief. Likewise,
her soulful message for women’s self-actualization must have been cast in tears and pain. I’d
like to reintegrate her desires as her own and our identity hidden behind our cerebral oppres-
sion with writing and painting. I believe that her intense and wild life would match the ide-
als Post-Impressionists pursued. The spontaneity, wildness, and primary colors in her works
are representative of her identity as an artist and feminist. I hope that my abstract painting,
which reflects more of the Fauvism style, will bring her unfettered emotions to full blossom.

4. What do you deem the most relevant about your work?

What is the most important to be remembered? Self-love is the theme that rings true in
my works. Humans are born with self-love or an authentic self whereby life is directed as
wished. However, as acceptance by others is a prerequisite for survival in society, a mask is
often lacquered upon the innocent and pure faces of ours. In other words, being honest with
our feelings is the first step toward self-love. To an artist, the work itself is him or her, since
creating art can be deemed a form of self-confession. The resoluteness, fearlessness, and
authenticity in an artist ironically lay vulnerabilities out in the open without being conscious
of others’ reactions, and that pathos could reach deep enough to awake the souls of readers
or audiences. I am still struggling to bridge the gap between my superficiality and true self
while engaging in creative activities like writing and painting.

5. Artists that have influenced your work.

Feminism is the primary pillar that sustains my artwork. The female artists before me are my
source of artistic inspiration. Their emotional resilience felt through their works lifted me up
spiritually when I was lost in depression and my identities felt disintegrated. One of these fe-
male artists was Chun Kyung-ja, a Korean painter. The main theme of her works is a woman with
a wreath of flowers, painted with bright colors as if she is living in paradise free of worry and
depression. However, her truth is well expressed in her eyes, which are wide open as if she is
helpless. The melancholic mood enunciates her disappointment toward society in which wom-
en toil endlessly. Her artistic struggle must have caused a social friction. The paradoxical effect of
depicting sadness with vibrant colors makes the artist’s work so humane and reachable.

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177

ELTON D’SOUSA

The Winner of
the Second Annual Adelaide Books
Children’s Book Illustration Award

1.  Tell us a bit about yourself – something that we will not find in the
official illustrator’s bio. Do you have any unusual creative habits?

I don’t think so... I play a lot of Super Smash Bros. Melee (a 20 year old video game) which I
feel is a very creative inducing game.

2. Do you remember what was your first work about and when did you create it?
Probably redrawing the artwork on pokemon cards onto A4 paper. This was when I was around
4 or 5 years old.

3. What are you working on right now?
• A 3 minute and 30 seconds animation short film for a musician’s song titled “Fran
- Scarlett Ruins”
• Another animation, “The Ice Crystal : Chapter 5” (The first 4 chapters can be viewed
here- https://www.youtube.com/studioskiesandwater )
• A comic titled “Heart of the Maze” featuring collaboration with my friends- @to-
binkusuma @bonjourmarielle @ahmadhasanx @kaiju_komics ,
• An illustration titled, “Terrace Art House”.
• An illustration that is fan-art of the movie Princess Mononoke.
• A store located in my city called Artist Alley Collective which focuses on representing,
celebrating & selling the products of Illustrators, Comic artists, Animators & Fan-Art,
including fashion, sculptures/3-Dimensional art, pottery, Japanese aesthetic prod-
ucts, and potentially other goods and possibly foods such as matcha cookies.

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4. W hat do you deem the most relevant about your work?

What is the most important to be remembered?
The most relevant about my work is how it connects to people and also entertains them. I
like for people including myself to get lost in the artwork and perhaps discover new content
in it with repeated viewings. Capturing people with their first glance is important, but so is
their second glance and third glance and so on, and perhaps even standing the test of time.

The story is often all that matters, but also motivation is key. Finishing what you start is im-
portant too, otherwise you shouldn’t have started it; but starting is also super important even
if you haven’t planned it out 100%. Aiming to impress/entertain should also be considered.
5. Artists that have influenced your work?
My inspirations include: Hayao Miyazaki (Studio Ghibli), Kim Jung Gi (SuperAni), James Cam-
eron, Marvel Entertainment, science, fantasy, adventure, real world issues and their solutions.

Sneak Peak of
“Terrace Art House”
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Sneak Peak of “Princess Mononoke Fan-Art”
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181

TAMMY BOHLENS

Shortlist Winner Nominee of
the Second Annual Adelaide Books
Children’s Book Illustration Award

1.  Tell us a bit about yourself – something that we will not find in the
official illustrator’s bio. Do you have any unusual creative habits?

My work process includes drinking a lot of hot chocolate or tea and listening to podcasts
throughout the day. I always start my mornings with at least one hour of sketching. It helps
me to loosen my mind, get my ideas out and to warm up. Working in a calming space is really
important for me. My studio is decorated with lights, art of my favorite illustrators, clay dolls,
old book pages, maps and other collectables that inspire me.

2. Do you remember what was your first work about and when did you create it?
I always was a creative person. I found freedom in sculpting, writing, photography and paint-
ing, but my day jobs never had anything to do with art. Creating was just an outlet for me.
In 2016, I heard about the university for illustration (HAW Hamburg) in my hometown and
started taking drawing a lot more serious. My first illustration works were urban sketches,
fictional portraits and a lot of life drawing studies that I did for the university‘s qualifying
examination.

3. What are you working on right now?
Right now, I focus on finishing my first picture book. I also have a lot of fun working on an
exciting collaborative project with my friends from the wonderful Eiyia collective in the UK.

4.  What do you deem the most relevant about your work?
What is the most important to be remembered?

I put a lot of time into creating my weird characters. I want them to be relatable and to be
heavily influenced by our world, but they should still look strange and like they could be
from another realm. I always imagine that you may find these creatures in your backyard, or

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in your attic, in your closet, hiding in the drawer of socks... if you just look closely enough.
Creating a world full of stories, mysteries and whimsical atmospheres, that will take people‘s
minds somewhere else and give them a little break from the real struggles they may have, is
very imporant to me.
5. Artists that have influenced your work?
My art was heavily influenced by the classical book illustrations I found in my grandmothers
old fairytale books. I also admire the work of J.J. Grandville very much. Especially his collec-
tion “Public and Private Life of Animals” inspired me a lot. Walter Moers‘ illustrations for his
Zamonia books also hold a special place in my heart.

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JOANA MARINHO

Shortlist Winner Nominee of
the Second Annual Adelaide Books
Children’s Book Illustration Award

1. T ell us a bit about yourself – something that we will not find in the
official illustrator’s bio. Do you have any unusual creative habits?

I was born on 11th July 1999 in Porto, the second largest metropolis in Portugal, located
in the north of the country, where I still currently live with my parents and my younger
brother.

I can say, without any doubt, that my predilection for illustration started when I complet-
ed my first year of life. By that time, my godmother had sent me a package that contained
my first birthday card, with an emotive letter, and my first VHS tape, Fantasia 2000.

I was immediately fascinated by the animation, full of colors, music, and characters, and
from that day on, I followed all the films of the animation studios of Walt Disney, Pixar,
DreamWorks and, soon after, Ghibli. Shortly afterwards, given my fascination with anima-
tions, my parents offered me my second VHS tape, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, and,
from there, I started my huge collection of tapes, which I still cherish today.

Over the years, in addition to deepening my passion for animations and classical music,
present in most of them, I started trying to imitate the illustrations of the films in my note-
books. When I was four years old, my godfather, appreciating my taste in painting, offered
me my first set of gouaches, which for a long time I took with me anywhere. Preserving the
same taste, at the age of eleven I received my first set of acrylic paint from Winsor & Newton,
offered by my parents, with two canvases, so that I could continue to explore the fine arts.
Shortly afterwards, at the age of twelve, I painted my first canvas, which represented a small
island with a lighthouse. Since that work I have been learning new techniques of illustration,
both with acrylic paint and with pencils or other painting materials.

However, aiming to be a teacher of Portuguese and English, and never forgetting liter-
ature, which, alongside illustration and music, has always been one of my three greatest
passions, I decided to focus on school and university studies and consider illustration as

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just a hobby. However, in the beginning of 2020, with the arrival of the pandemic, finding
myself with a lot of free time, I found in the illustration my old therapy, which makes me,
even today, forget the obstacles of everyday life and enter a different world. In this sense,
I decided, at the beginning of February 2020, inspired by one of the most remarkable
Studio Ghibli films of my life ‒ Kiki’s Delivery Service, directed in 1989 by Hayao Miyazaki
‒ to start this illustration, done in acrylic paint, which I finished at the beginning of April.
Preserving the same passion, I intend to develop new illustration techniques and do more
work.

As for my creative habits, which are, for the most part, quite common, I must say that I
prefer to paint anywhere that has direct natural light. Therefore, I prefer to work in spring
and summer, since I can illustrate outdoors and have more intense sunlight for longer. In
addition, whenever I illustrate, I listen to music, preferring the classic genre, and soundtracks
from animated films and fantasies, with composers like Joe Hisaishi, Alexandre Desplat, and
Danny Elfman. I also appreciate the jazz genre, admiring artists such as the Portuguese mu-
sician Salvador Sobral, winner of the Eurovision Song Contest 2017, and, in other musical
genres, the Portuguese musicians Miguel Araújo and António Zambujo.

2.  Do you remember what was your first work
about and when did you create it?

My first memories, from the times I attended kindergarten, are full of drawings and illus-
trations that I made and, even before those memories, my family remembers that I always
loved fine arts. However, my first serious work, made with acrylic paint, was a small canvas,
which I painted at the age of twelve on a small island with a lighthouse.

3. What are you working on right now?

I am currently attending the last semester of the degree in Languages, Literatures and Cul-
tures, at the Faculty of Arts of the University of Porto, in Portugal, and I intend to access,
next year, the master’s degree in Education of Portuguese and English at the same faculty.
Consequently, the illustration continues to be a hobby, and I dedicate less time to it than I
would like. However, even though I am not studying or working, professionally, in the field
of illustration, I continue to develop my artistic works. Right now, as for the visual arts, I am
starting a new illustration, also inspired by another film by Studio Ghibli that left a deep
influence on me, Spirited Away.

4. W hat do you deem the most relevant about your work?
What is the most important to be remembered?

For me, the most relevant aspect of this illustration, as well as the others I do, is the fact that,
simultaneously, painting is the most therapeutic activity I have, and that the result leaves
me fully realized. In addition, this illustration is deeply symbolic, as this was the first Studio
Ghibli film with which I had contact, and because I see myself completely in the protagonist,
both in terms of her personality and her path.

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5. Artists that have influenced your work?

The artist who most influenced this work and many of my others was, of course, Hayao
Miyazaki, given that this canvas corresponds to my interpretation of one of the opening
scenes of his 1989 Japanese animated film, Kiki’s Delivery Service.

However, among my other artistic influences are Johanna Basford, who influenced my
taste for country and floral illustrations, and the illustrations of Animation Studios such as
Walt Disney, Pixar and Ghibli.

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