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Homepage by Cyn

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MALAIKA UWAMAHORO (Performer, 2021).
Malaika is an Artist born in Rwanda, and a Theatre Studies BA graduate from Fordham University in NYC, The acting Track. She was able to attend Fordham as a proud recipient of a Rwandan Presidential Scholarship. Malaika has performed her own poetry on stages around the world, including Forbes Women Africa in Durban South Africa, the United Nations Headquarters in New York, and African Union Summits in Addis Abbaba and Kigali. In 2014, she made her Off-Broadway debut at Signature Theatre in the world premiere of Katori Hall’s Our Lady of Kibeho. Other theatre in the US includes: Dance Africa (BAM), Miracle in Rwanda (Theatre Row, New York), Cartography (New Victory Theatre, New York, NYUAD Abu Dhabi), Bishop (Fordham/Primary Stages, NYC), and Africa’s Hope (USC Bovard Theatre, CA). International theatre: Les Os que Craquent (Theatre de Poche, Belgium.) Film: Notre Dame Du Nil, (Dir. Atiq Rahimi), Loveless Generation, (Dir. Thomas Petkovski), Un Plain Parfait (Dir. Pascal Chaumeil), Shake Hands with the Devil (Dir. Roger Spottiswoode). Best Actress Award at Vues D’afrique Festival International de Cinéma au Montréal, Nominee for Best Solo Performance Audelco VIV Awards 2019, Nominee for Best Actress Golden Orange International Film Awards. BFA 2017

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black skin

Produced by Toni Fielded, Kristin Mueller, Estelle Galloway

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A drowning flame in the void of the deepest oceans, she was never meant to bloom. Dead weight upon arrival, She has always been privy to the carefully and scattered ministrations of her reluctant owner. Not that they had much choice, or perhaps they did, they branded her in their name, attempting to sculpt a bairn in their image. And when they did, sighed at the nonsensical piece they had molded in utter disdain and reverted to cut her up and recycle her as a the rag whose sole purpose was to wipe their blemishes. 

 

And wipe the spills, the mold, the mildew, she did. And as time stretched her limbs, expanded the wisdom in her soul and shed the layers of singed skin, she allowed herself respite from her keepers, placing a world between the branch and its root. And as much as she longed to touch the elusive winds of the sky, and craved the warmth of the merciless sun, the veins clutched at her, like the acrimonious damned spirits in the river styx, reminding her that she has no breath; never would’ve she been allowed to simmer in the sweetness of life without the roots weighing her down. 

 

And reality, duty, and death sobered her up. While her heart beats erratically, changing rhythms, alternating tempos, she is told to follow the monotonous beatings of her sire’s song. So, she expanded in small almost unnoticeable ways. She laughed a little harder, spoke a little louder, ate a little heartier and chose her paths a little more decisively all in an effort to allow small bursts of her fiery spirit out. 

 

While there are those in the tree that ask her to be a little quieter, to be smaller, skinnier, softer like the insides of a rose on a mildewed morning, she fights back quietly, never quite taming her lioness’ mane.

 

And when she occasionally does, she’s alone. Baptizing her body from the scum, the lashes, imprisoned in a cage of her own making. With every tooth that brushes her freed curls, she recounts slighting sightings that broke her spirit and her back. And with every brush comes the roaring, hissing and purring of a woman licking her wounds. Washing the soot, the blood, the dust, the mud and muck from a war torn heart. And once the roaring stops, the wind sows beads of ice in her hair, places its biting hand on the small of her back, on her navel, her nose, reminding her that her story is yet to begin. 

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Lioness

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Flesh Pit

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Present

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Lust

I feel you looming behind me

bare skin creeps with goosebumps

Placing your large hands around my neck squeezing and releasing

Tilting my head back, your lips meet mine

Deep long scratches that send chills to my inner core, squirming till tears run down

Sweet fragrances fill the room with lust and passion, biting my bottom lip as I watch you lower yourself as you melt in between my thighs

Dark eyes mesmerizing me while I tug on your long silky hair

My hands hold on to your strong arms while wanting to call out your name

I take him in

I take him in 

all of him in

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Speyral

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For Kyle

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Banana Fish Christmas Card

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Goddess

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Heron's Head Obelisk

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Elizabeth Hope

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love in times of Corona

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Love in the time of corona
It’s 7 PM and nobody’s clapping anymore
That wave of sound of pot smashing neighbors shouting cheers of uncertainty ceased
What remains is a deep silence a lost MetroCard the girl you forgot to call
Time is felt as an abstraction
We all were too busy to feel too busy to stop, too busy to love, So life passed by and invited us for a stroll It’s 7 PM and nobody’s clapping
We always had had masks it was our secret now it’s revealed for all to see
It’s 7pm and no one is clapping but our fears

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Heredi-scary

Procreate

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Alignment Series

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I Am Not My Mental Illness

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My body is a conch

For the universe to speak through

My heart sings

My voice merely strings

And the sound that you hear

It isn’t real

It’s all just energy

Vibrating

Through the atmosphere

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Mermaid The G.O.D!

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His Father's Castle, His Mother's Glory

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Fivehold Four

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Oil on canvas

11"x14"

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Angie of Salvation Pillows

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As a mother, wife and décor specialist I started Salvation Pillows to be my creative outlet. I have worked for well-established interior design companies and developed an eye for great décor. In my juvenile years I spent many summers with my grandmother in Mexico. I would dance in her house after a Mariachi Festival pretending to be decked out in one of those costumes. Highlighted moments like these inspire my designs. 

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I frequently use Mud Cloth, it's one of the most used fabrics in my collection. Mud Cloth is a cotton fabric originating in Mali. Malians sew together strips of cotton fabric together to make one large piece. Fermented mud is used to etch out patterns on the cotton. After the mud dries the fabric is submerged in a natural dye bath for a few hours. The end result is a beautifully patterned fabric that looks rustic and authentic!

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When I first started my company in 2014 I would save and renew fragments from the past and reconstruct them into cushion covers. My fabric was sourced from second hand donations. Textiles were chosen, dyed, treated and washed to recovery. I still appreciate the beauty in vintage fabrics and will occasionally give textiles a second life. One of the most beautiful pillows I have right now is the Velvet + Linen Pillow, it’s Double sided and a staple. I made it to be an essential layering piece designed for exceptional style and authentic living. I was donated a large amount of this fabric from an Event Company in Industry City. I look for opportunities like these to collect vintage fabric and I will always have renewed fabrics sprinkled in my line.

Salvation Pillows is a destination for a person looking to add unique design. Explore my curated mix of accessories, gifts, and home décor that will reflect your personal style and fuel your passions from fashion to art to entertaining. 

xAngie

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Angela Leslie

Modeled by Tamika

Photography by Dallas Gonzales

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Void

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young heart

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Untouched

She sleeps. Light shines bringing forth the shadows of her sloping mountain ranges. She lies awake in the stillness of a harrowing past, breathing like waves crashing wildly, forever yearning to grasp at land only to fall victim to the fleeting shards of sand banishing it away. 

 

Yet, still she waits for he who is brave enough to conquer her steeping jaggedness, to scale her sharp corners, to drink from her icy babbling brooks nestled in her secret valleys. And as one arrives, exuberant in his challenge to climb this Everest, he is quickly sobered by the frigidness, her refusal to bend to his poignant and capricious desire to walk in a straight easy path to the peace and paradise promised at her peak. 

 

So, at the base they turn away. Looking for the valley to descend, for the lukewarm pond to swim in, for the shortest tree to climb. 

 

The range is left to her own pulchritudinous solemnity. Growing, unencumbered, untouched, unloved. Alone. 

 

She stems, unabated by feeling, surrounded by stillness in an uninhabited Eden. And as the ice on her crust multiplies, the hellish sea in the heart of paradise burns bright red as the ticking fates prepare the bubbling oceans of pure destruction for a climactic raging finale. 

 

She awaits, never knowing why her winds are whispering, why her trees are teetering, why her waters are twinkling. She waits for the shift of when her tragedy will finally play out. She waits for the ash, the fire, and the death of all things living. 

 

For all beautiful things are ephemeral. They all begin, are journeyed upon and must eventually disappear. But she will never know the journey. She will never meet a brave lone traveler. 

 

This however is known to be true. One day, she will die fully and completely, never knowing the adoring tracks and trails of the admirer. And she will disappear, not a word uttered about the rapacious mountain that burnt the world to the ground. 

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Well well well. Here we are. The final digital volume of Quarantitty.

The biggest lesson I learned throughout these nine or so months is that truly anything can be accomplished with heartfelt commitment to the soul of a project. I'm just...so grateful >w>. If you are reading this and aren't an artist who has worked on this project I'll let you in on a little secret~ Quarantitty will be releasing a physical zine in the next few months!!! Just a little piece of tit to hold in your hand. Sickening.

I love all of you artists so much! I've felt so connected to each and every one of you for months and I hope you have mutually felt my love tingles!!!

DON'T THINK I'M NOT GONNA SAY GO DONATE. DONATE YOU HEATHENS. 

See you next on a real life piece of paper!

-Love,

Annasmell

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