Concrete: Paintings and Sculptures

By Mario Loprete

Artist Mario Loprete has been inspired recently to work with concrete, both as a canvas for his paintings and as a transformative material for creating sculptural objects.

The reinforced cement, the concrete, was created two thousand years ago by the Romans. It has a millenia-old story, made of amphitheatres, bridges and roads that have conquered the ancient and modern world. Now it’s a synonym of modernity. Everywhere you go and you find a concrete wall, there’s the modern man in there. From Sidney to Vancouver, from Oslo to Pretoria, the reinforced cement is present and consequently the support where the “writers” can express themselves is present. The successive passage was obvious for me. If man brought art on the streets in order to make it accessible to everyone, why not bring the urban in galleries and museums?

For my Concrete Sculptures I use my personal clothing.

Throughout some artistic processes, in which I use plaster, resin and cement, I transform them in artworks to hang.

My memory, my DNA, my memories remain concreted inside, transforming the person that looks at the artworks into a type of post-modern archeologist that studies my work as if they were urban artifacts.

Mario Loprete ,Catanzaro 1968 is a graduate of the Accademia of Belle Arti , Catanzaro (ITALY). Painting for him is the first love. An important, pure love. Creating a painting, starting from the spasmodic research of a concept with which he wants to send a message to transmit his message, it’s the base of his painting. The sculpture is his lover, the artistic betrayal to the painting. That voluptuous and sensual lover that gives him different emotions, that touches prohibited cords.
More of his work can be found on and on

Book Review: The Butterfly Girl

By Laurie Rockenbeck

The Butterfly Girl, Rene Denfeld’s second offering in her Naomi Cottle series, explores what it is to be lost versus invisible in a gritty thriller set in Portland’s Skid Row. Denfeld does a masterful job creating a compelling narrative by alternating views between two main characters—Naomi and Celia.

Naomi Cottle was once a lost child, and her work as a private investigator is focused on finding other children. She comes to Portland to search for her sister and has vowed not to take on any other cases until she finds her.

Celia is a twelve-year-old girl who has run from an abusive home.  It is through Celia’s eyes that Denfeld shows the starkest separation of the two worlds in which these characters live. Naomi is part of what Celia thinks of as day people as opposed to those who live and die on Skid Row. When Celia first encounters Naomi, it is with the same suspicion and loathing she holds for all day people:

The woman clearly did not belong here, not in these days of sea creatures washed up onshore. What happened in the night was meant to stay secret–like what had happened with her step-dad, Teddy. Celia had made the mistake of telling. She had found out that the people of the day don’t want to know what happened in the night.

Denfeld does not shy away from the devastating realities of children living on the street.  Yet, she does so in subtle, heartbreaking prose.

Celia had been in the free clinic before. That had been for an STD check. Celia didn’t want to get pregnant or get STDs. She was worried about her period starting because then it would mean she could have a baby, and she already had one–her sister. She had told the doctor all this while filling her pockets with the free condoms, not understanding why his face looked so sad. Day People.

Interestingly, Celia’s life is not entirely bereft of kindness or community. While Celia struggles to find food and a place to sleep at night, she is not alone. Other teens gather in groups, almost like packs for security. During a terrifying encounter, Celia pees her pants. A friend brings her a new pair from the Goodwill bin.

Night had fallen and in the dark he and the other street kids circled Celia so the men in the cars would not see her change. They covered her with their bodies while she stripped and put on the new pants Rich had found. They sang silly songs to her to make her feel better.

Naomi initially sees Celia as a source, someone who might have information she can use to find her sister. She is almost blind to the dangers posed to Celia on a daily basis. In fact, Naomi’s focus on finding her sister makes her incapable of acknowledging the people living, and dying, right in front of her. Naomi acknowledges the multiple murders of young girls and teens, but as each is dead girl is found along the river, she uses her sister as an excuse not to get involved.

When Celia learns Naomi is searching for her younger sister, Celia begins to see Naomi as something more than just another day person. They are both big sisters trying to help their younger sisters. Naomi’s is being held somewhere; Celia’s is living at home with an abusive stepfather.

Naomi’s resolve to distance herself from the current crisis in Portland begins to dissolve when she finally “sees” Celia.

Celia was sitting outside Sisters of Mercy, scratching the bloody bandage around her leg. She had rolled up her jeans so anyone walking by could see the bandage, the blood. She knew what she was doing. She was trying to get attention. See, she wanted to say, I am hurt. Someone care.

But no one did. They walked on by, not even looking at her.

Except for Naomi.

Passages like this are achingly poignant. It is impossible not to recognize the “day person” inside while watching Celia navigate her world. How many people like Celia have we passed on the street?

Once Celia has entered Naomi’s consciousness, Naomi slowly works her way into investigating the murdered girls. That is to say, for the first two-thirds of the book, Denfeld makes sure we know the characters thoroughly. We care about them deeply before the author throws them into mortal peril. The constant foreshadowing keeps us on edge. The more we get to know Celia and Naomi, the more we worry. This slow buildup makes the final third of this book a nail-biting, page-turning thriller.

This story picks up a year after the events of Denfeld’s first novel, The Child Finder. While the stories can be read as stand-alone novels, do yourself a favor and read The Child Finder followed by this one. You will not be disappointed.

Laurie Rockenbeck was raised a Navy brat and moved around a lot as a kid. She lives near Seattle with her family, two cats and a dwindling number of chickens. She graduated with a degree in journalism and quickly learned that writing fiction was a lot more fun. With a grandmother who started every story with: this is a true lie… there is no doubt that story-telling and exaggeration are part of her genetic make-up. Rockenbeck has her private investigation license but prefers writing about made up cases over investigating real ones. Her mystery series features Seattle Police Department’s only trans male homicide detective and a pro-dominatrix turned PI. She is pursuing her MFA in Fiction at UC Riverside’s Palm Desert Campus.

TCR Talks with Helen Macdonald

By Kaia Gallagher

Hailed as one of the fifty best memoirs in the past fifty years by The New York Times [1], H is for Hawk catapulted Helen Macdonald to fame as a prize-winning author. Trained as a naturalist, Macdonald is a writer, poet, illustrator, filmmaker, and an Affiliate Research Scholar at the University of Cambridge Department of History and Philosophy of Science. In her best-selling memoir, Macdonald combines the eye of a scientist with the lyricism of a gifted writer as she recounts how she overcame her grief over the death of her father by training a goshawk she named Mabel.

After H is for Hawk won the 2014 Samuel Johnson Prize for nonfiction, Macdonald helped make the film 10 X Murmuration with Sarah Wood. In 2017, she narrated a BBC Natural World documentary which followed her as she trained a goshawk named Lupin. A passionate environmentalist and bird enthusiast, Macdonald is currently researching a new book on albatrosses. In this interview, she describes her writing process and her views regarding falconry, environmentalism, and the importance of maintaining a connection to the natural world around us.

The Coachella Review: In H is for Hawk, you have a gift for bringing your goshawk Mabel alive by capturing her instincts, her moods, and the bond you shared with her. As a writer, what techniques did you use to be able to view the world through a hawk’s eyes?

Helen Macdonald: I tried to capture, as well as I could, what it might like to be a creature with astonishing visual acuity and a nervous, predatory disposition: there’s no way we can really know what the world is like for a hawk, but my grief-spurred identification with Mabel that year made me a strangely hybrid creature; I lived through her in so many ways, for she seemed to be all the things I wanted to be. She could take flight from difficulty, she was hypervigilant, powerful and marvelously moody, and lived in the present moment only, with no regret or guilt or grief. It was actually strangely easy to write her; I used a lyrical, richly visual language, and staccato, short sentences to try and communicate her phenomenal world. I kept falling into using a faintly Shakespearean lexis and the kinds of phrases more familiar from lyric poetry, and it seemed quite a natural thing to do. Writing about my own experiences, in particular my father’s death and my everyday life during that year was far harder. I’d write and rewrite those sections, but the parts about Mabel were generally untouched after I put them down on the page.

TCR: H is for Hawk recounts your struggle to come to terms with your father’s death. In what ways did your experience in training your goshawk Mabel help you to find your way out of depression?

HM: It’s not a book that sees a goshawk as a solution to grief. It’s not “I was sad, I got a hawk, then I was happy.” I think one of the reasons I felt compelled to keep a goshawk was that they are legendarily hard to tame. Some part of me knew that there was no way I could tame the grief inside me, but I knew I could train hawks. It’s extremely hard work, involving deprivation and solitude for the trainer—things I also cleaved to—but it’s done with the utmost gentleness and entirely through positive reinforcement. It was a radical way of taking my mind off myself, a flight from humanity. One of the ways the book has been described since its publication is as a trip to the underworld and back, and that seems to me an amazing way of explaining the kind of journey that I was on, and the stakes involved.

TCR: At one point in your training of Mabel, you recognize that you were blurring the boundaries between her animal essence and your humanity. How can a better understanding of birds teach us what it means to be human?

HM: I ended up identifying with Mabel so much that I lost sight, just a little, of what it meant to be human. But I realised, slowly, that I had made a great and terrible mistake, and it’s one we all make with animals all the time. Goshawks are, at heart, just chickens with talons. But over centuries we’ve given them this weight of meaning that is all about death and destruction and murderous power. What Mabel did, eventually, was to show me that once you understand that what we see in an animal is mostly meaning that we have put there, it’s possible to look past those human things and see a real, live, creature, with its own bewitching self, its own needs, feelings, relationship with the world. The fact that Mabel was so different from me, and yet we shared this astonishingly close bond, was deeply moving and I think an important lesson in terms of the way we relate to other people too. We’re either scared of the Other or assume people are exactly like us. It’s never either of those things, of course. Working towards understanding difference, and learning to love it, fiercely, is part of what the book is all about.

TCR: Throughout your memoir H is for Hawk, you contrast the way you trained Mabel with the less successful steps taken by T.H. White as described in his book The Goshawk. How did this comparison allow you to explore the motivations that inspire someone to take on the difficult task of training a goshawk? 

HM: White is a fascinating person. Like me, he saw himself in his goshawk, and battled himself through it. He made a really bad job of it. My book wasn’t interested in crowing about that — his story is instructive because it’s a reminder that people can visit great harm upon others without even realising it, despite having the best of intentions. White wasn’t given any of the tools to know how to love and care for himself, and other creatures suffered as a result, not just him.

TCR: Your book, H is for Hawk, is an eloquent statement about the importance of having a connection to nature. What do humans lose as our lives becomes more urbanized and the natural world is more difficult to access?

HM: We lose a lot of things simpliciter. The world I grew up in is not the world I exist in now in really obvious ways. We’ve lost nearly 400 million birds from Europe since I was born, and the precipitous decline in insects over the last few decades is beyond alarming. There’s far, far less life around us, which is heartbreaking on a human level quite apart from being terrifying on an ecological scale. There are innumerable things we lose when this happens. One of them is simply that we are increasingly alone with ourselves. Interacting with and living around wild creatures reminds us that we are not the be-all and end-all of all that is. That the world is not for us alone.

TCR: Has your book, H is for Hawk, and the associated film projects in which you have been involved helped to spark a renewed interest in hawks and falconry?

HM: This was something that worried quite a few people in the falconry community when the book came out. In the UK, Ken Loach’s film Kes, about a working-class boy training a kestrel, spurred a falconry craze in the 1960s. But concerned falconers were reassured because this doesn’t seem to have happened at all with H is for Hawk. Maybe I made falconry look so difficult and miserable that people were put off the idea! But I have had so many gratifying messages from people who have read the book and told me it’s made them notice birds properly for the first time—not just hawks—and has made them see these creatures in a new way. That makes my heart soar.

TCR: In light of current trends regarding global warming and climate change, what role can writers play in calling attention to the impact that these earth changes are having on the world around us?

HM: All that they can do, they should do. Must do.

TCR: Could you tell us about your current writing projects and the essays you are working on about our relationship to the natural world?

HM: The essay collection, Vesper Flights, gathers together many of the pieces I’ve written over the last five years for The New York Times Magazine, New Statesman, and other magazines. But it also includes a lot of new material, and it’s not all about the natural world. There’s a piece about Star Wars in it, for example. Watch this space!  

TCR: You have also said that you’re working on a book about albatrosses. How does your experience in writing this latest book compare to that of H is for Hawk?

HM: It’s a book about albatrosses, environmental guilt, love, and the end of the world. Full eschatological! I’m focusing the story on Midway Atoll. Recently, I had the honour of spending a month there as a volunteer counter in their yearly albatross census. We counted nearly 680,000 pairs on this remote island. It used to be a Naval Air Station, and of course has an important history in the Pacific War. I’m still researching the book and hope to return to Midway this winter. One way in which this book differs from H is for Hawk is that it’s not being written years after the events took place. And despite the ecological apocalypse we’re living through, I’m far less miserable than I was that year after my father’s death.

Kaia Gallagher is working on a memoir called Return to Estonia, which explores her connection to her Estonian heritage. She is an MFA graduate at the University of California–Riverside’s Low Residency program.

Three Poems

By Jedediah Smith

Does the Wail Diminish?
            elegy for Miles Davis

You were a Hell Hound
howling at the moon
on a moonless night,

had enough bad taste
to believe in your own existence
despite every authority’s proof
.         that you were gone.
Pouring out the empty spaces between notes
like the sacramental wine in a goblet of solid brass
– sounding, like a bell
.         in the bass
                   of an ocean

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Book Review: Nothing to See Here

By Collin Mitchell

Breaking the mold is a difficult thing to do and no one captures the difficulty of this hardship better than Lillian Breaker, the consciously wayward protagonist in Kevin Wilson’s new novel, Nothing to See Here.

As a teenager, Lillian is ambitious enough to get into the exclusive Iron Mountain, “a fancy girl’s school hidden on a mountain in the middle of nowhere,” but at twenty-eight she’s living in her mom’s attic, working two grocery store jobs, and smoking a lot of weed. So, what’s her problem? Her best (and rich and beautiful and scheming) friend, Madison Billings. If this novel isn’t about fate and class, family, the haves and the have-nots, then it’s about friendship and its exploitive little schemes.

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Everybody To Their Own Thing

By Ellen Birkett Morris

Max Anderson, Age 43
Jack Hensley, Age 72
Jenny Anderson, Age 41

The Andersons’ dining room table.
Four chairs surround the table; a place is set at each.

Present day

(Lights up on Jenny, Max enters and kisses her on her forehead).

MAX: You’re sure you don’t mind company.

JENNY: Not at all honey. It’s been a while since we had someone to dinner. It was…

(She stops herself and furrows her brow.).  

MAX: Dad. We can talk about it. I want to talk about it. It isn’t like someone just disappears when they die.

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Film Review: 1917

By Becky Lauer

Full disclosure – I have a very limited knowledge of the events of World War I.

Personally, I like to do my research before watching historical dramas, otherwise I feel like the kid who didn’t do the reading before class discussion. So, as I waited in the theater for an early screening of the film 1917 by Sam Mendes, I wasn’t exactly sure what I was walking into.  I knew Andrew Scott, Colin Firth, Richard Madden and Benedict Cumberbatch were involved so I trusted the time spent in the theater would be worth it. I expected to see a good movie, not one the greatest movies of the year.

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Book Review: All This Could Be Yours

By Jenny Hayes

Jami Attenberg’s novel All This Could Be Yours takes place largely over a single day, a day which Victor Tuchman—a pretty terrible man— spends mostly unconscious and near death in a New Orleans hospital. The book bounces around between the points of view of the family members and various others who come into the scene—sometimes only tangentially—near the end of Victor’s life. This structure gives the book a loose, kaleidoscopic feeling, with a consistent narrative tone that keeps it feeling cohesive; the prose is clear and rhythmic, conveying each character’s point of view while occasionally interjecting its own.

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Book Review: Know My Name

By Rachel Zarrow

Know My Name by Chanel Miller (Viking, 2019) is the untold story of the person who the world came to know as Emily Doe, the victim of a widely reported 2015 sexual assault on Stanford’s campus. Though Know My Name is a memoir, the book is many other things—a victim’s manifesto, a story of love and loss, and a close examination of the broken systems that protect perpetrators and betray victims. Chanel Miller, the woman we meet in the pages of this book is many things too. She’s an activist, a victim, a writer, an artist, a comedian, a daughter, a sister,  a visionary, and more.

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A Glass I Won’t Pick Up Again

By J. Jules

Why did I pick up that glass?
Wine doesn’t sit well on an empty stomach.
And I’m allergic to sulfites.

I could have avoided it all.
The nausea, the vomit,
the horrified look on her face.

No excuses. I did. And boy,
did it make a mess to clean up

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