22.09.15 by Staff

An Interview with Anders Nilsen & Book Giveaway


“What does it feel like being you?” is a question Poetry Is Useless both asks and addresses, offering a unique meditation on the very idea of uselessness and self-reflection. That’s not to say there isn’t also a whole lot of fun/poking fun!

See more images and our interview with Nilsen below. Also enter for a chance to get your very own copy of Poetry Is Useless by sharing your favourite poem in the comments section below. We have two copies to give away!


A personal compilation of everything from simple doodles to elaborate sketches, philosophical musings and personal anecdotes from 7 years worth of journals, Anders Nilsen’s latest is a continuation of the highly personal and persistently humorous style developed through previous, award-winning works like the graphic memoir, Don’t Go Where I Can’t Follow (2007), and his 2011 magnum opus, Big Questions.

Booooooom: You were born in New Hampshire, lived in Minneapolis, and are currently based in Chicago. What makes Chicago a great place to live and work? Are there places you feel more creative or inspired?

Anders Nilsen: I actually moved back to Minneapolis in 2012, so I’m no longer in Chicago. Most of the things that made Chicago great for me were my friends there: Nick and Nadine at Sonnenzimmer, the photographer Todd Baxter, cartoonist and animator Lilli Carre… there are many more, but the fact that some of the most astonishing artists I know of are also really good people seems remarkable to me. I would also put Jason Hammel at Lula Cafe in that category. I cooked under him for years and still work with Lula curating the art. And Lula is a sort of second home for me when I’m in town. I’m leaving a lot of people out.

B: I’m really interested in how people work, especially the little routines they create for themselves. Would you mind describing your typical day? Or even just a day (any), if you’re not the type to have a typical one.

AN: I get up sort of latish, like 9 or 9:30 usually. I linger over breakfast and read the news. I figure since I don’t have a commute, and I set my own hours I get to indulge in eating well, and not rush myself. So I do some work in the morning, take a longish lunch, then work the rest of the day, until 11 or 12 in the evening. Sometimes I go skateboarding in there somewhere. I’ve heard Benjamin Franklin had to be naked to write well. Or sit in a bathtub or something. I’m sorry to say my routines are not that special.


B: You experiment a lot with narrative form in ways that feel somewhat un-categorizable, how would you describe your own work? Do you consider yourself a graphic novelist? Comic artist? Storyteller? Poet? All of the above? None?

AN: Un-categorizable… I like that characterization. I guess that’s what I’m going for. When I was younger I spent a lot of time thinking about the idea that as an artist one should never know exactly what one is doing. If you already know what you’re doing before you do it you are on the wrong track. You should be doing your best to surprise yourself. Any of those categories you mention fits some aspect of what I do, but none encompasses all of it. I think of myself as an artist, and almost always as a storyteller.

B: I love the title of your book, especially the way you play with the whole idea of uselessness–almost regarding it with a completely different kind of appreciation. But I guess, useless or not, what do you like about poetry? What about it appeals to you?

AN: I don’t read a lot of poetry, honestly. But great poetry acknowledges that meaning is harder pin down than we like to think. That individual words that seem solid and simple actually have a more or less amorphous cloud of meanings that can be played with and cut up. The more solid thing about words is the weird noises we make to articulate them. As you seem to say, ‘useless’ has a hazy cloud of meanings around it just like any other word.

B: Do you have a favourite poem or poet?

AN: The only poem I ever memorized was the Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll. So obviously I’m not very serious about poetry. That’s a great example, though, because he makes complete nonsense words feel very palpably meaningful, so it’s almost doing the opposite of a normal poem in some way.


B: You deal with some pretty heavy ideas. At one point you even get into Slavoj Zizek’s critique of Marxist critiques of capitalism, only to confess that his argument doesn’t make much sense to you. How conscious are you of your audience and being understood by them when you’re in the creative process? Or is how your work’s received something you only think about after the fact, i.e. when it comes to going back over 7 years of journals and deciding what to include or not?

AN: The Zizek quote was more specifically about how to respond to Bush and the war in Iraq, and he was saying there has to be actual consequences for the people in power, or otherwise they will just do what they want. Entirely peaceful protest is not enough. Which I basically agree with. I definitely don’t want to get too far ahead of my audience, or be obscure, but I also believe in speaking to your readers ever so slightly above their capacity. I believe in challenging people a bit and getting an audience to stretch. Art and literature is always more exhilarating when you have that moment of revelation and you feel like you are discovering something. And anyway, I’m trying to stretch myself a bit, too, so why not bring them along for the ride?


B: Maybe because so much of your stuff is autobiographical or diary-esque it feels very intimate. Are there things you consider too personal? Or that, looking back, you ever felt a kind of belated self-consciousness about having shared?

AN: Sure, I think two of my books in particular are definitely too personal. I didn’t think that when I decided to publish them, so I guess I sort of tricked myself. And, whatever, being overly personal is a bit impolite, but a lot of good art is impolite. It made me a little uncomfortable for a while to have Don’t Go out in the world, but that book seems to matter to some people, which means something to me, in turn. And doing that work changed the way I think about art making and storytelling. The book can be for them, and people who get squicked out, can just leave it on the shelf. Not every book has to be for every person.


B: Can you talk a little bit about mistakes? Particularly your choice to include blacked-out and whited-out moments so consistently (and sometimes, what feels like, emphatically)? Why is this important to you? Or is it even? (Am I reading too much into it?)

AN: Part of the experience of looking at an artist’s sketchbook is feeling like you are getting a glimpse into the mind and thinking process of the artist, and seeing the process represented on the page. And mistakes and accidents and the ways I play with them are definitely part of my approach to my sketchbook.

B: How do you see this latest book in relation to your other collections/graphic novels? Do you feel like you approach things differently now than you did before?

AN: I was actually working on this material for the last seven years, so it was concurrent with my work on Big Questions and Rage of Poseidon, and actually much of Rage, started as pieces in my sketchbook. So it doesn’t represent a ‘change’ in my approach, just one other way I work. I’m still working in sketchbooks and working on a more traditional style graphic novel, too, so I always have a few different things going on. But I do feel like this book is the most uniquely mine, in a way. I feel like this is the closest I’ve ever gotten to doing something that hasn’t really been done before.


B: Your work has a very particular, slightly-dry humour to it. What was the last thing that made you laugh really hard? Like the kind of laughing where everything hurts.

AN: That would be going on book tour with Marc Bell a few weeks ago. Some of the time he would just be staring out the window, but when he gets going he’s like the funniest stand-up I’ve ever seen. He does voices and absurdist repetition of nonsensical in-jokes that just kill me. That guy is brilliant on so many levels.

B: Jeff was recently giving away free encouragement on Booooooom. You also tend to do little exercises–telling people to breathe or imagine things with you. Do you have any advice or “free encouragement” for Booooooom readers?

AN: Take a deep breath. Regularly.

B: What is the best piece of advice or encouragement you’ve ever received?

AN: For the last week I’ve been part of this artists residency in Minneapolis called PFC, and it’s been amazing. Everyone walking around the whole time expressing wonder and amazement at how crazy talented each other are, and how lucky we all are to be there and get to spend time together. Simultaneously humbling and encouraging all at once. So: surround yourself with amazingly talented, good-hearted people.



Anders Nilsen’s Website

Drawn & Quarterly

If you have work to share, please send us a tweet or post it to our monthly submission posts.

  • Martin Schneider

    “A Study in Aesthetics,” by Ezra Pound

  • MK Low

    “Scheherazade” by Richard Siken.

  • JG Paul

    “Tulips,” by Sylvia Plath

  • Rosanna Bruno

    “Late Air” by Elizabeth Bishop

  • Erika Verhagen

    The Collected Works of Billy the Kid by Michael Ondaatje, spec. the one that begins “these are the killed”.

  • Mário Rui Filipe

    “Autopsicografia” de Fernando Pessoa.

  • linda kius

    Elm – Sylvia Plath

  • Gui Bé

    Soir d’hiver – Emile Nelligan (go Montreal)

    • Allow me to ~show you a fantastic ways to earn a lot of extra money by finishing basic tasks from your house for few short hours a day — See more info by visiting >MY___{DISQUS}___ID::

  • lise g

    My favorite poem is ‘the beekeepers daughter’, by Sylvia Plath. It was actually the first poem I felt this connection to, and got me into poetry!

  • Jamie Ian Wilson

    The Old Pond by Matsuo Basho, because I read it in National Geographic on my way to Sri Lanka for my brothers wedding and managed to squeeze it into my best man speech. And because it has quite a few different translations. And it proves that poetry can be extremely concise. Peace

  • Bahr

    “Warning” – Shel Silverstein

    Inside everybody’s nose
    There lives a sharp-toothed snail.
    So if you stick your finger in,
    He may bite off your nail.
    Stick it farther up inside,
    And he may bite your ring off.
    Stick it all the way, and he
    May bite the whole darn thing off.

  • sombrillasdeverano

    El Remordimiento by J.L Borges.

  • Alexia BA

    The grand highway


    by Jim Morrison

  • Tirta Perdana Jaya

    “Aku” or “I” by Chairil Anwar


    If my time should come,
    Let no one speak sweet words,
    Not even you

    Useless too are those sobs and cries

    For I am a stray animal
    Banished from my kinsmen

    Should bullets pierce my skin
    I shall keep my march and strike

    Wounds and venom shall I bear as I run
    As I run
    Till the pangs of pain has gone

    And no longer should I care

    I want to live another thousand years

    March 1943

  • sayyes

    “Aunt Jennifer’s Tigers” by Adrienne Rich

    Aunt Jennifer’s tigers prance across a screen,
    Bright topaz denizens of a world of green.
    They do not fear the men beneath the tree;
    They pace in sleek chivalric certainty.

    Aunt Jennifer’s finger fluttering through her wool
    Find even the ivory needle hard to pull.
    The massive weight of Uncle’s wedding band
    Sits heavily upon Aunt Jennifer’s hand.

    When Aunt is dead, her terrified hands will lie
    Still ringed with ordeals she was mastered by.
    The tigers in the panel that she made
    Will go on prancing, proud and unafraid.

  • Grace

    “Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell” by Marty McConnell

  • M Stubbs

    “Late October Camping in the Sawtooths” by Gary Snyder

  • Morgan Hughes

    “milos” By Anis Mojgani

  • Ryan

    “AND BACK” by Alfred Starr Hamilton
    Back to back
    And back to the factory
    And back

    And figures and facts
    And back to the bank
    And back

  • Anne B.

    From “Song of the Open Road” by Walt Whitman:

    …” Forever alive, forever forward,
    Stately, solemn, sad, withdrawn, baffled, mad, turbulent, feeble, dissatisfied,
    Desperate, proud, fond, sick, accepted by men, rejected by men,
    They go! they go! I know that they go, but I know not where they go,
    But I know that they go toward the best—toward something great.”…

  • Eric Millar

    The Hollow Men by T.S. Eliot.

  • e.e. cummings

    somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
    any experience,your eyes have their silence:
    in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
    or which i cannot touch because they are too near

    your slightest look easily will unclose me
    though i have closed myself as fingers,
    you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
    (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

    or if your wish be to close me,i and
    my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
    as when the heart of this flower imagines
    the snow carefully everywhere descending;

    nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
    the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
    compels me with the colour of its countries,
    rendering death and forever with each breathing

    (i do not know what it is about you that closes
    and opens;only something in me understands
    the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
    nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

  • Lorraine Albert

    As Is The Sea Marvelous – E.E. Cummings

  • Lindsey

    Porphyria’s Lover by Robert Browning is wonderfully creepy and one of my favorites.

  • taryn

    Light, my light, the world-filling light, the eye-kissing light, heart-sweetening light!

    Ah, the light dances, my darling, at the centre of my life; the light strikes, my darling, the chords of my love; the sky opens, the wind runs wild, laughter passes over the earth.

    The butterflies spread their sails on the sea of light. Lilies and jasmines surge up on the crest of the waves of light.

    The light is shattered into gold on every cloud, my darling, and it scatters gems in profusion.

    Mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling, and gladness without measure. The heaven’s river has drowned its banks and the flood of joy is abroad.

    Rabindranath Tagore

  • Giancarlo Roman

    The Moon
    by Jorge Luis Borges

    There is such solitude in that gold.
    The moon of these nights is not the moon
    The first Adam saw. Long centuries
    Of human vigil have filled her with
    An old lament. See. She is your mirror.

  • David

    “Over 1 billion served” – McDonald’s

  • Eros Livieratos

    Throwing Away the Alarm Clock by Bukowski

  • SamYule Walker

    Green Eggs and Ham, Dr. Suess. being named Sam, this poem had a lot of impact on my childhood.

  • Ash Kayser

    I like this one of which I sent to a girl on Tinder:

    Rachel, I’m certain! Wait, no I’m not sure!
    For something I’m searching but unknowingly for.
    Perhaps a Tinder match made in China?
    Or a zip, clip, ignited fire with a lighter?
    No drama, just lust, oh no, it’s behind her.
    Maybe i’m searching for love, could you help me find her?

  • Emma Atrens

    Ode by Arthur O’Shaughnessy
    WE are the music-makers,
    And we are the dreamers of dreams,
    Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
    And sitting by desolate streams;
    World-losers and world-forsakers,
    On whom the pale moon gleams:
    Yet we are the movers and shakers
    Of the world for ever, it seems

  • Irit


    By Thomas Hardy

    If but some vengeful god would call to me

    From up the sky, and laugh: “Thou suffering thing,

    Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy,

    That thy love’s loss is my hate’s profiting!”

    Then would I bear it, clench myself, and die,

    Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited;

    Half-eased in that a Powerfuller than I

    Had willed and meted me the tears I shed.

    But not so. How arrives it joy lies slain,

    And why unblooms the best hope ever sown?

    —Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain,

    And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan. . . .

    These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown

    Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain.

  • D V Hari Krishna

    i don’t have a singular ‘favourite poem,’ as that will be arrogant and foolish of me. that said, i’m loving Victoria Chang’s work these days. somehow, i don’t remember how, anne carson led me to her.

    Edward Hopper’s Automat by Victoria Chang (from The Boss):

    The woman in the automat must work must
    have a boss must walk
    to work two legs red with heat two legs
    pressed into each other as if one
    depended on the other the woman in the automat
    takes one glove off to hold
    the cup to shake the hand of a boss one hand
    free she looks down at the circle
    on the table looks down at the round reflection
    of circular lights her boss circulates
    memos her boss is the circle the circumference
    circles her each day like a minnow

  • Rohini

    Mad Girl’s Love Song by Sylvia Plath

    “I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
    I lift my lids and all is born again.
    (I think I made you up inside my head.)

    The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
    And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
    I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

    I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
    And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
    (I think I made you up inside my head.)

    God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade:
    Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:
    I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

    I fancied you’d return the way you said,
    But I grow old and I forget your name.
    (I think I made you up inside my head.)

    I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
    At least when spring comes they roar back again.
    I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
    (I think I made you up inside my head.)”

  • Lauren

    anyone lived in a pretty how town
    (with up so floating many bells down)
    spring summer autumn winter
    he sang his didn’t he danced his did.

    Women and men(both little and small)
    cared for anyone not at all
    they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
    sun moon stars rain

    children guessed(but only a few
    and down they forgot as up they grew
    autumn winter spring summer)
    that noone loved him more by more

    when by now and tree by leaf
    she laughed his joy she cried his grief
    bird by snow and stir by still
    anyone’s any was all to her

    someones married their everyones
    laughed their cryings and did their dance
    (sleep wake hope and then)they
    said their nevers they slept their dream

    stars rain sun moon
    (and only the snow can begin to explain
    how children are apt to forget to remember
    with up so floating many bells down)

    one day anyone died i guess
    (and noone stooped to kiss his face)
    busy folk buried them side by side
    little by little and was by was

    all by all and deep by deep
    and more by more they dream their sleep
    noone and anyone earth by april
    wish by spirit and if by yes.

    Women and men(both dong and ding)
    summer autumn winter spring
    reaped their sowing and went their came
    sun moon stars rain

  • Hobie Fuerstman

    Portrait Of The Artist As A Prematurely Old Man
    It is common knowledge to every schoolboy and even every Bachelor of Arts,
    That all sin is divided into two parts.
    One kind of sin is called a sin of commission, and that is very important,
    And it is what you are doing when you are doing something you ortant,
    And the other kind of sin is just the opposite and is called a sin of omission
    and is equally bad in the eyes of all right-thinking people, from
    Billy Sunday to Buddha,
    And it consists of not having done something you shuddha.
    I might as well give you my opinion of these two kinds of sin as long as,
    in a way, against each other we are pitting them,
    And that is, don’t bother your head about the sins of commission because
    however sinful, they must at least be fun or else you wouldn’t be
    committing them.
    It is the sin of omission, the second kind of sin,
    That lays eggs under your skin.
    The way you really get painfully bitten
    Is by the insurance you haven’t taken out and the checks you haven’t added up
    the stubs of and the appointments you haven’t kept and the bills you
    haven’t paid and the letters you haven’t written.
    Also, about sins of omission there is one particularly painful lack of beauty,
    Namely, it isn’t as though it had been a riotous red-letter day or night every
    time you neglected to do your duty;
    You didn’t get a wicked forbidden thrill
    Every time you let a policy lapse or forget to pay a bill;
    You didn’t slap the lads in the tavern on the back and loudly cry Whee,
    Let’s all fail to write just one more letter before we go home, and this round
    of unwritten letters is on me.
    No, you never get any fun
    Out of things you haven’t done,
    But they are the things that I do not like to be amid,
    Because the suitable things you didn’t do give you a lot more trouble than the
    unsuitable things you did.
    The moral is that it is probably better not to sin at all, but if some kind of
    sin you must be pursuing,
    Well, remember to do it by doing rather than by not doing.

    by Ogden Nash

  • Павел

    There was an old woman
    Who lived under a hill,
    She put a mouse in a bag,
    And send it to the mill.
    The miller did swear
    By point of his knife,
    He never took toll
    Of a mouse in his life.

  • David Shoots Film

    You fit into me
    like a hook into an eye

    a fish hook
    an open eye

    Margaret Atwood

  • JChase

    You do not have to be good.

    You do not have to walk on your knees

    for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

    You only have to let the soft animal of your body

    love what it loves.

    Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

    Meanwhile the world goes on.

    Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

    are moving across the landscapes,

    over the prairies and the deep trees,

    the mountains and the rivers.

    Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

    are heading home again.

    Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

    the world offers itself to your imagination,

    calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –

    over and over announcing your place

    in the family of things.
    Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

  • My favorite poem comes from a book I picked out of a book swap by chance. It’s called Greeny by Lily Brown.

    We become obsolete, not or else.
    At the edge a turquoise line extends.
    It’s painting, but pretend
    it’s something else. At the edge
    tundra green bumps sky purple
    bumps sand bumps ocean grey
    bumps red, fiery red above. At the edge
    we walk. Pale interstices. Waves deafen
    and flatten. Be honest. In the painting,
    there are mountains.

  • Early Spring

    The dog writes on the window
    with his nose

    -Philip Whalen

  • Andrea

    The only poem I can recite, found 20 years ago in a book by Maira Kalman about a poet dog who travels to Paris and falls in love with a musical dalmation named Crepes Suzette. (It has wonderful drawings too):

    My hoochie koochie poochie,
    Your hotty spotty body
    fills my heart with joy.
    You played the legato.
    My heart went staccato.
    I have found my raison d’etre:
    It is you, my Crepes Suzette.

  • Joanna Hernández

    My favorite poet has always been Edgar Allen Poe. I had a wonderful teacher in elementary school, who was a brilliant speaker and she captivated our classroom when she read aloud Poe’s work. We were swept into his dreamy, dark world!

    My favorite: Annabel Lee

    It was many and many a year ago,
    In a kingdom by the sea,
    That a maiden there lived whom you may know
    By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
    And this maiden she lived with no other thought
    Than to love and be loved by me.

    I was a child and she was a child,
    In this kingdom by the sea;
    But we loved with a love that was more than love-
    I and my Annabel Lee;
    With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
    Coveted her and me.

    And this was the reason that, long ago,
    In this kingdom by the sea,
    A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
    My beautiful Annabel Lee;
    So that her highborn kinsman came
    And bore her away from me,
    To shut her up in a sepulchre
    In this kingdom by the sea.

    The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
    Went envying her and me-
    Yes! – that was the reason (as all men know,
    In this kingdom by the sea)
    That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
    Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

    But our love it was stronger by far than the love
    Of those who were older than we-
    Of many far wiser than we-
    And neither the angels in heaven above,
    Nor the demons down under the sea,
    Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

    For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
    And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
    And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
    Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
    In the sepulchre there by the sea,
    In her tomb by the sounding sea.

  • Barrow Wheary


    Someone once told me that animals are people
    under spells, and if you fall in love with them the
    spell will be lifted. I recently fell in love with a black
    trumpeter swan. I watched her ruffle her neck
    feathers for hours, watched her peck bugs from her
    breast. I was sure she would make a beautiful bride,
    but she was always a black trumpeter swan. I once
    brushed a horse’s hair for 3 straight years until it
    crumpled into death. The truth is there is no such
    thing as spells. The world is always as it is, and
    always as it seems. And love is just our own kind
    voice that we whisper into our own blood.

    by Zachary Schomburg

  • I love this poem:

    I like my body by e e cummings

    i like my body when it is with your
    body. It is so quite new a thing.
    Muscles better and nerves more.
    i like your body. i like what it does,
    i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
    of your body and its bones,and the trembling
    -firm-smooth ness and which i will
    again and again and again
    kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
    i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz
    of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes
    over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,

    and possibly i like the thrill

    of under me you so quite new

    • Aaron Molden

      Good choice. I just had this one read to me for the first time a couple weeks back.

  • Aaron Molden

    This is a short, simple, but profound one from Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut. It always stuck with me:

    “Tiger got to hunt, bird got to fly;
    Man got to sit and wonder ‘why, why, why?’
    Tiger got to sleep, bird got to land;
    Man got to tell himself he understand.”

  • Congrats to Megan and Andrea you both were selected by the D&Q team, check your inboxes!

21.07.17 by Jeff

The Booooooom Creative Job Board

Booooooom art design jobs

If you’re a creative looking for work, or a company looking to hire, we are excited to announce our very own creative job board: Booooooom Jobs. Graphic design jobs, curatorial positions in galleries, freelance animation gigs, a wide variety of opportunities to work in a creative field!

A couple of examples: Our friends at Society6 are looking for a Creative Director, and Skillshare have posted openings for both a Content Producer and Senior Product Designer.

To start, we’re focusing on three cities (New York, Los Angeles, and Vancouver) and will also be posting remote jobs (for those of you who prefer to work from home). All job postings are free for the rest of the month if you use the PROMO CODE: ‘friends’.

Check it out: jobs.booooooom.com

20.07.17 by Staff

Artist Spotlight: Till Rabus

A selection of recent work by artist Till Rabus from Neuchâtel, Switzerland. Click here for previous posts. See more images below.

Read More

20.07.17 by Jeff

Artist Spotlight: Esther Sarto

A selection of paintings from “Sleepless” by artist Esther Sarto, based in Copenhagen, Denmark. Her show opens on Saturday at Talon Gallery (Portland). More images below.

Read More

20.07.17 by Staff

Artist Spotlight: Samuel Rodriguez

Recent work by artist Sam Rodriguez from San José, California (previously featured here). More images below!

Read More

19.07.17 by Jeff

Photographer Spotlight: Angeles Peña

“Aguas de Montaña” is a journey into The Andean Patagonia, a desolate territory where photographer Angeles Peña lived all of her childhood.

She says, “In a world that spins faster and faster I feel an enormous necessity to focus on the details and the beauty of what still remains. I find myself with a nature that sustains itself but can fall at any moment. It is something that surpasses me and I cannot stop observing.”

See the rest of the series below.
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