(*) The Only Magic Left is Art

ARTIST OF THE MONTH: ELENA GAL

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HOLDEN x IMPOSSIBLE invite you to submit your favorite instant memories for a chance to win the opportunity to be included in four worldwide exhibitions this coming Fall. SUBMIT HERE

In Spite of Them The sane and the powerful have had their way with the world and, truly, they’ve not left us much. But still there’s this April afternoon and the kind old bartender calls me Cap’n as he pours the drinks, tall and strong. The jukebox plays and you are there with eyes of cat, hair of raven and laughter like something holy. We are beautiful still, in spite of them, And clever, yes, we’ll make some magic out of this. - William Taylor Jr.
Red Mohawk I see her from a distance and immediately sense a certain grace in her form; a young woman with a red mohawk standing in the grass stretching beneath the afternoon sun. Her face her arms her legs fingers toes belly so white and beautiful as she stretches them beneath the afternoon sun. “Hello,” I say, walking by. “Hello,” she says, smiling, smiling. She is a photograph. She is a painting. She is as beautiful as anything that exists. Some spend entire lives trying to create some tiny semblance of beauty while other do it without knowing, without trying, by simply stretching in the afternoon sun. I am not sure what this means, but it’s why I like springtime in Santa Cruz.
Firehouse We live near the firehouse in downtown San Francisco and the sirens and the roar of the trucks is nearly constant even now at 4 a.m. it does not stop it does well to remind me that at any given moment so much is burning.
Like a Rose, Like a Cross My father in the garage at 1 a.m. smoking cigars with Spanish music on the radio my father nervous in restaurants and department stores his disappointment with the world shining in his eyes and a rage that has no name always just beneath the surface my father’s silence like a hand grenade my father’s fist through the kitchen window my father fighting a war inside his head fifty years after the fact my father the son of a drunken preacher married to a catholic woman hating god my father at the dinner table telling stories no one understood my father singing sad songs in a strange language pulling weeds from the yard my father looking as uncomfortable in photographs as he did in life my father’s face in my mirror my father’s blood in my veins my father’s voice in my throat my father’s name is my name I carry it like a rose like a cross my father’s death a seed inside me blooming into the strangest of flowers.
In Spite of Them The sane and the powerfulhave had their way with the worldand, truly, they’ve not left us much.But still there’s this April afternoonand the kind old bartender calls me Cap’nas he pours the drinks, tall and strong.The jukebox plays and you are therewith eyes of cat, hair of ravenand laughter like something holy.We are beautiful still, in spite of them,And clever, yes,we’ll make some magic out of this. - William Taylor Jr.
I own the book myself. By an incredible poet named William Taylor Jr. It’s very Bukowski meets Tom Waits. You can purchase his book here. If you’re into that kind of thing. Definitely consider giving this a read.
This is William Taylor Jr. He is a Poet. This is his Poem.All We’ve Simply Thrown Away Outside it’s just screams and sirens and people waiting to be paid inside we peel paint from the walls in flakes as if there might be some new magic underneath the wine does what it can but this sadness in our blood is older than time our damage shines best in these smallest hours and this is the beauty I want to remember it suddenly strikes me so many lives could be made from all we’ve simply thrown away as we cross our hearts and make a pact to stay beautiful until the dawn when the sun will come and burn us off like fog. Buy his book “Words for Songs Never Written” here.