[redacted] (series of 4)

by Kristin Ross, based on Valentines by Shira Lipkin

Mixed media art bookmarks with china marker, acrylic paint, original writing, duct tape, and glaze.

This piece will be auctioned off to benefit the Interstitial Arts Foundation at iafauctions.com


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    IAFAuctions.com is part of the fundraising arm of the Interstitial Arts Foundation, a not–for–profit organization dedicated to the study, support, and promotion of interstitial art.

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    A Taste of Interfictions 2
    • “People always get my origin story wrong. I wasn't "born in an explosion," I am the explosion; if I'm the chicken, the bomb was the egg. It's just that no one's ever taken responsibility for laying it. Anything else blows up, anywhere in L.A., and the gangs and factions fall all over each other to take credit, but someone takes out the craft services tent on the set of a minor erotic space opera and no one says a word.”
      From: The 121 by David J. Schwartz
    • “My brother Pedro was born on the floor of our apartment. That was when we lived above the Good Foot. It was three-thirty on a Saturday morning when my mother pushed him out. Downstairs in the club, my father used to say, there was a band playing with twenty drummers, two basses, two guitars. Big horn section, lots of singers. It was some party down there. My mother said that my brother didn't cry once. He just hit the floor, put his ear against it, and started taking it all in right then. The band, the cheers from the crowd, the stomping feet against the club's floor. He never cried. But never slept either. Just listened and listened.”
      From: Interviews After the Revolution by Brian Francis Slattery
    • “She paid admission. Then they walked the direction all visitors had to go, through the museum and toward doors leading out to the historic village. With its coke machine just inside the entrance, the museum seemed a harmless, well-regulated place, comforting and normal. Yet the discontent he had noticed when his feet hit the gravelly parking lot, out by the split-rail fence, still held on and was with him yet as they walked out the back door.

      He could control it even so: a trifling weight he would shrug off, somewhere, if only he could find the right place.”
      From: Stonefield by Mark Rich
    • “This is a story about a man who ties a woman to his bed. No, it's not what you think, he says. Please understand. But how can he explain? All those nights his wife turns into other things. Would anyone believe him?

      He should have known the first time he saw her, he thinks: her waves of dark hair spilling down her back, her torn jeans, her look of fuck you too, her scent of wet leaves, sweat, and dirt. It made him horny. What else can he say?”
      From: The Marriage by Nin Andrews

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