root&star magazine debuts

I am so excited to announce a collaboration with many amazing artists on a children’s magazine that I founded this year. root&star magazine has now officially launched and is ready for shipping right to your door! Please consider purchasing a copy or subscription for a child you love. It is filled with work by amazing artists and writers, all sharing their talents with our wisest and wildest tiny humans. Enjoy!
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dream

I had a dream that M.I.A. was the answer to my existential art crisis. I woke picturing her giving the finger on national television at the Super Bowl and knew it was true. In the dream the answer had something to do with mish-mash, with taking disparate parts that aren’t yours, then making them yours in their assembly. And with bravery. As I lay with Henry until he fell asleep, I realized that I need a big visual project. Cotton balls on snow, rocks with tape, more drawings, photographs, all in one book or show. Small parts that don’t trickle on forever but have a purpose, a project, a seeming whole. (Of course this project will take energy, which gets sucked into my uterus all day.) This internet is so big, how does anyone find one another? And if they’re found, how do they keep one another? This world is so big it can’t even echo inside my chest. All I want is beauty and bravery. I feel like it has been so long since I’ve called out of my window and heard anyone, anything, reply.
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silence

The world is beautiful and I feel far away from it and I don’t know what to say. A viable baby died. The internet is already brimming with beauty and work, sadness, connections. It feels like all the art has been made, and like I have nothing to add. This feeling will pass, I know. I want to be more than small little things. I want to make a replica of my heart.
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45 degrees

The Sunday where we walked our fields, 45 degrees and sunny, the dogs looping around us, Beautiful the feral cat nearby. Who are we creatures with a small child, making spirographs with our feet and our car and our dogs that loop out and return to this center, to this farm. This is the time in our life of making spirographs around a small white home. Last year the boy was still in his sling on my back for walks. This year he runs. Today he runs and falls, runs and falls, because it’s funny. Mud boots. Church sweater. Knightly black winter hat that tucks under his chin. Queen Anne’s Lace curled in on itself. Steve kicks the dead cut grass and it smells underneath like spring. We ask the apple tree to grant us more apples, in February already dreaming of summer. I call Snowflake, Snowflake, to a feral cat we have not seen for days. Henry laughs and falls. He keeps returning to the tall grass because it catches on his boots and sends him back down again. He rolls in it like the dogs do. He lies there beside the icy bog, looking up at the sky. The nuns walk by, the ones who live across the street from us in their convent. Henry stands by the road and waves to a nun in black, regal as he is, leaves crunching beneath our feet to block out language, there is only this moment, the dogs in down-stays in the yard like gargoyles.
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