around a theme for continuity, or to manage the selection process, although many ‚Äėopen calls’ for artwork of any kind boil down to which artists can shill out the application fees. The Gazine was produced on their own dime this past April. It succeeded in its own belief that there really need not be a theme of any kind. The theme, if pressed, was each other and one another. It was about its own creation, about doing something together, fundamentally. Its ‚Äúlack‚ÄĚ of genre actually opened up a space for blinding individuality, evident on each and every one of its pages. The various efforts here negated any need for a pre-determined subject. With Chances, there is an underlying faith that things will work out and that people can and will be engaged if you put them in the same room. The pieces in this ‚Äėzine speak to each other like strangers on a train might, and it is this exact openness and flexibility that feels inherently optimistic and freeing, especially for artists who have probably at one time or another been told by someone else what their work is ‚Äėabout.‚Äô Here that cannot happen, for this is your show.
After the release of their first Gazine, the duo wants to ‚Äúmake more things‚Ä¶ and to share more writing and art.‚ÄĚ Says Kray, ‚ÄúI also think that people are beautiful, and we need to find places to celebrate that beauty (and truth).‚ÄĚ
Outro – Wand’rin Star – Lee Marvin
On a surprisingly bright Saturday afternoon in April I am in a dark, window-paned bar somewhere in Greenpoint with half of the duo. He had come to the hood to drop off film and deliver the Gazine to friends in the area, carrying it in the only thing one would use to carry precious cargo: a heavy, silver briefcase, reminiscent of a well-connected type trying to breeze through the
Miami airport some time during the mid 1980s. As we pass the bar, I peek inside. It‚Äôs not exactly welcoming and is practically boarded up outside, save some extra-large x-mas lights. Perfect. Inside sit two people and a bartender. There is a back room behind the bathrooms that looks like a rec room from any David Lynch scene, hypothetical or otherwise. ‚ÄúThis doesn‚Äôt look like the local gringo joint,‚ÄĚ I think. We take a chance (take a chance, take a chance, take a chance‚Ä¶!) and go inside. I can‚Äôt really tell who the bartender is; she might just be a patron sitting behind the bar. A football game plays on the TV behind us. Once inside, I note how much different it seemed than seconds earlier from outside, when I was pressing my face against the window and cupping my hands around my eyes trying to catch a glimpse of the general scene indoors. The afternoon light perks up and becomes a gorgeous thing, pouring in like Joni‚Äôs butterscotch offering a raking light across the bodies of the few patrons who are there going about what is probably just one of their daily rituals. The guy to our left is solo and ready for chit chat. The woman to our right is snacking on potato chips. We are talking about the Gazine, the show, money, photography, everything, when a song suddenly comes on the radio that stops everyone in mid-conversation. It is the famous one by Don McLean. We all start singing along in quiet voices but as the song picks up steam so do we. We get into it. We use the voices that would best be served in a jalopy on an open highway (the windows are down, we are driving as fast as we can) and we give it heart. We are sitting in our own chairs, each of us in our own vessels, moving with or without rhythm (it doesn‚Äôt matter) all compelled to participate by the same song. It is nothing if not joyous.