Dead Dads Club Volume II

DEAD DADS CLUB
A visual arts and literature zine for those who have experienced loss
Curated by Katherine Leung

Dead Dads Club Volume II
Call for submissions ended November 4, 2020
Publication on December 1, 2020
Dead Dads Club is a collaborative visual arts and literature
zine that showcases the work of artists and writers that have
experienced the loss of a father or father-figure. We honor the
nuanced experiences and showcase them in a volunteer-run
juried-submission print and online zine. The mission is to use
this platform to uplift artists/writers and their work as well as
foster a space for grieving and unanswered questions caused
by the loss of a father or father-figure.
Featuring work by:
Jonathon Downing Westland, USA
Serrone Rolon New York, USA
Nur Aisyah Ezral Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia
Mary Rouncefield Bristol, UK
Kim Dijkstra Amsterdam, Netherlands
Megal Quintal San Francisco, USA
Lauryl Eddlemon Austin, USA
Kristalyn Gill New York, USA
Liam Anderson Denmark
Simon Hauwaerts Brighton, UK & Belgium
Glenn Matthews Dublin, Ireland
Chelsea Summers South Wales
Anniston Craddock Denver, USA
Doina Iacob Wood Dale, USA
Pippilotta Yerna The Hague, Netherlands

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Family Tree
Jonathon Downing // 10
Family Tree (Redux)
Jonathon Downing // 12
Mother Fucker
Serrone Robin // 16
O Captain My Captain
Nur Aisyah Ezral // 22
Rescue
Mary Rouncefield // 30
Vanitas
Kim Dijkstra // 36
4

Mary Rouncefield
20 x 20 cm
Handprinted on copper plates
5

Glenn Matthews
70 x 70 cm
2020

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Recovering from Losses
Megan Quintal // 42
Descending Blue
Lauryl Eddlemon // 44
The Shape of You and The
Sand and This Big Umbrella
Kristalyn Gill // 46
Until I was Born
Liam Anderson // 48
Late Night Menu
Simon Hauwaerts // 63
Reflections
Glenn Matthews // 69

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Epidermis
Chelsea Summers // 70
Collateral Beauty
Anniston Craddock // 74
Shine Until Tomorrow Series
Anniston Craddock // 78
Dad, don’t go, it’s a trick
Doina Iacob // 82
She is the canary in the
coalmine of a dying empire
Pippilotta Yerna // 86
About the Contributors
88

Doina Iacob
7 x 9”
ballpoint pen and ink on paper

FAMILY TREE
Jonathon Downing
I lost my father when I was around 10, in
a metaphorical sense, to mental illness.
He became distant yet aggressive,
depressed yet manic, delusional and
above all, uncaring. He and I no longer
speak, and my mother and siblings have
cut off contact as well. This piece
depicts what is, at first, an ideal family.
When this image is closely observed, one
is able to see the nuances of each
individual and form connections between
the characters depicted, while also
relating those to themselves and their
own experiences. A laughing yet
internally melancholy wife, a bubbly but
troubled daughter, an excited son with a
passion burning inside him, and an
innocent infant; are all positioned next to
a bipolar father figure.
Jonathon Downing
December 2018

This piece is a
physical
rendition of
the previous,
with the act of
transferring
and painting a
digital image
allowing for
the distortion
of memory
and changing
of
relationships
to be depicted.

FAMILY TREE
(REDUX)
Jonathon Downing
This piece is a physical rendition of the previous, with the act
of transferring and painting a digital image allowing for the
distortion of memory and changing of relationships to be
depicted. These happier memories are now covered up by
paint, while each figure and their relationships to the other
family members have been completely changed, except for
the baby, who is an untouchable being due to the innocence
of infancy. The father-son dynamic is exaggerated in this
painting, with the contrast in eyes alluding to the juxtaposition
of a father sleepwalking through life, and a child full of
promise and energy.
Jonathon Downing
Oil, Charcoal and Inkjet Print on Canvas
24” x 36”
2018

MOTHER FUCKER
Serrone Rolon
My father left my family when I was two years old.
So the concept of the Dead Dads Club takes on a
different meaning for me. Living without a father
being raised by an angry mother, losing my
brother because of all of this and when my father
finally reaches out to me, 30 years later to only
ask for forgiveness and to actually die of a heart
attack months later. I’m officially a member of this
club, twice.
Serrone Rolon
7 x 9”
Ballpoint pen and ink on paper
16

17

Serrone Rolon
7 x 9”
Ballpoint pen and ink on paper

"For the last 20 years Mother
& Child has woven itself
throughout my art as a
primary subject. This new
body of work I am creating,
d e p i c t i n g M o t h e r a n d
Child(ren), is called “mothe
fukr/ motherfucker.” I am
reclaiming the term mother
fucker and attempting to
reverse its popular notion
that streams out of popular
slang. The story I have is
pretty complicated and a
story I still struggle to tell.
Serrone Rolon
7 x 9”
Ballpoint pen and ink on paper

22
O CAPTAIN MY CAPTAIN
Nur Aisyah Ezral

There was definitely some magic in the air today, the smell of
rain, the glow of the sun amongst the clouds, the drizzle
bringing it in. July 26th, 2020. It would’ve been my father’s
52nd birthday today, exactly 25 years more than his actual
life lived.
Humor, I recently learned, is a common trauma response,
especially when discussing said trauma. I often jest that my
father is a member of the notorious 27 Club - he was just
over three months short of turning 27 when he died pretty
tragically with a death story interesting enough to join the
likes of Cobain, Winehouse, Hendrix, Joplin… . As for myself,
I was two months in my third year of life when my daddy left
for work and never came home.
He was in the army by absolute choice, a calling for him, a
dedicated captain by rank, a lifer as my mom would describe
it.
Just last month, ten days after my own daughter turned 17
months old, one of his closest and oldest friends messaged
me with a letter my dad wrote him which included the
mention of me, his then 17-month-old first baby. It was a
small yet significant detail, among other descriptions, like
how bored of he was of his current desk job post, and was
hoping for more exciting things in the future, like a
peacekeeping mission to Bosnia Herzegovina or Somalia
with pacifist anti-war sentiments in mind it seemed like, or so
I hope. In his written words: “to see for myself the sadness
and brutality of war so I might advise my politicians never to
engage in any conflict or st__id war when I’m a general.”
He had grand patriotic ambitions indeed, my father. They say
be careful what you wish for, but I actually hope he did get
what he wished for - to die in the line of service to his country
- which would salve some of our grief.
23

He ventured into the deep Malaysian jungle for a solo training
mission and got entangled in gruelling and mysterious -
supernatural, if you dare believe - circumstances. A search and
rescue team was sent out for him, and it took them a long time to
find him and fight to finally get to him - severely injured and
unconscious.
Back home, my mother was heavily pregnant, due any time to
give birth to my little brother, their second child. He explicitly told
her before a goodbye kiss, whether in seriousness or not, I do not
know, “Wait for me.”
They were both rushed to the hospital on the same night, three
states apart, both at the cusp of life, and death, I suppose. My
baby brother was born on April 5th, and became fatherless the
next day as my dad succumbed to his injuries on April 6th. They
wrote it off as ‘dehydration’, which was what I grew up believing
all my life until recent years when the more gruesome truth was
disclosed to me at last.
I still need to get the story straight, but I believe my mother
rushed to his deathbed, a four-hour-drive away. I do not know
whether or not my brother shared breathing space with my father.
If you think this reads like a fictional novel or soap opera, wait til
you hear about how 3 years after that, my mother got remarried to
my late father’s childhood best friend, a huge part of it owed to
the fact that my brother and I simply adored him.

My mother kept her and my father’s tight-knit group of friends
close by for constant support, as well as our extended family.
We moved in with my father’s parents, her in-laws who hosted
us even in their unspoken and to this day, unmanaged grief.
My mother, returning the favor by playing host to their
overwhelming grief, buried her own.
I count myself blessed to grow up in a culture that still valued
the village coming together for support, and where death is
barely taboo, thus getting to grow up knowing my father
through fantastical celebratory stories from all directions.
The handful of photo albums and the one single VHS tape
home video recording that is now lost served as the only
memories contained in my mere two early years with him. (Oh
what I would give for there to have been smartphone cameras
back then, or better yet if we’re gonna go there, a time
machine.)
The handful of photo
albums and the one single
VHS tape home video
recording that is now lost
served as the only memories
contained in my mere two
early years with him.

I grew up feeling and speaking nonchalantly about this
particular detail of my childhood with no memory of my father
save for secondary sources. Now that I’m a millennial adult and
a mother myself, I understand more about adverse childhood
trauma, coping mechanisms, trauma responses, all that jazz,
and how it’s affected my personhood. That’s another essay
though.
It was just something that happened to me, something that
made me the person I am, something that I felt set me apart
from others, an interesting tidbit, a fun fact, an awkward dinner
party story.
As I became more self-aware and conscious about selfhealing,
I struggled with some specific insecurity and selfdoubt
about how I was telling this story, feeling like I was a
broken record with it and that I was ‘using’ my trauma.
This takes us back to July 26th 2020. We were about a quarter
of a year in with a global pandemic, Zoom meetings and
events having become the norm. I was in a Zoom event that
featured one of my most favorite writers/poets in recent years,
Hanif Abdurraqib. It was now a Q&A session after an interview
and some readings had been done. I thought of how Hanif
writes and speaks often of his mother’s death and his grief, and
how it has informed his work. I thought of the ever-looming
conflict I have in myself about my own grief as a daughter with
a dead dad. I tinkered with the idea, I hesitated, I went back
and forth with myself in my head.

I think it was my father's whispers pushing me to get over my
pervasive self-doubt, powering me with his own courage to
speak his truth and ask difficult questions... I held my breath
and silenced the sound of my racing heart, repasted the
weighty words I'd typed out and Ctrl+x-ed repeatedly,
Entered it into the Zoom-sphere, and broke out a sweat while
I waited for the writer whose work and words I worship to
writhe out a response... I don’t even remember my original
question any more, but I rushedly jotted down his answer, not
counting on there being a recording of this particular Zoom.
For him and his relieving answer I will forever be touched
and grateful:
"You are not a broken record, and you are not in any way
"using" your trauma. Your grief is an immovable object,
worthy of celebration, a reminder that you held something
immense for someone that is no longer here, it is vital work
and important work."
That really meant the world to me, again, especially coming
from a person/writer I admire. It helped me reshape the way
my insecure mind worked, throw my self-doubt out the
window, and claim my grief and scars more fully. It will
always be a journey, a non-linear one, but this is another
testament to how much community and solidarity make a
difference.
What a gift to receive on the July 26th day of remembering
my father’s life. Mercy and ease on his soul, Captain Ezral. I
thank him every day for my life being the way it is, which is
another way to say I thank him for living the way he lived,

You are not a broken record,
and you are not in any way
"using" your trauma. Your grief
is an immovable object, worthy
of celebration, a reminder that
you held something immense
for someone that is no longer
here, it is vital work and
important work.
Hanif Abdurraqib
I cobbled a few different Instagram captions
from my annual tribute posts for my dad,
dead for 25 years since I was 2 years old,
and added on some things for it to become
this piece.

RESCUE
Mary Rouncefield
These etchings are part of a series, made to celebrate my
father's service in the RAF during World War ll. His name
was Wilfred Watts and he was awarded the DFC
Distinguished Flying Cross for his work as a navigator.
These three images show stages in a rescue which was
undertaken as a training exercise. Their crew had to drop
an inflatable rescue craft with a parachute, so that a crew
in the water could climb in and await further rescue.
30

Mary Rouncefield
20 x 20 cm
Handprinted on copper plates
31

32

Mary Rouncefield
20 x 20 cm
Handprinted on copper plates
33

34
Mary Rouncefield
20 x 20 cm
Handprinted on copper plates

35

VANITAS
Kim Dijkstra
I have been in the lucky position to be able to care for my
father in his final years. Through his sick bed until his last
breath a year ago. We reconnected and deepened the
relationship. Getting closer to someone you have to let go
soon is a double edged sword. Still I am glad it happened.
During the last month before his death I started up a
photography project on the theme Vanitas. I kept working
on it after he passed away. It helps me in my process of
mourning.
I started off with fairly traditional Vanitas works but over
time my pictures became more minimalistic. It helped me
zoom in on the cycle of life and death we all are subjected
to.
36

Kim Dijkstra
Vanitas 56
Still Life with Autumn Leaf
August 1, 2020
37

38
Kim Dijkstra
Vanitas 57
Still Life with Ginger
August 28, 2020

39

Kim Dijkstra
Vanitas 60
Still Life with Scrap of Paper
Septemer 16, 2020
40

“I started off with fairly
t r a d i t i o n a l Va n i t a s
works but over time my
pictures became more
minimalistic. It helped
me zoom in on the
cycle of life and death
we all are subjected to.”
41

RECOVERING
FROM LOSSES
Megan Quintal
While working through and grieving the loss of my relationship
with my father I found that creating this piece was the best way
to heal. I read through the book "Recovering From Losses in
Life", but nothing clicked for me until I started to cut up the book
by creating less and less missing pieces on each page until
there was just one small missing piece remaining on the last
page. Grief takes time, but eventually we are able to become
more whole.
42

43

44

DESCENDING BLUE
Lauryl Eddlemon
For me, depression sets in like a slow rolling fog. This painting
illustrates that feeling: the world gets gloomy and dark as I feel
that thick fog begin to descend. For so many of us, 2020 was
a year of loss. This semi-autobiographical piece was painted
soon after the death of a friend.
Lauryl Eddlemon
11x14”
Mixed media on wood panel
45

THE SHAPE OF YOU AND
THE SAND AND THIS BIG
YELLOW UMBRELLA
Kristalyn Gill
This work expounds upon the silent pulse of grief
unattended to by both the daughter, the mother,
and the observations by the narrator. Grief is
touched on not as the loss of a loved one to
death, but rather to another love. The reader can
find patterns of the grief cycle in effect:
numbness, anger, depression, helplessness, and
bargaining. The irony is in the umbrella holding
space for all of these new beginnings yet the
individuals being unable to hold space for their
grief to be felt, examined, and remembered.
46

The shape of you is a big yellow umbrella with enough room for
productivity
and me, and Jessica, and Jessica’s mom,
as we build sandcastles from the graveyard of the sea.
Jessica says hers is perfect, and I believe her because
I know her to build with her hands what life has refused to give her.
I see each tower, twisting and toppling over my own crumbling
laboratory of labor.
I lust after her pursuit of togetherness in fierce silence.
In the fiery midday sun,
we feast upon visions of better endings
with unsatiated appetites for a taste of praise and a thirst for ambition.
Jessica’s mom is conversing with her third tumbler of whiskey
when she sees a man jogging past us that looks like her ex-husband.
She launches herself from her stupor to confront him,
in a matter of moments washing away our hopes
with a lick of her toes and the crushing of her heels.
She stops with her knees kissing the water and sits dumbfounded by
the waves
asking them to drown out her anger or else drown her.
Jessica keeps her eyes on the sand,
beginning the race once again under the yellow umbrella that has
enough room
for productivity and denial and for a brief moment of suspended reality
to pretend everything is going to be okay.
I sit in the sand and wonder what else this umbrella can possibly hold
for me.
47

UNTIL I WAS BORN
Liam Anderson
Until I was Born tells the story of my parents, from when they met
until I was born, through oil paintings that are based on
recreations of photographs as well as their oral accounts as they
were handed over to me throughout my upbringing. It is a story
of a young and idealistic couple who fall in love through a
commitment to create a life together free from the individualistic
and isolating reality of the neo-liberal market society of Europe
since the late 1970s. From the squat scene of Sankt Pauli and
Reberbahn in Hamburg, to the drug infused raves of Goa in
India and experiments with communal lifestyles in various parts
of southern Europe, this piece tells the story of the life of my
parents as travelers who lived on the road in a bus converted
into their home, before I was born and they became parents;
Before they became pregnant and were confronted with the
question: How can our lifestyle, our dreams and our aspirations,
be compatible with the safe upbringing of a child? It is a story of
sacrifice and compromise. Eventually deciding to settle down,
and once again confronted with the meaningless life in a
capitalist modernity, the piece captures the crumbling of my
parent’s relationship and my father’s sinking into depression.
After years of pain, the result is a divorce; I was born into this
moment of pain, this moment of rupture. The only glimpse I
would ever come to know of a harmonious family would be
through the thousands of pictures that capture those years
before I came into being, and everything changed.
48

Liam Anderson
Untitled 4 of 7 series
Oil on paper
49

How can our lifestyle, our
dreams and our
aspirations, be compatible
with the safe upbringing of
a child? It is a story of
sacrifice and compromise.

After years of pain, the result is a
divorce; I was born into this
moment of pain, this moment of
rupture. The only glimpse I
would ever come to know of a

harmonious family would be
through the thousands of
pictures that capture those years
before I came into being, and
everything changed.

62

LATE NIGHT MENU
Simon Hauwaerts
'Late Night Menu' is about grief. It's about
unsuccesfully using food as a coping
mechanism. It's also about the way that a loved
one's possessions can turn into relics after
they're gone. Things that held no special
significance at all to the loved one when they
were still alive suddenly become something to
be treasured.
63

When you left
I ate
The bills you left on the table for me
Under a paperweight
Heavy
Yet made to be lifted
I ate the dust of your clothes
Nibbled it off like Dorito dust
Syrupy-sweet and bad for me
But what else is there to do
When the closet door unlocks and
The folds beckon
I ate the letters off of your annotated books
Sucked up the scrawls
With a long reusable straw
To save the flora within me
I ate a thousand slices of banana bread
Deliciously edible
All that food forming a clump in my throat
Slowly turning into a crumpled piece of paper
A photo turning to mush
Developing in my stomach
Becoming fertile ground

I ate until I couldn't anymore
Until every empty body part was filled again
Swollen skin, deflated tongue
All that dessert eroded my vocal cords
But I didn't need words
To caress my belly
Ever-growing
To watch it take shape
A thin spindly woman
Based on a sepia original
To moan softly
As the shape began to outgrow mine
Pushing at its corners
Rounding them
I feel the hands pressing now
Something tears, crying red inside
The umbilical cord comes before the woman
Grey, strung out death mask
Twisted into unused guts
Then there she is
No doctor to hold her up to the lamps
Just me and her
Both crying, both dazed
Two corpses on one kitchen table

REFLECTIONS
Glenn Matthews

68

The reflection in this
p i e c e i s w h a t I
expect to see, when
what I actually see is
the reflection of my
Father's face.
This image has been
used as an album
cover, When the
T i m e C o m e s b y
Drops of Green.
Glenn Matthews
70 x 70 cm
2020
69

EPIDERMIS
Chelsea Summers
This series of photographs investigates the
ideology of mental unrest and manipulation
within psychology. The visualisation of
melancholia is profound throughout as my
practice is mainly surrounded by the aspect of
manifestation and the hidden internal struggle.
Recently as an artist, I have become extremely
engrossed by the effect that a deficit of
endorphins can have on the brain, whilst also
including personal elements to convey an
intimate story. A story that is heavy and
incredibly moving, but personal.
The transformation through the sequence of
images relates to the downwards spiral of the
organ we inhabit. Time can move quickly or
slow, we can just never tell.
70

71

COLLATERAL
BEAUTY
Anniston Craddock
This poem was written a year after the passing of my
father in 2018. It consists of five different stanzas,
which reflect my emotions as I processed the five
stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression,
and acceptance. Everyone processes death
differently, and this is a raw representation of my
feelings during this challenging process.

Death flying down the tracks
No warning to bring peace,
Knocking out wind on in impact
A heart then breaks with ease,
Left trying to find yourself
Through the collateral damage,
The light dims to nothing
Silences clinches with baggage
Slipping beneath the surface of the pit of grief, Chest fills with
anxious air
Never a sense of relief
Drowning through the black of water,
Against the dying light
Slipping farther and farther
The memories once cherished build on legs of hate, This never
should have happened
This was not his future fate
Last hope revives as head meets closed hands.
Please bring back my light
Please please change your plans,
Wishes hit the sky with ignorance
For I have nothing left.
How can you be our righteous king
When you’re the god of theft?
Fractured through the reflection of who I use to be,
No longer fighting for the light
For it will never be free,
Sinking deeper and deeper
Emotions forcibly,
Left broken forever in a field of uncertainty.
The light reveals itself through the darkness of its pain,
Realizes life provides moments and relationships
These to further gain
The love and bond of others
Makes depression escape and run,
For it was the light of collateral beauty
That mends us back to one.

He continues to look after
me, and I will always be
thankful for having his
influence and teaching me
the importance of finding
passion and loving endlessly.
I lost my father to stage four colon cancer in January of 2018.
He always pushed me to follow my passion and do things that
bring me joy and confidence. Art and writing became a major
component of my everyday life to cope with the intense
grieving process. I see his influence in my personal creative
outlets, and it’s a blessing to recognize him through the little
things in my daily life. I feel his comfort when the Beatles play
from my record player, I feel his warmth when I pick up a
pencil to draw or write, and I feel is love when I’m surrounded
by my amazing family and friends. He continues to look after
me, and I will always be thankful for having his influence and
teaching me the importance of finding passion and loving
endlessly.
76

SHINE UNTIL
TOMORROW SERIES
Anniston Craddock
The Shine Until Tomorrow Series was created to commemorate
my father after spreading his ashes in one of his favorite
locations, New York City. During his fight against cancer, he would
travel to New York City monthly to receive treatment from
Memorial Sloan’s Kettering. He loved long walks through
Strawberry Fields in Central Park and declaring that he could see
the Brooklynn Bridge even if we were miles away. These became
landmarks that represent his life and memory. We laid his ashes
at the John Lennon Memorial Stone in December of 2019. We
continue to travel to this location annually as a family. It has
become a place where I can reconnect with his spirit and feel his
presence while being surrounded by his most cherished
memories: Beatles music, New York City, and the endless love of
his family.
77

Anniston Craddock
11 x 14”
Pen and ink drawing
2019

80
DAD, DON’T GO,
IT’S A TRICK
Doina Iacob

My father passed away ten
years ago and this piece is a
reflection of the visual
memory I have of him:
walking peacefully, with his
hat on and his old umbrella
in one hand. This time,
though, the walking has
another meaning, a painful
one for me.
81

82
Doina Iacob
7 x 9”
ballpoint pen and ink on paper

83

SHE IS
THE
CANARY
IN THE
COALMINE
OF A
DYING
EMPIRE
Pippilotta Yerna

Losing a parent. What could it look like? A crash? A
crime? An accident? Slow or fast? I hereby present my
mom -she stars in her own death scene -and myself:
the daughter who is looking for the best possible
death. Controlling the inevitable: it may seem
impossible. However, by attempting to, we may be
able to cope with what we fear most. As a daughter
and a photographer, I had the opportunity to master
the narrative by placing death on a stage, surrounded
by various elements that could interfere with the way
my mother might die.

ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS
Jonathon Downing
Westland, USA
A recent graduate of the Penny Stamps School of Art and Design,
Jonathon Downing’s digital montages and physical paintings deal
with themes of memory, family, grandeur, mental health, and the
human condition. His photo montages depict the many sides of
each individual in an image, creating almost superhuman
versions of the human portrait and form, while still keeping them
honest and grounded in reality. The paintings he creates based
off these montages demonstrate the unreliable nature of memory
and the transience of emotion and human relationships through
the recreation of an image that is already a complete work in its’
own right.
instagram.com/jonathondowning
Serrone Rolon
New York, USA
For the last 20 years Mother & Child has woven itself throughout
my art as a primary subject. This new body of work I am creating,
depicting Mother and Child(ren), is called “mothe fukr/
motherfucker.” I am reclaiming the term mother fucker and
attempting to reverse its popular notion that streams out of
popular slang. The story I have is pretty complicated and a story I
still struggle to tell.
lindaserronerolon.com

Nur Aisyah Ezral
Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia
Nur Aisyah Ezral, now also hyphened Stern, goes by Aisyah and in
the recent years has been spelling her name as Ayshah since
moving from Malaysia to the US (long story), tries to relive writing
and creating while making boxed mac n cheese for her three
children.
Mary Rouncefield
Bristol, UK
I an an artist and mathematician based in Bristol UK. I returned to
university in 2005 to re-train as an artist. I have exhibited my work in
New York, London and Europe. I make work about social issues,
social history and mathematics.
Kim Dijkstra
Amsterdam, Netherlands
In my work I examine the apparent paradox between intrinsic value
and perceived value. In my Latest work. 'Vanitas' I approach my
research on a zoomed-in scale, by making Vanitas portraits of found
or recycled objects found in my personal environment. Vanitas still
lifes have always juxtaposed life and death to remind us of the
unescapable cycles of nature. And emphasize the value of life.
kimdijkstra.nl
instagram.com/kim_dijkstra_film_photo

ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS
Megan Quintal
San Francisco, USA
Currently based in San Francisco, Megan received a Bachelors in
Fine Art at the School of the Museum of Fine Arts in 2014. She
typically works with photography and altered books while focusing
on themes of loss and relationships.
instagram.com/meganquintalart
Lauryl Eddlemon
Austin, USA
I studied fine art, art history and graphic design at Southwest
Texas State University. After earning a Bachelor's degree in
graphic design I worked for many years as the Design Director at
Southwest Art magazine. My husband and I live primarily in
Austin, Texas with our two tabby cats but we spend our summers
in lovely Santa Fe, New Mexico where I continue to my painting
studies.
instagram.com/lauryl.eddlemon.art

Kristalyn Gill
New York, USA
Within creation lies the dangerous yet enthralling possibility to get a
glimpse at the human mind in its raw and ravenous form as it
digests our reality into personal experience and memorabilia as we
cascade into the future laid before us. May we continue to use art to
communicate, understand, commentate, reveal, explore, nurture,
discuss, celebrate, and study the revolting yet remarkable tale of
the human condition.
kristalyngill.com
instagram.com/kristalyngill
Liam Anderson
Denmark
I am a mixed-media artist from Denmark, based in Greece. I am
currently working on recreating photographs of my family and
upbringing into oil paintings. This method captures the poetics and
emotions that memories evoke, allowing me to find a balance
between memory and imagination. To engage artistically has given
me the opportunity to view memories and family photographs with
a more critical lens and helps me better understand where I come
from, how this has shaped my identity, and why I have ended up on
a very similar path today. The process of becoming a part of the art
I am creating, by living the story that I am tellin, is the baseline for
the whole project.
instagram.com/the.moon.is.a.harsh.mistress

ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS
Simon Hauwaerts
Brighton, UK & Belgium
Simon Hauwaerts was born in Belgium but is currently studying
English Literature in the UK.
Glenn Matthews
Dublin, Ireland
Dublin based artist specialising in icons from the movie and
music worlds. Best known piece is the Rory Gallagher image on
his album The French Connection.
instagram.com/glenn.matthews.art
Chelsea Summers
South Wales
A young female mixed media artist and photographer that
recently graduated from SCA with a BA (Hons) degree in
Photography in the Arts. Continuing on with her studies, Chelsea
has been diving into the ideology of psychosis whist also
expanding her practice with performance and sculpture.
chelspaigeart.wixsite.com/mysite
instagram.com/chelspaigecaptures

Doina Iacob
Wood Dale, USA
Most of the time my paintings tell more than one story. The
images are interposed, interlaced, or dissolved in one another
much like memories.
iacobina.com
Anniston Craddock
Denver, USA
instagram.com/annistoncraddock
Pippilotta Yerna
The Hague, Netherlands
The curiosity of a child is my drive, where my camera becomes
the binocular to dissect my idea about reality. As a maker is a
search for personal connections towards my subjects. Within a
photograph, it is not always clear in which time and space the
scene takes place. It can be altered or remain undefined, which
gives me the opportunity to change what might happen.
instagram.com/pippilottayerna

About Dead Dads Club
Dead Dads Club is curated by California-based artist and youth
arts educator Katherine Leung. Katherine Leung lost her dad to
leukemia in 2012. She has worked through the grief with multiple
therapists. She has felt kinship with other artists who have also
lost a dad and finds humor an easy way to relate with others and
their experiences.
http://leung.live
Retail
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Contact
http://deaddads.club
deaddadsclubzine@gmail.com
IG: deaddadsclubzine

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Cover design:
UNTIL I WAS BORN
Liam Anderson
http://deaddads.club
deaddadsclubzine@gmail.com