I am thrilled to have Jocelyn Ulevicus write this introductory note. She is a painter and poet based in Amsterdam, and she has been a friend of WRJ since her first appearance in Issue 4. She also provided cover art for Issue 7 in March 2021 among her other contributions. Without further ado, let’s jump in.

Aaron Lelito, Editor in Chief

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At the moment of dispatch from my attic studio in Amsterdam, a strong wind rattles the windows and doors. It is just after 8am, and the sun has hardly crested the horizon. In fact, it is still very dark outside. I have a few candles lit, and the flames flicker and jump with seeming delight. Overhead, outside, there is a howling sound that rushes in and out. As I tap my fingers along the keyboard, sipping my coffee, a draft running under the entryway door cools my toes. I don’t mind it; I don’t mind any of it. I love windy days. Always have. I happen to think they are auspicious—days when anything can happen! And for anything to happen, the mind and heart must be free and open—personally, that’s how I do my best creating.

A framed print on the studio wall says, “STOP DOMESTICATING YOURSELF.” I look at this print daily and smile, sometimes laughing, catching the bold type out of the corner of my eye as I do something inexplicably ordinary, like washing the dishes. The phrase reminds me to take the lid off my head and allow my imagination to run amok. Today, the frame also shakes with the wind, catching my attention.

When Aaron asked me to write a contributor note for an upcoming issue, I said yes without hesitation. And then, for days after, I hesitated whenever I sat down to write. My throat choked, my fingers froze along the keyboard, and my mind went blank. At the same time, it felt like I was being pulled back, as one would pull back on an arrow. The momentum was palpably acute. It felt hard precisely because I would create something out of nothing! Birth is a wondrous, violent thing.

This may or may not sound familiar to any contributors in this issue—imposter syndrome is a common theme for many creatives. And still, I write one word and then another, just as when I paint, one brushstroke comes after another, and eventually, I let go, and an image and/or theme emerges. In the process, I resist, rebel, and repair all that’s made this singular moment happen and the next one after that possible.

And possibility is my favorite place. Any act of creation boldly and bravely challenges the norms that shape both art and life—building bridges to worlds beyond what’s been previously known. And so I think it should feel like an arrow pulling back, and then off you go, casting yourself into the void, like an ultimate, unwavering freedom.

For instance, as I create, I know that in the doing, my experience of myself, my body, my heart, and my mind will transform into other—I’ll become at once more myself while unbecoming any of the limits my imagination previously imposed. The value of art then not only lies in the journey of the making, but in combination with the experience of the viewer, the two coalescing into an ultimate co-creation. The cumulative effect is liberatory and expansive, like stepping out into a field full of color where loneliness and worry is ameliorated, where flowers can come alive, where hope can grow.

Tammy Greenwood takes us into that field, tugging us back into the wild, if but “for a moment / we don’t consider the world / with all its thorned…” as if to say the tiny mercies of wildflowers matter. And they do. Her poem is followed by Michalak’s collages, “Whole Wild World” and “Meadowmorphosis,” leaving me feeling like I’m tumbling toward something new yet deeply a-historical. That out of a moment of peace, a revolution could come.

Ethan Mershon rocks me awake when he muses, “The morning almost makes me forget / the floundering– Last time I waited until everything / exploded.” These opening lines remind me that happiness comes and goes while hauntingly asserting—for me—the current state of the world. Making and consuming art can be considered a necessary site of transformation; there remains a timeless and timely examination of the role of art in people’s political and emotional lives.

We are told sometimes, often, that art cannot change anything. I argue it can. Personally, it changed me. Both painting and writing memoirs and poetry helped me heal heartbreaks, losses, and traumas. Creating has helped me let go of the past, connect with my present, and expand my future; my path to healing could only come through creative expression. My work has introduced me to new experiences, new revelations, and new people, with the extraordinary revelation that art can help support my well-being and the health and harmony of all.

While it may sound naive, we can collectively rebuild a more structurally compassionate world through art and engaging with new ideas. And along with Greenwood, Michalak, and Mershon, the contributors to this issue show us precisely how.

Jocelyn Ulevicus