by Bobb Attard

with an illustration by Tigrowna

i remember

lying in bed on a sunday afternoon, loud techno on to mask off my painful sounding vocal tics

distracting myself with the view of the topless graffiti artists from outside my bedroom window;

admiring their art and sometimes their bodies

while fantasising about a future where I’m standing comfortably in public. 

numb hatred towards the capitalist monster that has been slowly eating so many places, memories and people that i held dearly. 

the frustration on the first week of the month when a major chunk of my money was sniffed out of my bank account like cocaine at an East London house party.

the discomfort within my own skin that has been aggravated throughout the last year. 

somehow on my brief return, the veil seems to have been either blown away by the wind or perhaps misplaced on a night out.

i know that

somehow on my brief return, the veil seems to have been either blown away by the wind or perhaps misplaced on a night out.

i didn’t even know i was wearing it, until i realised it wasn’t there anymore.

the realisation of how even more uncomfortable i am now, 
and that I’m actively seeking more discomfort disguised as curiosity or experience, 
or perhaps it’s a search for temporary fulfilment of a fantasy where I’m materialistically comfortable. 

there’s a comfortable feeling of nakedness here, 

away from the catholic shame that still subliminally affects my environment. 

the unapologetic queerness that i breathe out, almost as if I’ve been holding my breath since June (obviously excluding splattered moments of comfort here and there)

the feeling of personal identity in a place where i once felt lost 

and the wonderful feeling of community in a place where it doesn’t seem to exist through the naked eye. 

the lack of anger towards being misunderstood about mundane trivialities that essentially make us who we are. 

the diversity that paradoxically may or may not be the product of a system that i despise so much. 

the hatred towards a city that destroyed me.

the love towards a city that built me.

Bobb Attard (b. Malta, 1988) is a visual artist, portrait photographer and closeted writer who spent his most adult life in London and is currently based in Zagreb.

Tigrowna: Queer drawing and printing with passion.

Shifting Traditions

Call for Submissions

DEADLINE: 30.12.2019

You do not live in the same environment that you were born into. Your surroundings have changed, your body has changed, the way you are perceived, the way you are treated, the way you perceive and treat yourself is subject to constant change.

Whether you’ve stayed in the same place, but the political system, and family relations, or the climate changed around you, or whether you live with the memory of a place or situation you have left a long time ago or just yesterday – there are certain aspects of past and present within you or shared with the people around you that come together in harmony, struggle, or somehow don’t come together at all. They are traditions in transition.

The Cutter

The Cutter

The Cutter by AdibaImage provided by the author. Modified for publication by Verena.When I was eighteen, I was forced to roll dough every Saturday. A big circle of dough - thin enough to see the kitchen table’s fine grey cage pattern, or, as they say, “thin enough to...

Naa’hor Pa-at

Naa’hor Pa-at

by Chroma Chola // illustration by Marko Emigrantov_na Kvirenko /// A coffee cup lay on a stack of charts, its contents spiraling outwards. Computer screens nearby were beeping rapidly. One of the scientists picked up the coffee cup, emptied it in one gulp and wrote a report on his iPad.

an old tradition

an old tradition

by Julia Saragos // illustrations by Lena Dirscherl /// our last kiss
– fumbling and strange – in a spanish airport bathroom – she