Fernando Carpaneda has been creating sculptures and paintings within the punk and homoerotic genres since the 1980s. His voracious involvement in the cause of diversity and punk culture led him to exhibit at: the CBGB art gallery, The Heckscher Museum of Art, The Tom of Finland Foundation, The Leslie Lohman Museum of Art, and on the LED panels in Times Square, New York. Carpaneda also created illustrations for The Best of Punk Globe Magazine: a book that brings together interviews with Debbie Harry, Boy George, Jamie Oliver (UK SUBS), Earl Slick, John Lydon, The Adicts, Glen Matlock, Joe Dallesandro. Carpaneda’s works were published in the book Treasures Of Gay Art, by the Leslie Lohman Museum of Art, alongside Andy Warhol, Robert Mapplethorpe and Keith Haring. Recently, the artist made it two in a row returning to the Long Island Biennial.

From Fernando Carpaneda:

I come from an Italian family but I was born in Brazil. I had my first exhibition of paintings at the age of 13, in the early ‘80s in Brasilia: the capital of Brazil. I came to New York City by chance. In the late ‘90s, I met “Dumpster”, an American Crust Punk who was on vacation in Brazil. We became friends and I ended up moving to New York and living in the C-Squat on Avenue – C.

C-Squat and CBGB were two very important influences on the creative process of my works. My work has always illustrated the Underground scene, the Punk scene, and the LGBTQIA+ scene. In early 1995, I got in touch with CBGB, and ended up scheduling some exhibitions at CB’s 313 Gallery. A few years later the gallery invited me to participate in an exhibition called “Back to the Bowery”. That brought together some of the remaining artists from Andy Warhol’s famous The Factory, as well as new artists who portrayed the city’s underground scene.

It was a historic exhibition, and where I met Billy Name (He created the design for The Factory, Andy Warhol Superstars, and was Warhol’s photographer) as well as several other artists from the ‘70s. I ended up becoming friends with Billy Name and we stayed in touch until his death in 2016. The CBGB exhibitions definitely opened several doors for me on the city’s art circuit, and it was a turning point in my international career. It was also at CBGB that I met Arturo Vega, we became friends and we stayed in touch until his death in 2013. Arturo invited me to participate in an exhibition called The Bowery Electric Festival (A Tribute to Joey Ramone) with Dee Dee Ramone paintings. I will be forever grateful to have participated in those celebrated exhibitions.

My style has grown through experience across several mediums for decades. I work with sculptures, paintings, and drawings. I try to show in my works: relevant social taboos, often dense, linked to the punk/underground universe or to LGBTQIA+ contexts. My works talk about exclusion, belonging, racial, gender, social discrimination, and anti-fascism, especially at this moment. In a world of exclusion, art for me generates dialogue. It doesn’t matter who you are, how old you are, or how innovative you are in society. I highlight ordinary people, natural and real bodies and this brings people closer to my work and, consequently, to ourselves.

Interview with artist Fernando Carpaneda

Carpazine: How did you end up on Long Island? Tell us a little about your early career and the influences that led you to where you are today.  

FC: I come from an Italian family but I was born in Brazil. I had my first exhibition of paintings at the age of 13 in the early 80’s in Brasilia: the capital of Brazil. I came to Long Island by chance. At one of the first exhibitions I did in New York, I met an artist who invited me to visit his studio on Long Island, and I ended up moving there. My work has always portrayed the underground scene, the punk scene, and the LGBTQIA scene. In early 1995, I got in touch with CBGB, and ended up scheduling some exhibitions at CB’s 313 Gallery, which was the CBGB art gallery. At that time, the gallery organized an exhibition called “Back to the Bowery” which brought together some of the remaining artists from Andy Warhol’s famous The Factory, as well as new artists who portrayed the city’s underground scene. It was a historic exhibition, and where I met Billy Name (He created the design for The Factory, Andy Warhol Superstars, and was Warhol’s photographer) as well as several other artists from the 70’s. I ended up becoming friends with Billy Name and we stayed in touch until his death in 2016. Various artists from The Factory, like Lou Reed, Candy Darling, and Joe Dallesandro lived here on Long Island in the 60’s and 70’s. I think Joe Dallesandro was living in Babylon at that time. The CBGB exhibition definitely opened several doors for me on the city’s art circuit, and it was a turning point in my international career.

Carpazine: You had an exhibition of your work in Times Square, right? How was that exhibition?  

FC: I exhibited paintings in Times Square. The paintings were portraits of friends and acquaintances, my own superstars. The works were shown on giant bright LED screens and were displayed on the screens of NASDAQ, Thomson Reuters, Clear Channel Spectacolor, and A2a MEDIA’s Port Authority. The opening of the event was attended by singer Twin Shadow, DJ’s AndrewAndrew, and musician Questlove from the band The Roots. The host of the night was Jimmy Fallon of NBC’s Late Night show and the event was organized by Art Takes Times Square. It was a unique experience.  

Carpazine: How was it to have your sculptures in the film The Nearest Human Being?  

FC: It was a fantastic experience to see my sculptures in director Marco Coppola’s film. It won an award for best feature at the Manhattan Film Festival, and it is incredible. While filming, my friend: actor Robert W. Smith, made the connection between me and director Marco Coppola. The director liked my work, and he included my sculptures in the movie. Also, it was great to meet Charlie Hofheimer. I met him by accident when I arrived to leave my sculpture on the film set. So, I saw this guy there, and said, “Hi, how are you?” and shook his hand and talked to him a little bit. It was only after that that I realized it was Charlie Hofheimer. LOL. He was very cool. Charlie is in two of my favorite films. Black Hawk Down and The Village. I was happy to meet him.

Carpazine: How do you view the reactions from the conservative part of society in relation to artistic manifestations in the contemporary world and issues such as sexuality and discrimination?  

FC: Art aims to promote freedom of expression and knowledge, however, not everyone has the knowledge and sensitivity to understand or discuss the subject. Conservatism and lack of information are recurrent. Our society is formed by people with different realities and lifestyles and we have no right to compel people to follow our reality, just as no one has the right to impose theirs on us. Human sexuality is complex and it is not up to anyone to judge it. I know people who have been sexually abused by pastors, priests, and family members and they obviously don’t see the world the same way I do – If an artist’s sexuality bothers you, think twice before criticizing or discriminating against it , because not everyone has had the same life as you.

Carpazine: Can you tell me a little about the Long Island biennial?  

FC: The Long Island Biennial, is an exhibition held by the Heckscher Museum of Art, and had his first edition in 2010. The Long Island Biennial offers professional artists a unique opportunity to share their work through a prestigious exhibition and offers a unique space for visitors. This year the museum celebrates its 100th anniversary, and the proposal of the biennial on this occasion was aimed at showing contemporary artists residing on Long Island. For the first time, most artists will exhibit two or three works of art, presenting visitors with a more complete picture of their most recent works. I thought it was incredible to have been selected, and I think it is a positive point for my work, in such a unique moment in which we live. At a time when minorities are persecuted, I think it is a victory to participate in this exhibition.

Carpazine: Tell me about your sculptures, you did some reinterpretations with classic art scenes. What was your inspiration to reinterpret Rodin’s sculpture (The Age of Bronze)?

FC: I always loved Rodin’s sculptures, and I always thought of making a hyper-realistic version of one of his works and I ended up being inspired by the work The Age of Bronze. My version was inspired by Keanu Reeves. I turned him into Punk Rodin. I have always loved Keanu Reeves, I like his character, his personality, and attitude as a person. I was inspired by a phase in his movie My Own Private Idaho which is one of my favorites. Eroticism for me is something natural and I show that in my works.  

Carpazine: How do you see the role of tattoos in Punk Rodin?  

FC: Some tattoos on Punk Rodin sculpture refer to the relationship between Rodin and Camile Claudel.

Carpazine: Homoerotic Art has always been part of the underground in the 20th century, recently it started to boom and to be part of the mainstream. How do you see this interaction between amateurs and queer art? Not all nude is art … or is it?    

FC: I think that interaction and the boom in homoerotic material is happening in the same proportion as the boom that abstract, geometric or conceptual painting had.  At the beginning of these movements, they also suffered from the interaction of amateurs with contemporary art … not all contemporary art work is art … or is it?

The Countdown

Day one. My father came home from prison. It was December. I was 30. The waiting was over:  My own life, independent of my parents, could begin.

My father was a poor judge of character.  He vouched for the wrong people and was sentenced to ten years in federal prison.  He served four and a half.

I was 25 when I watched my father being sentenced in a Brooklyn courtroom.  I was there with my mom and my sister, Debi. Afterwards, he was given a chance to speak to the judge.  He adjusted his designer glasses, whispered a few words, barely audible, and then fell backwards into his seat, as if he were shoved. 

For four and a half years, I had visited him in several federal prisons.  Each time, I got my period as soon as I got through security.  Each time, it surprised me.  It was never on my 28^th day.  My mother said, “You should know by now,” but I was never prepared.  The prison made me bleed. 

Life continued while my father was away.  Not my life though.  My brother, Dorian, moved to California.  Debi, remarried and had twins.  Our dog, Cujo, died. 

I was still living at home with my mother.  I was unmarried.  My life was unchanged. I watched a lot of TV.  Jackie Kennedy, who was the same age as my mom and who shared a hairdresser and a unique sense of style, died. Shawshank Redemption premiered, and I thought of my father.  Like Andy Dufresne in the movie, my dad had been head librarian, helping other inmates study for their GEDs. 

Nearly five years later, during one of our last prison visits, I told my father that I had found a rental apartment in Tudor City.  That I had put down a deposit. That I would wait until he was back home to move in.  He said nothing.  His plastic glasses slid down his aquiline nose. My mother looked away, and her lip trembled.  I said, “Never mind.”  We all sighed, almost in unison.  I didn’t take the apartment, the studio with the magnificent views of the East River and the Murphy bed hidden in the wall. 

At his release, my father was dressed in loose-fitting jeans, white sneakers, a jacket, and clear plastic glasses, prison issued, that were too big for his face.

Finally he was home.  The countdown to my freedom had begun. I wondered if that apartment was still available. The little park on one side, the river on the other.  The thought of it alone made want to hug myself.

The first night was Thanksgiving.  My parents’ closest friends were invited.  The ones who stood by us when everyone else hadn’t.  My parents looked happy, their friends surrounding them.  I let out a big sigh and felt a bit lighter.  The tentacles attaching me to my seat and this house were loosening. A one bedroom would also work if I got a roommate.  The idea made me lightheaded.

Those first days, my parents were like newlyweds.  I could fully imagine them young. They looked at each other with tenderness.  They seemed to lean towards each other.  They were in love.  I wasn’t in love.  I had a long-distance boyfriend, but I couldn’t see myself married to him.  I wanted at least a little of what I thought my parents had.

On the second day, my mom, dad, and I went to breakfast in Manhattan, and then dropped my dad off at the store.  It used to be his store.  Now he was an employee. 

On the third day, I realized that my father was afraid to touch money.  We went to a gas station and he had forgotten how to pump gas.  He watched me and then sat in the car.  He didn’t want to drive.  I showed him the checking account and the bills and how I had been taking care of them until his return.  He asked if I could continue for a while longer. 

On the fourth day, we ate lunch on the back porch.  That’s when my friend Terence came over to see my dad.  We took one picture.  All of us smiling, mid chew.  That afternoon, my Dad asked my mom to get him an appointment at the eye doctor.  The plastic glasses were bothering him. 

On the fifth and sixth days I looked around my bedroom and thought that a studio would work.  I didn’t have much of anything of my own, just clothes, souvenirs, a few posters. 

On the seventh evening since my father had returned to us, my mom and I went to the theatre.  A mom and daughter night we had planned a long time before.  My mom was acting oddly.  After the show, she couldn’t find her car keys and then she couldn’t remember where she’d parked the car.  Later that night, I asked her if she was okay.  She said that a few days before, she was sweating so much that she went into a coffee shop on Madison Avenue to get napkins to wipe the moisture from her stockinged legs, even though it was freezing outside. I said we should go to a doctor, our neighbor even.  “Leave me alone,” she said.  “I’m not going to die,” and then she made a funny face with her eyes bulging and stuck out her tongue and walked out of the room with a wink.

The next morning, my father and I said goodbye to my mother.  We were heading to the subway to go to work. The sky was a slate grey. It was threatening to snow. She stopped us at the door in her white wooly robe.  She had an infection in her dental implant.  She said she didn’t want to go to the dentist, that she was scared.  My father hugged her, kissed the side of her forehead, and said she would be okay.  I said, “Bye, Ma.” She knew I would take my father to his subway stop at 57^th Street.

That was the last time we saw her alive.  That was the last time I spoke to her.  I usually called her from work, but that day, for some reason, I didn’t.  My dad and I normally timed it so that we were on the same subway car home to Queens but I didn’t see him.  There had been delays.  When I got home, a police officer was stationed in front of our house.  An ambulance was at the curb.  All the lights were on in the living room.  The officer held my shoulders, trying to get my full attention. “Do you have a back door we can use?”  he wanted to know. I nodded.  My pantyhose were pinching my waist.  When I finally asked him what was happening, he said, “They are working on your mother.”  I heard the words but couldn’t understand their meaning.  The driveway was dark, full of snow, my feet breaking the icy surface with each step.

The back door was locked.  I didn’t even have a key. I peered through the glass and saw Debi standing in the kitchen sobbing in the arms of a police officer.  She saw me and opened the door.  When I asked what was going on, she shook her head and cried more.  Then my father was behind me.  We must have been on the same train after all.  We both moved past Debi to the front of the house.  I never expected to see my mother’s inert body, her clothing cut off, EMS workers surrounding her.  The furniture was shoved to the edges of the room.  Suddenly I was on the floor, at her level.  I don’t know how I got there.  I may have fallen or fainted or tripped.  My father fell on top of me.  He screamed, “My wife!” 

My father and I were placed on a couch in a dark room at the back of the house.  Windows were opened.  The air outside was arctic, but I was not cold.  My body was fire.  Someone shouted to breathe deeply.  A neighbor came over. The one who was a doctor.  But it was too late.  My mother was still not breathing.  She was put on a respirator but was deemed brain dead at the hospital later and the machine was disconnected.

That was day eight. My father clung to me, his plastic glasses askew. 

Leslie Lisbona recently had several pieces published in Synchronized Chaos, Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, The Bluebird Word, The Jewish Literary Journal, miniskirt magazine, Yalobusha Review, Tangled Locks, and Smoky Blue Literary.  She is the child of immigrants from Beirut, Lebanon, and grew up in Queens, NY. 

PROPER AT THE TIME


The law allows crimes

of forethought or passion.

Playwrights try out lines

and dancers do their actions.


Quiet as dryads

avoiding a giant,

oysters hide their pearls

displayed later on girls.


Belfries have their chimes

and seasons their fashions.

Boldness has its time

but so does discretion.


There were were times I squirrelled

when I should have lioned

and times I lioned

when I ought to have squirrelled.




PERSISTENCE: SONNETS


Shirtless skin carries snow air.

Shoeless, I wear icy earth

when I, rarely, leave my lair,

You perch secure in your church.

Trusting my brow as my shield,

I mustered force at the mouth.

I thrust my tongue like a spear--

your dogma against my truth!

I abhorred your insistence

on self-mortification,

I championed subsistence

and you upheld starvation.

We need manna and diamonds

just because we are humans.


Emperors love their hermits,

who won’t covet royal wealth.

Their hereditary health

rests on strategic remits

to pious institutions,

the prestige of excellence,

and the strength of regiments

to forestall revolution.

Creeds leverage prayers and thanks.

Psychiatry thrives on angst,

and martial glory on rank.

Artistry is fixed by merit,

aristocracy by kindred,

and longevity by spirit.


My heresy, though reasoned,

was opposed by fat scholars.

Artists and philosophers

denounced me as a traitor.

The entire establishment

against me was arrayed,

so I was indeed afraid.

And, soon, my armor was bent,

but it remained unbroken.

I was driven from the field

but was never forced to yield.

I tend unfamined gardens:

We know the rose is the crown

worn upon the throat of thorns.



AS SPARTANS, ENGAGED


The sky was perforated

by the moon’s silver bullets

that hit granite’s armor gray

and ricocheted.


Under that wounded mirror

we advanced our tongues like spears

upon our breastworks and flanks

in tight phalanx.


And we held our positions

until the day’s divisions

maneuvered to enhostage

our exhaustion.


But truce is propaganda,

a celibate’s tired banter.

We knights must bare arms and thrust

until we’re dust.



SEEKING REDEMPTION


I admit it: I’ve been tempted

by this Temporal.

I have attended all your temples

and confessed all my faults,

and I’ve attempted to chorus

your stories and creeds


by breaking like untamed horses

the sounds in your teeth,

and, in stillness, to contemplate

the shape of my soul

and to decipher its template

in part or in whole.


Your incense, vestments, candles, bells,

and chants fail to steel

your myself against my myself--

are you even real?



YOUR VOTE MATTERS



Puppets, oblivious to your strings:

Pilots guide us to the best moorings.

Nominees have agreed to debate face-to-face

behind plastic surgery and camouflage

(poets explicate morning’s meanings)

and to present their platforms and programs

comprehensively in sound bites and slogans.

Plaintiffs blame hangovers on mornings.

It is hard to tell sincerity from cant,

(Pirates always give a fair warning.)

but it’s true, positions change with circumstance.

Prophets foretell an end to morning.

--puppets, oblivious to your strings.

*The Lost Balloons*

In this year's Canvass
Balloons embark on an ethereal plane
Above the sky, balloons soar in farewell weather
With each gentle breeze, their spirits take flight
Escaping gravity's hold.
A doctor's healing touch
A neighbors nod
An Aunt's counsel
A friend's embrace disappears.
As they ride neutral balloon in the sky of departure
Balloons which left colors of pains and grief's heavy veil
Carrying stories of dreams like frayed nylon
A symphony of farewell under the same sun.
As their eyes close *Almaut* '' they whisper.
Guided by *Manrobbuka* call
A question asked as souls commence their dance
In whispered prayers their name etched my tongue.
As my eyes curse this silent stranger's bitter sting,
How do I say this?
the courageous ''Moremi'' has lost her courage as every passing time, it shrinks like the sand of
time.
In my talk to the Almighty '' Let their nostrils perceive the sweet fragrance of paradise''



Muhammad Habibat Sani (Ummuyasmeen) is a 300-level law student at Usmanu Danfodiyo University Sokoto. As a poet and story writer, she uses words to explore themes of loss, courage, and spirituality.

Look the Other Way



He runs into the ex

At the grocery store,

The kind of thing

Where it seems like

The two of them

Are aware of each other,

But no one

Does anything,

There are no looks,

There are no words,

Nothing is shared,

Who knows if

There will ever be

A time to say the things

That could

Have been said

Long ago,

He just knows that

That time

Is not today.



Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of the Peace Corps memoir “Fiesta of Sunset,” and the forthcoming poetry collection “Home Again.”