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About

Fine Line Magazine exists simultaneously to explore contemporary art, support emerging artists and most importantly, to inspire a feeling that is… Read More
Fine Line Magazine exists simultaneously to explore contemporary art, support emerging artists and most importantly, to inspire a feeling that is uniquely human and self-aware. It is a concrete, aesthetic expression of its creators, equal parts documentation and dialogue - a work of art in itself. Fine Line presents only images and text - ideas without definition, questions without answers. It is curated for the viewer's consideration and becomes a tangible guide to a thought, moment or expression. Read Less
Published:
Released May 27th, 2011
110# cover (300 gsm) gloss laminated
100# text (150 gsm) matte
perfect bound, 9" x 11", embossed front cover
500 hand numbered copies

Fine Line can be purchased at www.finelinemag.com
Image by Raphael Halin
Image: Anna Paolo Guerra
Image: Matthais Heiderich

Poem: Under the Sky They Lit Cities by Travis Cebula

"and there were streetlightsof blue mercury poison.
geologic infiltration of delirium
nocturnal urban ranting, fluid as snowflakes.
but they were beautiful
chromatic in their way, in the stars
the brightest, analog of the city.
terminal moraine of arc lamps
spread in spectral meridians above and below.
evolution of streetlights
become alien vaporized pink salt,
blurred pandemic of spreading fugue.
here, the stars find no sisters.
contained, the city finds no sky.
flat ceiling of orange rotting glass:
opaque, tautologous, masturbatory,
grounded in recent days and all but buried
in smoking cobble pre-determined.
resign to safety this pure disgorged sodium—
Image: Alexander Harding
Image: Amira Fritz
Text: "It is the theory that determines what can be observed." Albert Einstein
Image: Masako Miki
Image: Jonathan Zawada
Image: Greg Eason
Quote: "So strong is the belief in life, in what is most fragile in life – real life, I mean – that in the end this belief is lost. Man, that inveterate dreamer, daily more discontent with his destiny, has trouble assessing the objects he has been led to use, objects that his nonchalance has brought his way, or that he has earned through his own efforts, almost always through his own efforts, for he has agreed to work, at least he has not refused to try his luck (or what he calls his luck!). At this point he feels extremely modest: he knows what women he has had, what silly affairs he has been involved in; he is unimpressed by his wealth or his poverty, in this respect he is still a newborn babe and, as for the approval of his conscience, I confess that he does very nicely without it. If he still retains a certain lucidity, all he can do is turn back toward his childhood which, however his guides and mentors may have botched it, still strikes him as somehow charming. There, the absence of any known restrictions allows him the perspective of several lives lived at once; this illusion becomes firmly rooted within him; now he is only interested in the fleeting, the extreme facility of everything."