Quarantine Archive

Quarantine Archive is a new series showcasing quarantine art and creativity from around the world. These are the home movies, paintings, poems etc submitted from bedrooms. Send yours to postscriptmagazine1@gmail.com with the subject: Quarantine Archive

 

Poem-playlist by Jessie Bullard


“Nite Owl” by Chaimihai (taken with disposable film)


“Cluster” by Chaimihai (taken with disposable film)

Independent Film by Joana Amora

Crochet blanket by Katie Glasgow-Palmer

A Quarantine Production from Lubnah Ansari on Vimeo.

Found Poem (1).jpgFound poem by Jessie Bullard

 

Sketches of Us.jpgJournal entry by Jessie Bullard

 

Screen Shot 2020-04-05 at 5.52.03 PM (2).pngJournal entry by Bernice delos Reyes

Meditations in the Room

By Kate Gough

Ikenaga Yasunari

I am in a room
in a bed.
I am here often,
but rarely is it talked about on the news.

The abled are watching,
tweeting like birds
and fighting like racoons
over spare bread and soft paper.
They do not think about their bodies often.
Automaton whirring until a fly creeps in,
that is when the machine stops.
It rarely stops.
These are the days they stop
to think about flesh and bone.
These are the days they call their mothers
over the phone.

I am in a room
in a bed.
I am here often,
but rarely is it talked about on the news.

These days, there is more to lose.
***
A quiet quarantine
in a self-isolated submarine,
deeper and deeper, in between
anxiety and apathy,
they say I’m being selfish
for madness in a time of need.

Panic, they say it’s the worst time.
All the panic before was just practice,
obsessive compulsive sadness.
I am spiralling,
but it’s a bad time.
So I swallow,
I am fine
until I am hollow.

A quiet quarantine
in a self-isolated submarine.
The world doesn’t need more sickness.
The world doesn’t need…

 

Artwork by Ikenaga Yasunari

Sign of the Times: A Photo Essay

Scenes of Abu Dhabi, UAE during the COVID-19 pandemic.

Young masked men play pool outside Madinat Zayed. Others seem to be selling fake designer clothes in an illicit secondhand market. A lone man in a polo shirt has erected jumping castles to make extra cash outside the Gold Center. The castles are deserted. He listens to something on his phone, absorbed with all the intensity of the clouds gathering above. Life — the exchange of capital and conversations — must continue to rumble even at this off-kilter pace.

Laborers in the city must continue to earn money. Juice shops, cafeterias, carpet sellers, cobblers, tailors, honey vendors…all remain. They sip tea in their shops, trying to sell. In 48 hours, they will have to pack up and stay home for two weeks. Almost everyone on the street is masked. Small cigarettes and “massage cards” lie motionless on the pavement. Malayalam, French, Urdu, Wolof, Bengali: all the languages of the streets, of the working class, dance. They filter through masks and mix with the air like steam rising from the chai at Happy Cafeteria. Life — the exchange of capital and conversations — must continue to rumble even at this off-kilter pace.

Small groups of young West African men swap cigarette boxes, thin rolls of money, and bottles of hand sanitizer as they congregate outside an apartment building. I try not to look. I, girl with the zooming camera and lens-corrected eyes, am looked at. I stumble upon a shop called MASK FASHION nearby. Life — the exchange of capital and conversations — continues to rumble even at this off-kilter pace.

 

 

Vamika Sinha is a co-founder and editor-in-chief of Postscript. Find more of her photography here.