Central Park in the Winter, Acrylic on Canvas, 2017 by Roberto Gutiérrez. Review by Abel Salas Artist and studio painter Roberto Gutiérrez isn’t pulling any punches these days. In fact, it wouldn’t be an overstatement to say the native son of L.A.’s Eastside is coming up aces more often than not. And when he isn’t walking away from his latest self-imposed challenge with a resounding victory, he’s holding his own with a combination of skill, panache and charisma that forces a split decision in his favor. And with the title belt all but his, he’s primed and ready to face off once more with a few of the most important metropolitan centers in the world. Having taken them on one after another in an allegorical ring where the traditional ropes have been replaced by the outermost edges of a canvas stretcher or a sheet of artist’s paper, the plucky maestro has returned whole, unscathed and reinvigorated from his arresting and emotional encounters with Los Angeles, Paris, and, of late,

by Jesse Bliss There have been too many miracles to which I have bared witness for me to be pushed around by fear.  These words are not intended to explain what it is like to become a mother, for that is inexplicable. Rather, these words serve as an examination of the hidden truth about being a woman, mother and artist living in a society that has largely abandoned integrity and virtue, valuing not the woman, the artist or the mother. There is little written on the subject and few to look toward for guidance.  We seldom, if ever, hear from mothers because they are busy wiping asses, earning money and raising God’s creatures in a corrupt world. I sit writing this nighttime in the rocking chair listening for the baby, hungry, dehydrated, exhausted, aching back, in need of a shower, desk piled up, to-dos nagging at me. Yet nothing is more important than to give voice to what time has attempted to be choked back and misrepresented, in turn disrespected and misunderstood: the woman in