96 elephants are brutally massacred everyday for their ivory. If poaching continues, elephants could be extinct in 11 years. ‪#‎UnTusked (@un_tusked ) is an art project to make people aware of the brutality and magnitude of these killings. We want to make sure that the images of this savagery are imprinted on people’s minds so they are compelled to act and give this problem the urgency it deserves. Can our 6” x 4” elephants – that we will be putting all around the world starting with ‪#‎NYC - help save the real ones? Let's find out together: 

A project by: Hemant Anant Jain and Chris Dumas
with Ben Smith, Johnny Por Taing and Rebecca Lewis

Anger on paper.

Fuck you Monsanto and its stooges in our country. Ink, crayons, pen and anger on paper.

New York

The Hudson is alive with the waves and toxic fish which some bait despite the warnings. Choppers fly by like flies and land like flies, making a noise that only New Yorkers can be deaf to. The sun rises on the East side, but sets in Jersey, leaving a trail of colors that is indescribable. All sorts of people go by, walking, talking, buzzing. Tough lives are forgotten as the sail boats bob in the waters of high tide. The statue of liberty still waits with its arm raised and the Brooklyn bridge carries its hipster solidiers by the trainful. New York is well and alive around the twenty something and 12th near Chelsea.


A coyote pup chasing a butterfly, jumping about, with what seemed like a smile on his face. The young ones of yellow headed blackbirds wondering at the sunset. The little bunnies of all sizes coming out and about in the world and these two shy raccoon pups trying to tiptoe their way back to the nest. The world was young these past two days.


There are those moments of monochromatic madness in God's brains.

My fucking journal

Some fucking pages of my fucking journal that I make when I am fucking bored.


Sometimes what you don't see in the picture says a lot more than what you do see in the picture. What the picture's captured magnificent autumn colors, the duck making its way across the sky that has fallen down in the lake, the sun taking its annual vacation on the trees making them turn yellow and gold, the flatirons in the distance - don't show is the coyote that hurried its way to the water, drinking its fill and going quickly out of sight. Scaring a few rabbits. But it paid no mind to the white tailed wonders. It was on some other quest. What the picture doesn't play back is the soft sound of the birds who are quiet this time of the year. Cars stop, people get out, people run, people run with dogs, dogs run with people, cameras with their flashes (oh why), camera with their flashes closed (phew), everything and everyone stands, watches this view, captures it, Instagrams it and Facebooks it. And move on. Always hurrying away. Like the coyote. And I wonder, sitting there, not moving, not running, not running with my Nikes on, not running with a dog - that there are so many stories we will never listen to, never hear, never look for - for they exceed our internal camera specifications of finite megapixels.

The trouble of being a gypsy

The troubles of being a gypsy don't come with the travels. They arise when you go back to things. Places. People. You go back, often with memories - green - expectant that you will be met with the laughter, the joy, the solitude that you found so dear once. You approach with weary, hesitant steps. Only to find old walls and dried branches of what once used to be the evergreen shades of comforting friendships and everything home. But that's natural. People move on. Things decay. Friendships run out of conversations. The trouble starts when you begin enjoying this decay, this passing of things. This going back to ruins of what you loved. Goddamn it, you love it so much that it doesn't hurt anymore. It would, if it wasn't this way.

A sky full of sky

A sky full of young ones. Baby Orioles. Baby barn swallows – in feeding frenzy. Baby Violet Green swallows – who took wing and fluttered about carelessly, amazingly. A sky full of Brewer’s Blackbirds who settle down in thousands on one big patch of land across 33rd. A sky full of rainbows, double. A sky full of stories from the past told in shapes of clouds. A sky reflected down in a pond where we saw an Otter! Or that’s what we thought and then furiously searched the internet. To figure that while the very endangered Otter has been spotted around town, this was probably his cousin – the mink. He’s cute. Or she’s cute. A sky full of swallows. A sky full of clouds. A sky full of sky.


And one day you finally get yourself a pair of binoculars. It changes everything. Every square foot of this seemingly quiet land can come alive. The birds can't hide anymore. And the rabbit that believes it's a still picture doesn't know I am looking at every movement of its whiskers. And the chickadees seem plentiful when it seemed there were none. And my eyes hurt. Now.


When it is but written in the sand and concrete that you have to work the weekend, the mind begins its confabulations. It starts making plans for a heist. Almost. Stealing time, more like it. Could a few hours be stolen from the weekend routine to go and walk in the Boulder country?
And so, on Saturday I did walk the South Boulder Creek. Reaching the Bobolink trail. Now, having read about bobolinks in Emily Dickinson’s poems, one is desperate to see that famous bird. And the long walk brought us to streams and haunted cabins. Haunted is a romantic notion. But then when you’ve grown up reading Louis L’amour westerns your mind is always thinking of old cowboys and Indians on their horses, sipping burnt coffee and talking about nature when they were not fighting.
And swallows. Hundreds of them. Flying all over us.
Six miles on, there was no sign of the Bobolink on the Bobolink Trail. Except that drawing of a lone bird on the stone that marked the trail.
But there were those swallow nests to watch and whisper to. And flycatchers, magpies, robins, blackbirds, wrens, doves, and.
Just when it was time to hike the long way back, we look up to spot an eagle or a heron. And we did. But then we saw them. Bobolinks. Five of them. With bright yellow heads. Flying across the blue sky.

Boulder, one evening

It's about 7 pm. Ben Smith is giving me a lift back home from office. The clouds have made the summer heat cool down. And far away into the distance the Rockies make love to the setting sun. That it was a hard, hard day is forgotten. Quickly.