a word about this issue “Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you got til’ it’s gone…” Danielle Hatfield. Former Academy of Art student. Oil painter. Co-founder of Abstraction magazine. Co-founder of the Creative Writing Club. Wordsmith. Natural leader. Creative motivator. An honest friend. A distinctive laugh. A welcoming smile. A compassionate heart.
This issue of Abstraction is dedicated to the memory of Danielle Hatfield (1989-2009) who was tragically lost in a fatal auto accident last October. She had transferred to Northern Illinois University in pursuit of a career in art therapy. We remember her…and will miss her.
about abstraction
Abstraction, the literary magazine of the American Academy of Art, is the Academy’s only publication edited and designed entirely by students. Now in its fourth year, the magazine continues to grow as more and more students reveal their art through poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and visual imagery.
Abstraction is always looking for intelligent, lively people who love to write and draw. Please contact us at abstraction@aaart.edu or see Lindsay in the library if you would like to join our editorial staff.
STUDENT CONTRIBUTORS NON-FICTION
DESIGN STAFF
GALLERY
Miriam Heard Jessica May
Horacio Acevedo Anthony Cruz Chris Cruz Robert Rybczyk Meghan Seal
Roberto Almanza Sylwia Babczakiewicz Faith Betinis Kristine Boteva Olivia Brus Sean Daly Katie Fowler Brynn Hines Derek Hernandez† Justyna Gajda Kent Grashel Tatiana Lord†
FICTION
Olivia Brus Jack Conrick Jr. Jordan Eskovitz Miriam Heard POETRY
Edwin Coleman Emily Kozak Laura Omer Amanda Paul Bill Premo Tatianna Williams
EDITORIAL STAFF
Lucas Durham Miriam Heard Emily Kozak Laura Omer Tatianna Williams
Rostislav Melnyk Grabriela Meija Adam Nowak Carlos Ortiz Cheri Pentimone Sophia Rapata Bryan Ruff Humberto Saldena Amoreena Tarvas Nancy Valladares Max Weber † = Student Spotlight
COVER
Illustration by Derek Hernandez
INSTRUCTORS & STAFF
Carol Luc, Chair, Vis Com Department Instructor, Visual Communication & Design
Lindsay Harmon, Librarian Abstraction Advisor, Editorial Staff
contents 2010
non-fiction
4 18
Art of Words 2010 Winning Essay One Point, Two Point, Three
Miriam Heard
In and Out
Jessica May
fiction
8 10 12 16
Power Surge Define A Word Windows Excerpt from Paradigm, Chapter IV
Miriam Heard Olivia Brus Jordan Eskovitz Jack Conrick Jr.
poetry
6 7 11 14 15 20 21 22 23
No One Lives Within Land of Gold I’m Not A Liar Just A Dreamer If You Think You’ll Damage Me Sugar Explosions Before the Storm Comes Untitled Night Song Laced Memoirs
artist spotlight
26 33
Tatiana Lord Derek Hernandez
gallery
24 28 32
Painting Photography Illustration
Edwin Coleman Laura Omer Bill Premo Amanda Paul Amanda Paul Amanda Paul Tatianna Williams Emily Kozak Amanda Paul
art of words essay contest grand prize winner
one point, two point, three by Miriam Heard
W
hen standing on his head did not seem to work, Arthur was truly flustered with his predicament. He tried to understand the sculpture in front of him-for his school project depended on it--but he could not make any sense of what lay before him. Here he was, on a Saturday morning, in the middle of the plaza, gazing at the forty-byfifty-foot structure. Arthur easily thought of a million things he would rather do on a Saturday morning in June than sit in this plaza with a paper due on Friday. “So, any luck with your project?” Ms. Green asked from behind a counter. “No, Mom. I’m still stumped. Critique papers are usually a breeze for me, but for some reason this structure is giving me grief,” Arthur sighed as he swiped a banana from a dish in front of him. “Well, maybe you should ask your teacher to pick another piece for you. I’m sure he would understand.” She smiled and gave her son a pat on the shoulder. “I have to open the bistro; dinner is in the fridge.” Arthur sulked and flopped lazily on the couch. He leaned his noodle-like arms over the coffee table and typed in the artist’s name on the open laptop. R. Hood. No results were found.
non - fiction
Monday rolled around and Arthur took his mother’s advice and decided to ask Mr. Handley if he could get another assignment.
“Yes. I need to do some research on a local artist named R. Hood. I can’t find anything online about him.”
“Absolutely not. If I let you choose a different work of art, then everyone else in the class will want to trade. This paper is due Friday; you would not have time to research and compose a paper in four days if I gave you a new artist,” Mr. Handley protested.
“Mmmhead over to the section called visual arts. The authors are listed in alphabetical order by last name, then by subject,” said the crow-lady as she hoisted a bony limb in the direction of the shelves.
“But you don’t understand. I can’t find any information about this guy online. He doesn’t exist. That thing you call art doesn’t even make sense. Please just let me pick another artist. I’ll even have the paper finished by Thursday to prove to you I can get it done in time,” Arthur begged. “No, Mr. Green, I will not give you permission to change your assignment. I know you can come up with a paper for this artist. You need to use your head,” Mr. Handley smiled as he dismissed the boy from his class. Instantly after being denied, Arthur yelled into his stack of books. He collected himself and marched into the local public library. With all the current and instantaneous technology, Arthur Green almost never had a reason to go to a library; everything he needed was on his computer. “Mmmay I help you?” asked the nasally grayhaired woman who sat behind the service desk.
Arthur nodded obligingly and scampered away to the darkest and dustiest section of the library. He got about halfway through browsing the shelves when he spotted a bright-red book that appeared brand-new. The title read R. Hood: A Brief Work. The author was unknown. He yanked the book out of its airtight nook and scanned the inner flap for a copyright date. It was published in 1962. Arthur shook his head in disbelief. Here was a book that looked like it was printed yesterday, but it was over forty years old. Nevertheless, Arthur was happy to finally get a break in his assignment. He checked out the book and went to the plaza so he could get started on his paper. He read through the first three pages and discovered that R. Hood stood for Robin Hood. He learned that all the installation work that R. Hood completed was either pro bono for impoverished communities, or that, when he was commissioned for work, he donated the money to charities that help the needy.
“Well, I guess his name really makes sense,” Arthur chuckled out loud. He continued to read the pages of the book until he reached the very last page. Smiling up at Arthur, with wide, youthful eyes, the master of all installations present, and the current Art History 101 professor, was Mr. Handley! Arthur’s heart skipped a beat and his jaw nearly unhinged itself. Mr. Robert Handley was Robin Hood, the unsung hero of the community. Arthur continued to scan the page and noticed that the mammoth object beside his teacher was the same one he was sitting under today. Robin Hood’s final installation of 1959 was Untitled. What looks like a tangled mess of wired and metal panels is actually a very personal depiction of his childhood. His mother, raising eleven children out of wedlock, had a lot to deal with during the early 1900s. She sold her body on a daily basis to support herself and her children. The structure symbolizes her struggle as a mother braiding ten girls’ hair while entertaining a strange man. His emotional scars growing up were showcased in this piece. Robin Hood very seldom shows his face for public appearance, but sources say that he has taken a break from sculpture to start teaching.
5
Arthur could hardly believe what he was reading. He turned his head sideways and could now make out the images of the ten children with their wild, unruly hair, and the mother with her African curves engaging in an almost awkward embrace with a tall, looming man. He could picture himself from
a little boy’s perspective, watching these events unfold every day. It was haunting and emotional to witness such pain. Gradually, like a cool wave lapping up a warm and sandy shore, Arthur realized that what he was viewing was beautiful. Maybe he couldn’t make sense of it at first, but to know the story, the emotion, and the pride it took to produce this structure, really gave Arthur an emotional connection to the piece. The sculpture was chaos caught in motion, a freeze-
the table and clothes on their back. It is sacrifice that makes people stronger. Mr. Handley gave all his earnings away to charity to assist other mothers who had to struggle to provide for their children. Arthur completed his paper Thursday evening and wept. He wept for Mr. Handley’s strife and their mothers. He wept for the less fortunate and the underprivileged. At eight o’clock sharp, he waited at the door to Mr. Handley’s Art History 101 class. Mr. Handley, with his powder-white hair placed neatly under a bowler hat and his leathery hand wrapped tightly around a cane, walked carefully to his classroom. He smiled at Arthur and pushed himself up on his cane. “Good morning, Arthur; is the paper f inished? Or did you give up?” he asked.
“No, I didn’t give up, and I never will,” Arthur handed the critique to his elder. Mr. Handley leafed through the ten-page report, then put on his “You Complement Me” by Katie Fowler reading glasses that were stowed in his frame of a turbulent childhood. Arthur wiped a tear front pocket. As he eyed the document, a glimmer from the corner of his eye and knew how he was in his eye began to glisten and his bottom lip gave going to write his paper. Spending every evening a quiver. at the plaza, Arthur typed on his computer until the battery died. He’d come home to an empty house and “Robin Hood, your work has touched me in eat the dinner Ms. Green left for him in the fridge. so many ways. The communities in which you did work should be very grateful for your Sadly, he felt connected to Mr. Handley. R. Hood contributions. I cannot imagine your life was a poor African-American boy with ten siblings growing up, but to see through your perspective forced to make peace with his mother’s profession in is really eye-opening. I’m sorry I wanted order to live. Arthur was a poor kid whose mother another assignment,” Arthur expressed in one worked from dawn till dusk at two jobs in order to deep breath to hold back from crying. pay for her son’s tuition. The laptop he typed on was three months of her savings. Mr. Handley’s mother Mr. Handley took out a handkerchief and patted sacrificed and so did his mother. They both grew up the corners of his eyes. “Thank you, Arthur, for to understand and know hardship. Arthur hardly truly taking the time to see my hardships as saw his mother because she worked to make sure something beautiful. I appreciate you learning they lived comfortably, and Mr. Handley’s mother to view life in a different perspective.” gave her body so her children would have food on
(Problem)
no one lives within by Edwin Coleman
The doorstep lies naked with no welcome mat to accompany it.
The bathrooms hold no stains like a pure, white cloth flailing through the wind.
The older daughter,
(Problem) excommunicated for the fornication of her child—out of wedlock.
The living room is no longer lively with sounds of joyous play like rigged slot machines at a casino. The husband,
“Talking Head Talking” by Justyna Gajda
(Problem) a gambling addiction that left his family without a home.
The dining room no longer counts down for meals like a child’s sudden realization of Santa Claus’ true existence. They say, “Home is where the heart is,” but there is no heart if no one lives within. The yard lies bare like a policeman stereotypically profiling. The older son,
(Problem) involved with the wrong crowd —or so they say.
poetry
The younger son,
(Problem)
suffers from dementia brought on by the suicide of the father. He waits his days out in an asylum. The kitchen holds no dish like a dining customer awaiting his waiter. The younger daughter,
(Problem) cries her heart out and hopes for the healing of her family's wounds.
The wife, like her husband, has given up entirely and has known only surrendering to the needs of her husband —only. The bedrooms lie vacant like one’s heart After heartbreak. The family, has not only given up individually, but also as a whole. They say, “Home is where the heart is,” but there is no heart if no one lives within.
(Problem)
(Problem)
“Land of Gold” by Laura Omer
Designed by Robert Rybczyk
power surge by Miriam Heard
T
he wind became increasingly powerful. Hannah could detect a storm coming. Her meter flashed eleven o’clock; it was too late for her to be out. She stood under the rusting light post, hanging on to the epileptic tremors of light. Light meant safety, and safety meant she would make it home all right. The waves on the distant shore grew violent. A slash of lightning ripped apart the sky. Warily, she gazed upward. Where is Lex? she worried. Lex had instructed her to meet him at the old beach front by ten o’clock. He had to help his mother close her antique shop, but it barely got enough business to take long. Hannah paced and decided to wait under the abandoned concession stand. She needed shelter from the storm. Lex had been so forceful when he last spoke with her; she was beginning to wonder what was so important that he’d waste her time like this. “You have to meet me at the Gated Beach,” he insisted. “But I have to be inside by ten thirty,” Hannah protested. “Come on, you have to see this, and I won’t take long, I promise.” That was the way it was earlier in the day when the clouds were still a light grey, and not a dark, omnipresent green. A low growl
fiction
broke through the wind and Hannah knew the storm was fast approaching.
didn’t belong there, but she couldn’t pin-point the parasite.
“Sorry I’m so late,” a deep, yet familiar, voice interrupted Hannah’s thoughts. Lex stood before her with his hands behind his back. “I had a terrible time sneaking this out of the shop after closing. It’s rare,” he added.
“It’s one of the rarest artifacts this side of the universe! It’s a human heart.”
“What’s rare? Let me see what’s behind your back. I really should get going before the storm hits,” Hannah informed him as she took a step closer to him. Lex held out a hand in protest. Hannah ceased her advancement. “The power is too great for you, stay back,” Lex warned. He reached around his body and presented a small container. It was a dark box, Hannah could tell, possibly burgundy or purple. It had an intricate gold design on the lid that mimicked the side panels. Lex gingerly lifted the lid to display the contents. A bright hue nearly blinded Hannah when she saw what was inside. She stared at it a moment while the color warmed her cheeks and flickered in her eyes like a campfire. Lex studied her intently, waiting for her reaction. “Well?” he asked. “What do you think?” “What do I think? I don’t know…what is it?” Hannah finally looked into her friend’s eyes. She saw something glimmer, deep-set, where most could not notice. It looked threatening, like it
“I do not understand,” Hannah sighed. “The human heart is the mechanism that made humans able to feel, to comprehend emotions like happiness, sadness, anger, jealously, and guilt just to name a few. This element was taken out of androids ages ago. I read up about it in an old science book in the shop,” Lex studied the changing colors of the heart. It began to glow a deep blue. “In school, my instructor told me that the human race wiped themselves out with pollution and wars. The last humans to survive created our AI form to continue living as they did,” Hannah recited. Rain fell slowly and fizzled as it hit the concrete, leaving acid stains where it landed. Lex sensed multiple drops sear his sleeve and immediately stepped under the covering to shield his body from the hazardous acid rain. “I read about that too. The heart caused many to forget about the environment, thus creating all the pollution that melts our bodies when it rains. The heart produced conf lict between people that led to genocide. The f irst string of androids had heart simulators, but old habits die hard and they repeated what the humans did.
“A second string of androids was designed without hearts, but they were able to preserve a few from the human race to keep under observation. I was lucky enough to find a heart in the antique shop,” Lex mused. “But why would you want to possess such an evil thing? You and I know that hearts are highly capable of devastation. You should get rid of it so another android won’t come across it,” Hannah suggested. “Why? Haven’t you ever felt empty inside? Haven’t you ever wanted to know what it was like to feel? There hasn’t been a moment since your creation that you’ve come across something that you can’t assess, something that a thought or input can’t be connected to?” Lex pressed.
“You are breaking laws and are subject to being deprogrammed!” Hannah screamed. Lex just smiled and took her by the shoulders. “Not if I can help it! I am a super android now. All I have to do is deprogram you and no one will know about my new abilities.” Lex gritted his teeth as he engaged in a mechanical tug-of-war with Hannah’s arms. They fought well into the early morning, Hannah trying to escape the grasp of Lex, while he tried to disengage her main system. Hannah now realized the strange glimmer in Lex’s eyes; it was a soul,
As the hazy sun drew its head over the horizon and the last of the acid was wrung out of the clouds, Hannah released the deformed skeletal frame. She stared at the lifeless form on the ground and stuffed the nubs of her fingers in her pockets. What would I do with a human heart? she wondered. Her brain was not able to compute such an answer, so she took the goldtrimmed box and tossed it into the sea. I can always get replacement hands, she decided as she walked home.
“No, not really; at least I haven’t given it much thought. Knowing what a heart can do to our existence is enough to not care to know what feelings are.” “You are so stupid! Your brain is too simple to understand the entire concept. You can go on living simply, but I upgraded my body with another heart I found in the shop. This heart was going to be yours, but since you are not able to appreciate it, I’ll keep it as a backup for myself.”
9
Lex unbuttoned his shirt and unhinged the metal clasps that held his chest plate in place. Underneath his meticulous wiring lay a beating, fully functional human heart. Hannah stepped back in surprise.
“Identity” by Sylwia Babczakiewicz
a soul full of evil. In a last attempt to save her life, she tossed Lex out from under the concession stand. The toxic rain instantly began to eat away at the silicone body. Lex called out in fright and anger and charged at Hannah. She held him out of the covering at arms’ length. Smoke and steam seeped out of Lex’s body as the rain reached his inner wiring. Hannah’s fingertips melted into the remains of Lex’s skin, but she did not let go of him until he stopped the twitching that was caused by his motor functions frying.
define
word
by Olivia Brus
T
he only word i love can’t be defined. It was on a cold evening when I realized that it existed. Every day I return to my secret dictionary to read through its definitions, but the word lacks meaning. It needs a true writer to know exactly what it stands for. In fact, it takes a true writer to know what the word even sounds like or feels like when you think of it. It is a word that is not a word but more a feeling that cannot and probably never will be defined. It is emotions piled on emotions, it is love and lust, greed and wrath, spite and anguish, and everything in the world and everything that man can feel and cannot feel, all in a single, malleable, audible entity. It is rushed and it is soft, quiet, excruciating, screaming, caressing, powerful. It embodies all the living creatures of the earth and every creature in existence, whether they know it or not. Perhaps somewhere there is a way to express this word, this glorious, hideous word. Perhaps there is even a true way to define it, but I don’t know, can’t even fathom, what or how that could be.
non - fiction /poetry
“Abandoned Bike” by Carlos Ortiz
“I’m Not A Liar Just A Dreamer” by Bill Premo I’m not a liar just a dreamer a genuine idea screamer not all make it in fact most
SINK
in this muddled river of think
there ain’t no A P P O R T I O N it’s D I S T O R T I O N of PROPORTION imaginative CONTORTION gluing bullshit never goin’ to quit another piece of my tool kit so use it. Next step it’s placed on a shelf slowly
REVISED EDITED DEVELOPED
one day they will be I’m not a
LIAR just a a genuine idea
DREAMER SC REAMER
ENVELOPED
while steering this paddle steamer just cuz I say it doesn’t mean it’s certain within minutes it can get the curtain my mind gave my hands a building permit to construct
AAABRAHNDNU
word this kind wave has been good to me but the conduct grew absurd
NEX T STEP IT’S PL AC ED ON A STAGE
it’s all a tour inside the brain and
or quickly printed on a page or whatever they do in this new age. but one thing is sure, the creating format hasn’t changed
R E A R R A N G E D unless I’m a thief I’ll keep it brief
I’M A PIECE OF SHIT. Designed by Meghan Seal
12
“SOS” by Rotislav Melynk
windows by Jordan Eskovitz
I
n the wake of the night, something stirs him from his sleep. As he opens his eyes, the hazy image of the room becomes clear. The dim moonlight creeping in from the cracks in the blinds of his window isn’t enough to penetrate the darkness, yet the room glows. The lingering slumber covers his face like a blanket. After wiping the delusions of remaining dream from his eyes, he fixes on a small, soft, white glow hovering above his bed. Realizing it is out of place, he attempts to determine if he is in fact still dreaming. No bigger than a penny, the soft, glowing sphere shines silently, and without motion. He lifts himself up slowly and reaches out to touch it. Inches away, his curiosity drops to the bottom of his stomach as he is ripped through the bed sheets, plunging through the bed and floor into a deep blue ocean. The glow disappears as he plunges deeper and deeper into the abyss.
that he is still kneeling in complete white space with no indication of ground or sky. He glances around and sees a woman standing in the distance. He sees her figure, but it is obscured. All he can focus on is her eyes, her faint hair gently blowing in front of them. He feels no wind but does not question it. He stands and starts walking to her, leaving behind multicolored footprints that appear to be made of paint; a full palette —blues and reds and yellows and greens and violets and browns. Her figure is still obscured but he now sees her mouth as it forms a gentle smile and she turns with her head away from him. He begins running, smearing the paint footprints he leaves behind, mixing and blending the colors. Moments before he reaches the mysterious figure, he sinks into the ground, or what appears to be the ground. He continues to sink, realizing that the white fabric is giving out to his weight, and under his feet, it pops open like a balloon.
The deep blue of the waters makes its way into black as his descent slows. He floats in confusion, and all around him, distant points of light pop into existence—stars that are light-years away. Direction is useless here; he can hardly remember from which direction he even came. However, he looks to his feet to see a plug and chain, similar to the one in his bathtub back in the reality he left moments before. Staring at it, he determines whether or not there is a reason for a plug to be in the middle of infinite space. But really— what is the reason he is in the middle of infinite space? Reaching down, he attempts to yank on the chain, but it won’t seem to budge. He pulls harder and harder, but his strength is different here, as if he were still underwater. Finally, the chain releases the plug and three white holes begin to drain the black fabric of space into them. Reality distorts as it is stretched and swirled, and is swiftly swallowed by the three holes.
His vision is once again distorted, just as when he awoke in the comfort of his bed. As his eyes adjust, he finds he has landed in the middle of a forest, only there are no bushes, no shrubs or grass—just small roots that cover the ground, and trees that appear to have no tops. Each is separated by a circumference of at least ten feet; they are moderately skinny and infinitely tall, fading into the black night. There is a lingering mist in the air and there seems to be no end to the forest in any direction. No way out, no paths to follow. Upon observing the new setting, he overlooks the two strangest features of all. Two birds perched in front of him, staring at him—a crow and a dove, standing side by side. Before it became a staring contest, however, with elegance, they simultaneously take off in opposite directions. His eyes follow the crow as it flies between the trees into the dark woods, and then he turns to see the dove do the same. Before he can look away, however, he notices a faint glow in the direction the dove had just flown. Getting up, he slowly makes his way toward it. As he draws closer, he realizes that the glow pulsates, gently, as if it were a beacon calling
As the black fabric is drained away, it unveils a pure white zone, in which he is now kneeling. No more floating, no more water, or stars, or black space; even the holes in the ground have disappeared, if that was even the ground at all. He wipes his eyes but finds non - fiction
out to him. Upon approaching it, he notices that it is no larger than a penny, spherical, steadily hovering eye-level with him. Once more, he attempts to reach out to it, slowly. It seems time is slowing down; each blink seems to grow sequentially longer. The extension of his fingers seems to take almost a lifetime. When he finally reaches the moment just before he can touch the light, it grows, and consumes his sight. He awakes to find himself back in the room he left. But something is different, and it’s not the morning light flooding in, or the white sheets that were once dark blue. It’s not the walls or the dresser or the nightstand or the clock, and it’s not the easel and paints that lay in the corner, nor the poster of the Andromeda galaxy on his wall. It is a feeling inside; he feels different—strange and new. But there is also an addition to the room apart from his internal contentment. To his side lies a sleeping woman, no longer obscured. She lies wrapped comfortably in the white sheets. He stares at her, at the woman he loves. He stares into her eyes as they let the new day’s light in. She stares back, a smile creeping across her face in between the locks of her hair. The room holds no words, just silence, light and love. He stares at her under the glare of the window’s dawn. He stares into her eyes, and peering in, he stares into her soul.
“Eyes are windows to the soul” —Harry Stack Sullivan
if you think you’ll damage me by Amanda Paul
If you think you’ll damage me, I will stay flawed for you. What you want is not what’s meant to be, I pray that it’s not true. I am here, and I’m reminding you that all your faults are blinding you. Your clouds have silver linings too, imperfect is confining you. Don’t crawl into the dark unknown, and leave me on this earth alone. Destruction will come on full-blown, from faces you have never shown. If you think you’ll crack my fragile glass, I’ll shatter just for you. Just talk to me, and time will pass, tell me what you’re going through. Your last breath won’t relieve me I am begging you, believe me, destroy me and deceive me, Just for God’s sake, …please don’t leave me.
“Mythical Divide (Venus & Elkar)” by Justyna Gajda
poetry
“Sugar Explosions” by Amanda Paul
e m a f to d a e l y h s a r t “If
s.” ght hei t , a , e rs nce tars gr tea nte er s reach g e t t i s n l eri to g ould ext mm her n w turn shi n uld at you d o o c ha ng th ke oki tion smo elieve tuc hile ch b and s I e n D W ud. the elf es. pro of S er ey was onds t. n h e e diam candleligh e h e k m s u li n r t o d q o r te e a o f a k y h w o t r t m g de e t lo eau fallin ld me e th r fee in the un eb to e lik at he Th ce es wer aggots a f her Her ey nd the m a
d. e t n a w e h s g n i h t y ver e s a Iw
ness n floor .” r mad listen n, ea othing ould in you s the oc te t n e hear n we w m nd lis os n o r a e c m a only to th t id y u c b jo lu t its ery “If ev shou could ear it. I could h that only ft o s o s r hispe t smile age d a w bitterswee Sh e ma n ted into a or nt co ce g fa petals My shinin uty of withered rose that reflected the bea scattered across our water’s surface.
“If hand g only renades had s ugar insid e, Her wor ds w ere grac eful Silence is
Sugar Explosions by Amanda Paul
and a were ll the little c ra pepp ermin cks in your h eart t flav then ored you w , ould deco rate like the s that treet s star that tops the
I am
like the
tree .”
e es th
skid ding ersta whe r in th els o fac Lady e makin ar a g L . with uck bou in to a pla t to c … rn-u stic Th rash p crow r . a en g s, A ho n upon the m o d ra y af h s e t cele ad— te “B r s himm brit ab he e with y y, to ring flam ok ing an trac re ks ot an d eyes he da on ne rd he leg ra an g o r ma t st jes fm rid ty’ e. en sf th ac ol ew cr ys er ew ta ls. ipe da wa y a sup
’ en ar ly al re
rs ea tt
j of
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kn
.” ow
Designed by Anthony Cruz
sacred.
Excerpt from paradigm, chapter IV by Jack Conrick Jr.
T
he ship rocked again, sending people rolling and loose materials flying through the salty air, as the beast, the thing, brought its hands down upon The Baron. The hands, or rather, claws, were tangles of bony mandibles and slimy limbs. These amalgamations of fetid disgust dragged the beast‘s bulk up upon the craft, where it began to feast. Citizens continued their panicked run towards the lifeboats, only to be swept away by the many fingers of the beast, toward its now surfaced form. Füngata, with spear in hand, entered upon the scene at this point, witness to the feast. The bulk of the thing was that of man, and was somehow everything a man was not. A tentacled head, home to a toothy maw and four soulless eyes, sat upon a torso of sickly flesh and pus-soaked nodes. The nodes cast off a slight luminescence in the weakening light of the late afternoon. The feast mentioned was swift. Fingers reached out and brought shrieking Sluggolians to their doom. Torn to shreds. It rained red droplets after each new victim sated the beast. Without thinking, Füngata began to descend the steps of the aft‘s pyramid, a slow process. Meanwhile, Floran soldiers did their best to detain the beast, a creature that was a good three stories tall. A hopeless effort, but one necessary to ensure the citizens would make it to the lifeboats. As the savior ran, a plan came to mind. The mast! I can reach its head from there! Making a sharp turn at the base of the next flight of stairs that ran up the pyramid, Füngata followed the
non - fiction
railing to a set of ropes, guide wires for the mast. He cut them with the crystalline blade of the spear and was hurled skyward, toward the maw of the beast.
all, but powerful nonetheless. It winced as its child‘s long fingers were cut away, but more would grow back for the blood had given it strength.
The soldiers below became both a distraction and a snack. As he was pulled higher, to a landing halfway up the mast, Füngata could hear the metallic whine of the soldiers‘ armor being crushed by the beast’s foul jaws.
“I can see you, but you are blind to me.” It shifted in its prison. “I will be free, and I will kill you. However, my child will do that for me. I have lied. So, I apologize.”
Faster, please. Faster! The journey upward ended with a crash as the savior collided with a pulley, and was sent sprawling along the landing. Managing to not lose his balance, Füngata stood and shouted at the beast, “Creature of the Maggog! I am Füngata, Savior of the Sluggolians!” He was unsure as to why he was saying this. “I am the one you want. Leave them alone!” Surprisingly, the monster turned its four eyes, black as wet tar, towards the savior. It roared in a guttural call, deep, primal, angry, yet understanding the small man before it had spoken. The many-fingered hands of the beast, writhing and fast, flung the soldiers away, and began to make their way up the mast. Now what? I didn’t think this far.
I
t watched through the eyes of its child, the leviathan, tentacled babe. It watched the hands slither up the mast and be cut down by the fiery man with the spear, that spear forged from blood and adorned with a blade of tears. A shadow‘s blood and a shadow’s tears. Oh, not from a god at
The leviathan, the beast, continued climbing its hands upward, towards the ethereal. Each time, its fingers were cut away. Each time more grew to take the fallen‘s place. The beast howled, and its father-mother watched through its eyes, so proud, so hungry, still imprisoned beneath Prospect.
T
he sanguine spear glided through the air and met the sickly flesh of the leviathan, the beast. Every connection between weapon and monster was met with a burst of murky fluids and the death of an appendage. However, for every finger and every tendril that the savior fought off, another would take its place. An endless cycle began. I can’t keep this up forever. Even if I become an eternal distraction, who would lead them after this point? I can’t fail. The beast, sensing the weakness in its target, pulled two more hands from beneath the waters of Prospect, each with more greedy fingers and scratching mandibles. It let out a howl and began to hoist its bulk upon The Baron’s deck. The vessel began to sway wildly as the beast tried to leave the waves.
The Baron, a ship built from ancient trees carved with old runes, despite being so strong, could not hold all of the monster. The guide rails snapped and the wooden planks of the deck itself buckled and splintered. A few surviving soldiers, screaming for help and shouting their battle cries, were deafened beneath the beast. It had boarded. Now, with two more arms at its disposal, the beast increased its assault upon the savior.
Was that a memory? Why would I have one here, now?
Füngata swung the Sanguine Spear in a useless effort to disjunction the wall of fingers from their origin. The crystalline blade became a blur amongst pale, rotting flesh. The beast, wishing a better view, raised its head to the landing on which Füngata valiantly fought. Looking away for a moment, the savior gazed into its four tar-colored eyes.
“I am Füngata, Savior of the Sluggolians, and I cast you down!”
Lost in the sheer horror of the orbs, Füngata let down his guard, and was thrashed by a finger that had come up from behind. He was thrown to the ground. And the beast descended all of itself upon the savior. Is this how it ends? When the already dim sky became darkness, having been obscured by the beast, time seemed to slow, and then stop. The salty wind, reduced to a foul odor, stopped tugging at the savior‘s fiery mane. The screams of soldiers and civilians were no longer audible. And, the beast was no longer moving in its strange slither-walk. There was, however, one event taking place. The Sanguine Spear, held tight in Füngata‘s grip, began to hum, no, thump. It beat steadily, like a heart, and calmed down the erratic beat of its wielder.
He walked through a beautiful garden flanked by high palms. Its flowers were of every conceived color, and of some that were not yet named. A cool wind passed through his fiery hair and jostled the white robes he wore. At last, he made it to the end of that lush paradise. And there, in the sunrise, was a woman. She beckoned the fieryhaired man closer. They held each other close, as lovers so often do. And they spoke of their love for one another, until the sunrise became sunset.
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The spear continued its steady rhythm, the calm beat of a reunited heart. As it went on, the red, sanguine blood of the shaft flowed upward into the crystalline blade where it shone. Unsure, but realizing this was some form of intervention, Füngata stood amongst the still fingers and wielded the spear with courage.
The Sanguine Spear was guided downward at a sharp angle. As the savior made this motion, the hot red light of the blade cascaded outward in a beam, bisecting the beast. And, so, reality flooded back. The waves returned to their mad churning, the screams echoed back, and the beast began to move.
T he spear! No! Unable to hold himself on without both hands, the savior was forced to set down the mighty Sanguine Spear. The weapon rolled along with the ship, and fell from the height of the landing. As the beast splashed down to its watery death, so did the spear recede into the depths of the Floral Bay. And, as this happened, the ethereal felt a pang in his heart. It was not from the loss of the spear; it was more than that. It felt as if he had seen an old friend, and had to say farewell again. W h o w a s th a t w o m a n? W h y th e s p e a r? I feel so. . . sad .
The beast, leviathan, tentacled babe, howled. Its fingers fell to the deck and flopped like gasping fish, and its arms, caught in the sanguine beam, rolled off the ship and into the sea. The bulk of the monster, home to the head of four eyes, called out in maddening tongues as it fell back into the waters that had birthed it. But it would not go so easily. Füngata braced himself on the landing as the beast’s bulk floundered back into the deep. It smashed its head against The Baron’s side, screaming, scratching out with the tentacles surrounding its terrible maw. Füngata held on tight and true, and survived. But all was not well.
“Victoria’s Secret” by Gabriela Mejia
in
&
out
by Jessica May
I
magine being inside of a box. It’s small, it’s cramped, it’s getting hot, and you are running out of oxygen. You begin to panic; your breath is quick and hoarse—you are about to faint. You know there are people outside the box—and they know you’re inside—but they don’t react. They can’t hear you screaming, calling; but even if they could hear you, there is nothing they can do to help. Somehow, miraculously, you come tumbling out of the box gasping for air, crying tears of joy because you survived and tears of rage out of frustration.
“ Why didn’t you help me!?”
you scream. No one can hear you. Even if they could hear you, there is no way they could ever fully
non - fiction
comprehend what you went through. Only you can grasp how horrifying it is to be trapped where no one can get to you and you have no idea if you will ever come out again. But when you are free, everything is beautiful. Every person has a purpose and every object has a meaning. All reasons rhyme and everything makes you laugh. The energy you bring is quick and brisk like a winter wind off a lake—you are so cool the breeze puts on a scarf when you blow by. Life is grand. The trees are waving, the sun tracks you like a spotlight, and the world is ecstatic to see your face! Only you can understand how heavenly a blue sky can be or how brightly the stars at night can shine, because you know how quickly you’ll be thrown back into the box, because you have manic depression.
19 “Of Death & Treasures” by Nancy Valladares
before the storm comes by Amanda Paul
I can feel an earthquake coming and I know it’s getting near. The ground below us cracking, with the thunder made of fear, and now there’s no denying, so don’t say you won’t, my dear. I just need to tell you something now, before you disappear. There’s a hurricane that’s coming, I can see it blow our way. In the trees the stars are hanging, and they’re starting to decay. Is there still a use in trying, when I know that you won’t stay? Can I just tell you something now, before you go away? Could you please say what you’re thinking, or say when you’ll shut the door? ’Cause the dark clouds aren’t leaving and my eyes are getting sore. My pleading may be boring, full of words you might ignore, ’cause I’m pretty sure you’ve heard this just a thousand times before...
“Rexy” by Sophia Rapata
poetry
The stars that are returning have no shine and can’t compare. The sky just keeps on cracking, and it never will repair, but I’ve never seen it glowing, until you came, I swear, so I’ll smile ’till it starts falling because soon you won’t be there.
“Untitled” by Tatianna Williams
Designed by Chris Cruz
night Song by Emily Kozak
There’s a murmur in the silence, There are eyes in the blind night. There’s a tapping, rapping, lapping On the fringes of the light. The memories of daytime Come to pace the restless roads, While the drowsy sidewalks fidget Under half-forgotten loads. There’s a dozen little whispers The sounds of no one there; There’s a grumbling, creaking, groaning; Feet remembered by the stairs. The bells hum broken echoes Of songs they’ve never sung; The old breeze puffs on wearily With sighs of long-dead lungs. All the pigeons wake to ponder The buildings’ winking eyes And the rustle, bustle, clatter Of the ghosts of passer-bys. The broken things that shun All the denizens of day Come streaming from the shadows, Emerge to join the play. “Snake Chamer” Justyna Gajda
poetry
And the memories and whispers, The feet that leave no marks, The thumping, bumping, hidden things Rejoice that all is dark.
laced memoirs by Amanda Paul
The beginning— A quick breath of air, and I am okay again. Calm and cool as a mid-summer breeze, I wander as I correct the pieces on the floor that were lost or out of place. Nothing should be out of place. Day one— My fingers brushed over an old photograph of myself as a child. I could feel its energy conducting my mind as I picked it up. The tongues my old self spoke in were quite odd. I could see my own eyes, glaring, staring while an eleven-year-old me spoke obscenities under her breath. “Not tonight.” I responded wordlessly as I set the picture in its rightful place. (Not tonight? It’s never tonight. It’s never tomorrow either....) Day two—
Everything was as quiet and radiant as the stars being watched from earth. Everything was just fine. Day four— There were puddles on the carpet. An off-white or beige-colored liquid that my foot accidentally splashed in. I didn’t leave a mark or trace, but thought it might be satisfied with an apology. Day five— I couldn’t look at colors any longer. Their intensity was sharp enough to slit my throat. Blue and green ran together, creating an ocean. The waves crashed into me, but I held my head high above the water, not breaking stride. I am fine. I am me. Let me be.
After gently half-straightening the sheets, I sat down for a quick glance at my sorry excuse for a reality. My eyes focused and I scoped out the room, taking in all the information my brain could encounter.
Day six—
The floor, the window, the ceiling, the walls were all fluorescent, with red and blue outlines that seemed to be gazing at me from the distance.
I told it that everything would be okay, and everything was.
I could feel the growing sensation of my thoughts no longer being internal. Ten years earlier— I innocently looked up at a nearby spider web, woven flawlessly. I destroyed it. Day three— I closed my eyes in the shower, picturing a rain cloud just above my face. It had eyes of its own, and I told it about all of the hardships I had survived. It was willing to listen, and welcomed me into its arms. I was grateful for the solace, and when I was finished, the fog on my mirror reminded me of its existence.
I tried to coax my dripping right hand into coloring, but it wasn’t in the mood.
There was nothing wrong. Everyone falls asleep to ringing echoes of the surrounding fractions of beings, stationed forever, inside one room.
All I do know is that the sound of a raging fire has never been so profound while scraping the closest wall trying to get out of a room filled with only air. No need to panic. Everything was okay.
Day nine— My eleven-year-old self no longer relies on me. It found out I wasn’t okay. I got discovered. I tried to scribble words onto paper, to apologize to my own image but the lines ganged up on my hand to lacerate my skin to the bone. Day ten— I am not busy. I have no excuses. What is existence? Is it nothing more than a state of being, or feeling, inside a box of reality? Where is reality? Is it even a place I have found or have yet to find? What if reality no longer exists? It must be lost or out of place. Nothing should be out of place. The ending— Am I out of place?
Day seven— My cloud had passed the mirror again. It must have stopped by to say hello. I looked into the fog and swiped it with my finger. Liquid embraced my hand as I slid it downward. The fog was out of place. Nothing should be out of place. Day eight— Is there a line between being conscious and unconscious? I think I might have jumped its tall fence tonight, but I am not quite sure.
“Edyta” by Sylwia Babczakiewicz
painting
gallery
"Teapot Rhapsody" by Gabriela Mejia
"Garden Variety" by Amoreena Tarvas
"Lapdog" by Max Weber
Artwork on this page by Kristine Boteva Left: "Tiger" Below: "Maria"
25
painting
gallery
artist spotlight
tatiana lord Artist’s Inspiration
“Ideas of Reflection” was a way for me to explore the realities of, not only reflections, but also how reflections react on different surfaces. Colored, opaque and clear glasses all display this phenomenon in it’s own way that was alluring to try to capture. This piece was a finalist in the “Fine Art Finals Midwest Scholarship Competition.” “Painted and Painted Again” depicts a rusting vehicle with layers of paint wearing through, exposing the history of its many paint jobs. This was a great subject to use for my preferred bright palette and my interest in texture. I tend to pick objects that are “weathered” because of the brilliant colors I find in their seemingly ugly surfaces.
Left: "Ideas of Reflection" Below: "Painted and Painted Again"
27
photography
gallery
Clockwise from Right: "Targets" by Sylwia Babczakiewicz "Pool of Blood" by Rostislav Melnyk "What the Hell" by Nancy Valladares "Elizabeth" by Brynn Hines "The Lovers" by Cheri Pentimone
29
photography
gallery
"Journey" by Nancy Valladares
"Sus Manos" by Carlos Ortiz
"Blowing Off Steam" by Humberto Saldana
"Help Me!" by Olivia Brus
"Natural Beauty" by Brynn Hines
31
"Cling" by Olivia Brus
"Nose to Nose Level" by Olivia Brus
illustration
gallery
"Self-Portrait" by Bryan Ruff
"Chupacabras" by Roberto Almanza
"You Turn Me On" by Bryan Ruff
"Resonance" by Sean Daly
artist spotlight
derek hernandez Artist’s Statement
Aesthetically, my style is not hard on the eyes; however, creating it is quite the task in itself. The foundation of a piece is where I make mistakes necessary to support the details. I describe this as internal spontaneity, or “Mistakeism”. Although there’s a sense of randomness, I always feel every line, stroke, or color has a purpose.
"Lust"
33
"Neon Roses and Pearls"
"Storytime With Argyle"
"Belt and Cuff Sketch"
illustration
gallery
"Patron" by Justyna Gajda "Beaker" by Humberto Saldana
"Madagascar’s Vision of a True Satan" by Kent Grashel
Series by Sophia Rapata
"Geetar"
"Sad Clown"
"Scurred"
"Smiley Bow"
the academy
clubs anime club
cover to cover
Join us to watch your favorite anime shows and movies. Rent anime to take home with you. Meet other anime fans and play games. Contact instructor Marc Soehl (msoehl@aaart.edu) for meeting dates and times.
Join our Academy-wide book discussion group—students, staff, and faculty welcome! Contact Lindsay Harmon (librarian@aaart.edu) or Tony Thomas (tthomas@aaart.edu) for info on meeting dates and times.
behind the canvas
friday painting club
Our goal is to bring students together across majors and years in an effort to improve the experience of everyone on campus – both educationally and socially. We promote school spirit and community outreach through fundraisers and special events throughout the year. For more information, email Jaime O’Connor. (joconnor@aaart.edu)
Friday Painting Club is an oil painting club that includes Academy students, faculty and staff. We take turns painting each other’s portrait in order to improve our painting skills and enjoy the experience of painting one another. If you are interested in participating in this exciting club, contact instructor Don Yang (dyang@aaart. edu)for more information. Also check out our weekly blog, www.fridaypainting.blogspot.com.
film club
comic book organization
With a wide selection of films, Film Club presents a variety of genres and artistic productions throughout movie cinema. Every semester follows a theme and provides viewers with films of all kinds of plots and directions. Several themes that the club has viewed over the years are film noir, obscure movies by big-name directors, foreign films, psychological thrillers, and modernizations of classic stories. Join the AAA Film Club and introduce your fellow Academy classmates to the movies you love to watch. For more information, contact Jaime O’Connor (joconnor@aaart.edu).
The purpose of this organization is to stimulate the imagination and further develop the skills of artists who are interested in the graphic novel industry and other related fields. We want to focus on team development, any skills related to the industry, and bringing in professionals in these fields to give us insight.
the american academy of art 332 South Michigan Ave. Suite 300 Chicago, IL 60604-4302 Phone: 312-461-0600 Fax: 312-291-9570 E-mail: info@aaart.edu