Eye Contact Illusion
Volume 30 • Issue 2 • Fall 2018
Copyright © 2018 by Eye Contact. After publication of this issue, all rights revert to the original artists. Eye Contact is published in the fall and spring semesters by Seton Hill University students. The ideas herein are not necessarily those of the university or the student body. Printed by Seton Hill University Xerox Copy Center. 1
Staff Editors-in-Chief
Faculty Advisory
Alexandra Gipson Madison Wilson
Dr. Michael Arnzen
Art Editor
Cover Art
Devina Colรณn
New Medusa by Madison Wilson
Assistant Art Editor Jacob Meager
Web Editor
Literary Editor
Rebecca Scassellati
Zachery Odenthal
Business Manager
Assistant Literary Editor
Kaitlyn Marsh
Staff
Marisa Valotta
Mikaela Fitzpatrick Chelsi Havko Claire Hlad Katrina Kaufman Amy Long Leta Meyer Ally Riddle Jen Schatz Kemaura Vance
Layout Editor Bianca Socci
Assistant Layout Editor Rebecca Scassellati
PR Manager Evan Vissat
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Contents Foreword . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .4 Lost Youth by Madison Wilson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .7 Moonwalker by Alexandra Gipson . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 Exile by Jordan Waylen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 Starbucks by Matthew Osche . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .10 Sapient by Bianca Socci . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .12 Threshold by Alexandra Gipson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .13 Optical Rift by Nasseem Adam . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .14 Bad Math by Jordan Waylen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .15 Perfect and Blonde by Rebecca Scassellati . . . . . . . .16 Weight of Coal by Jacob Meager . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 Trophies by Laura Kupets . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .19 Now I See Her... by Sam Gray . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .20 Seen It All by Leta Meyer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Encore by Bridget Malley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 Semblance by Bianca Socci . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .23 The Devil Plays... by Marisa Valotta . . . . . . . . . . . . .24 The Diamond Bird by Albert Wendland . . . . . . . . . . .26 Of Faith by Matthew Boyer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Mark of Cain by Rebecca Scassellati . . . . . . . . . . . .28 Senior Page . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .29 Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 Patrons . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .32 3
Foreword
T
o me, the appeal of the theme of Illusion is its openness to interpretation. It is flexible in the sense that it can be applied in not simply the conventional sense of magical feats and tricks played on the eyes, but also in plot twists, senses of discomfort, and false perceptions. This theme encouraged artists and writers to really get out of their comfort zones and stretch the limits of the imagination. On behalf of the staff, thank you to all who submitted, and congratulations to those whose work will be featured. Thank you to Madison, who showed me the ropes and helped my transition from Literary Editor to co-Editor-in-Chief to go smoothly; thank you to Bianca, Rebecca, Zach, Devina, and the rest of the staff for their commitment and passion; and, last but certainly not least, thank you to Dr. Arnzen, whose humor and guidance are unmatchable. I would also like to extend a special “thank you� to our patrons for their continuous support. An illusion can be many things: a distortion of the senses; a deceptive appearance; a misleading first impression that causes you to look twice at a piece of artwork or reread a piece of writing because you missed something the first time. The various pieces included in this issue are ones that embody this flexibility, this magic. So, while reading, make sure to keep an open mind. Remember: things are not always as they seem.
Alexandra Gipson
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F
or our Fall issue this year, we selected the tricky theme of Illusion. Illusion is a slippery concept, as it, by definition, can never be what it seems. This issue pushes the boundaries of abstract and concrete, both visually and emotionally. I hope that we have adequately represented something that cannot be grasped, something that is not real. This issue would not have been possible without the dedication and creativity of our staff. I would particularly like to thank my co-Editor-in-Chief, Ali, for helping to continue this magazine’s legacy as a high-quality, artistic outlet. Ali has been a model of leadership and creativity for this magazine, and it would not have been possible without her dedication. Additionally, this magazine owes a significant portion of its success to our advisor, Dr. Arnzen, who constantly inspires and amuses us. I would also like to extend appreciation to our creators whose submissions never cease to amaze me with their ingenuity. We are lucky to have such diverse creators represented in this issue, from both Seton Hill and across the country. My deepest gratitude, though, goes to you, my reader. Without you, our magazine has no home. If art and writing have no audience, does it even make a sound? A funhouse mirror is only plain glass if there is nobody for it to reflect. I hope you are able to lose yourself in the enchanting mystery of this issue. We invite you to our show, where reality becomes blurred and maybe even lost.
Madison Wilson 5
"Life is an illusion. I am held together in the nothingness by art" -Anselm Kiefer 6
Lost Youth Madison Wilson oil pastel
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Moonwalker Alexandra Gipson There is grass on the moon. Blades flicker like holograms, struggling to make themselves known — signs of color, vitality among inanimate, monotone rocks. Hand open, she reaches, attempts to pull a fistful of life from the moon’s surface, but fails, despite incessant pursuits The silence, the darkness begin to chip away at her sanity — despite being all alone, she feels a presence, the sensation of company: whispers, footsteps, exhaled breaths. The mind and its tricks Underneath the space suit goosebumps dance along skin. She removes her helmet, and, as it falls to the ground, realizes why the astronauts never came home
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Exile Jordan Waylen micron pen, ballpoint pen, and marker
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starbucks Matthew Osche He stood at the threshold of the cavern. The entrance was great and gaping, a void containing ancient evils. He could feel beads of sweat crawling down his spine. His body was warm beneath the armor. The afternoon sun illuminated the dints and scratches on the metal plating, small abrasions on an otherwise immaculate suit. He had been in many conflicts over the years. He hadn’t always come out unscathed, but he had always survived. Yet those battles were different from this one. They had all been between him and another person, another human. Victory had been a realistic outcome for each of them. This, on the other hand, was another matter entirely. The elixir, he heard a voice in his head say. Focus on the elixir and the rest will follow naturally. Right. The elixir. That was why he was here after all, wasn’t it? That was the only reason anyone ever entered this cave, for the purpose of leaving with the elixir. He wasn’t even entirely sure what the function of this supposed magical drought actually was. He had heard from one acquaintance that it granted its drinker invincibility for a full day. Another had told him it could heal all physical ailments. Regardless of its specific abilities, it was something of value. But that wasn’t why he was really here, was it? No. No, that wasn’t why he was here at all. He was here to confront the one who guarded the elixir. The terrible beast that’s maw held over one thousand jagged teeth all stained in crimson. The grotesque creature that could break the back of a dragon with one fell swing of it its arm. The monster that was chaos incarnate. That was why he was here. He had heard legends of its indomitable prowess, its wry cunning. It was said that its immense physical strength was matched by its astounding intellect. Not even the most experienced warriors nor the most learned of sages could best it in battle, but he knew that to die with the regret of not facing the monster would be a significantly more grueling end than to die at the hands of the beast. He had to confront the monster in person. It was his fate. He exhaled a heavy breath and put his hand against the sheath that hung from his waist. He felt the weight of his sword as the sheath swayed ever so slightly, a metallic pendulum telling him that time was passing; the beast was waiting. He took a step forward into the blackness. There was a cracking sound beneath his feet, but he kept his eyes forward, not willing to look upon the shattered skulls rife with mold and rot. He made his way further down the corridor. The cavern was dark, and as he moved forward he felt the temperature drop and his heartbeat rise. He shut his eyes. He could feel the gaze of the beast, the stare of its tantalizing red eyes, boring into his
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being from the refuge of the shadows. Focus on the elixir. Make that your quest; to find and drink the elixir. As he took a step forward, his foot caught on a stone and he collapsed to the ground, his metal shin plate striking the cavern floor in a flurry of sparks. Steely echoes danced off the rock walls, and amidst the tumult, he heard the voice of the monster, a guttural roar that inundates the soul with raw terror. He scrambled off the ground and unsheathed his sword. It took him a moment to steady the blade in his trembling hands. His eyes were open now. He did not see the beast, but he saw a faint light before him. A few yards ahead, the corridor curved. It appeared to lead into a room from which emanated a dull glow. He was certain that around the curve he would find the elixir and, guarding it like a dragon guarding gold, the monster. He approached the light, but stopped before he turned the corner. The beast was somewhere inside. He breathed in, exhaled, and sheathed his sword. He stepped forward and turned into the room. As he moved closer, he could hear voices, soft conversations. Inside the room was a familiar scene. A counter, a menu, the scent of espresso. Someone approached the counter and asked the barista for a tall caramel macchiato. He looked around the room, searching for the elixir. And then he saw it. It rested on the surface of a two person table in a short, cardboard cup. A girl sat in the chair beside it. She looked at him and stood up. A smile formed on her face. “Hi,” she said. “Hi,” he said, reflecting the smile. The beast had beautiful eyes.
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Sapient Bianca Socci digital collage
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Threshold Alexandra Gipson It’s walking through an airport at five a.m., a fusion of jet fuel and French fries floats through the air. Eyeballs burn, heavy lids open and close (open and close) (open and — dreamlike; past moving walkways, restaurants, waiting areas (waiting areas, moving walkways, restaurants) (restaurants, waiting areas, newsstand!) Grocery stores after midnight, parking lots full of empty spaces; count the people present on one hand. Metal carts rattle (piles of old bones) The faulty wheel with a mind of its own veers the cart out of control (out of control) (out of — ) Transient and ambiguous, (the American gothic) Small towns in remote locations (we’re only passing through) Watch through the smudged window as the town whizzes by in blurry snippets: Mom and pop shops, eateries, bookstores (bookstores, shops, cafés) (cafés, shops, cemetery — ) thoughts of sonder, lost in reverie
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Optical Rift Nasseem Adam digital drawing
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Bad Math Jordan Waylen micron pen, ballpoint pen, and marker
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Perfect and Blonde
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Rebecca Scassellati pen and marker
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Weight of Coal Jacob Meager charcoal, graphite, and pastel on tinted paper
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Trophies Laura Kupets Her reflection detected in a mirror of diffused sunrise, she scurries to build a charade of creams, pastes, blood lips. eased by her paint veneer, she marches down the sidewalk and gazes pair with scattered voices “You look beautiful today.”
bullets hush the fox
and blood filters through frozen teeth that battled camouflaged lead the predator appears — famished, to sever the prize tail now swaying among skulls and paws “You have a beautiful collection.”
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now i see her... Sam Gray My mother lives in my apartment: in every neatly written envelope, the kitchen counters decorated with mugs and coffee spills, a sweater on the hook by the door, the shoes lined up soldiers by the entryway, mud on the mat left to dry from tacky paste. Socks in drawers are neat paper pages, the ankles slim and unstretched. Sometimes the oven flames potless, the TV left talking to itself, the light still shining in the bathroom all night adds an extra star to the sky as I sleep. Leaving my empty bed to do a morning inventory, in the mirror, I see my hands touch her face: Her bony nose too far from her eyes, that rounded jaw on long neck. Her smile softens as I sigh, my eyes unable to tell our difference.
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Seen it all Leta Meyer collage and marker
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encore Bridget Malley Hidden faces, hidden parts, masks we shape and don and discard while all the while the curtain parts, revealing stage, ballroom, audience. We see more than we intended. We’re seen, too, in turn. Music refuses to settle the score— each dance is duel, each partner lifts a glass of champagne in one hand, a pistol in the other. Masks fall, caskets fall, spent shells line the walls. A sober confetti. This is what it means to be alive in earnest, dear—hardly a word isn’t also a wound, the wounded giving back their hurts. It’s a hoax to think any of us could mean something to someone else— when we speak, I mean, these sounds— we know one another by the particular rhythm of our lies. How else would you be able to tell it’s me behind my masks?
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Semblance Bianca Socci digital collage
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The devil Plays with sidewalk chalk Marisa Valotta The road ahead was filled with water, white rapids coursing toward the edge where the river broke into a plummeting waterfall. From the side of the riverbank, a man holding a piece of thick, brown chalk stepped into the flowing water, where he knelt down and began to draw a rock. “I can’t believe how real it looks!” a woman exclaimed. She snapped a photo of the chalk artist, who looked up and grinned at her. “Ever wondered what it’s like to stand at the edge of a waterfall?” he asked. “Now’s your chance to find out.” “Can I…?” “Sure, sure.” The artist waved her over. The woman squealed as she stepped off the street and into the chalky waterfall. She made her way over to the edge of the waterfall and squeezed her eyes shut. “This is so real, I swear I’m going to fall right over.” “I promise it’s perfectly safe, ma’am. It’s just an optical illusion. But if you like it so much, I hope you might consider leaving a tip. There’s a couple more guys down the street who might appreciate you paying them a visit, too.” “Yes, I’ve heard it’s always nice to support local artists,” the woman said, digging into her handbag for her wallet. “I really appreciate it, ma’am. Any little bit helps.” He pointed to the far end of where the river began. “My tip hat is over there.” The woman’s heels clicked against the pavement as she made her way over to the artist’s money hat. She bent down to deposit a dollar into it. “My, my, you’ve got more than enough tips. In fact, I think you might have a little too much.” She glanced back to the other end of the waterfall, where the artist was bent over, focused on creating another hyper-realistic boulder. Quickly, she grabbed a wad of cash from the hat and stuffed it into her purse. She straightened back up and walked briskly past the artist. “Have a nice day!” the artist called after her. She turned briefly to flash a smile at him, then continued walking.
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Around the corner, a group of a few more artists were working on masterpieces of their own. People crowded around them, taking photos as the chalk artists worked their magic. The woman continued walking. It would be too risky to try anything over here with so many eyewitnesses and photo evidence. As she rounded the block, she spotted a lone artist tucked into a shallow alleyway. “Not a fan of spectators?” she said as she approached him from behind. The artist turned around and stood up. His dark eyes assessed her before he gave her a sly smile, which revealed perfectly white, pointed teeth. “I prefer to work alone, yes. But I do enjoy company every once in a while,” he said in a deep, rich voice that sent tingles down the woman’s spine. “Well, let me see what you’re working on,” she said. The artist stepped aside. “Take a look.” An image of a dark, jagged hole opened up into the ground. From the shading the artist used, it looked depthless, an absolute void. He had drawn in flames shooting up from the sides of the abyss to create a dim light within the shadows, which illuminated the body of a human falling down the hole, their eyes and mouth opened wide in a silent scream, their arms outstretched in desperate hope of clinging onto something. “What’s it supposed to be, hell?” the woman asked. She wiped away a bead of sweat from her forehead. She had grown quite hot all of the sudden, even though it was the middle of October. “Precisely,” the artist said. “Well,” the woman said, “how dark. But very nice. It’s so real I swear it’s warming up this alley!” She chuckled and loosened her scarf, fanning her face with her hand. “Hm. I’m quite comfortable,” the artist said, grinning. “Would you like a quick photo? Pretend for all your friends that you took a little trip to hell?” “Well, I can’t pass up that offer!” She shoved her cell phone at the artist and approached the chalk drawing. “Those flames really do look like they’re moving.” “Do they now?” the artist mused. He held up the camera. “Say cheese!” The woman took a step forward, crossing the line between the clean pavement and the chalk. Where her foot should have made purchase on the chalk-covered ground, she instead tumbled down into the abyss, screeching as the flames closed in around her, devouring another soul destined for eternal damnation. “Some illusions are real, darling,” the devil said. He pocketed her phone, then leaned against the alleyway, waiting for the next guilty soul to fall into his trap.
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the Diamond Bird Albert Wendland digital photography
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Of Faith Matthew Boyer Bless us, O lord, I open my eyes during prayer, Her wrinkled hands are held Together, sitting opposite me. Is it a sin to open your eyes during prayer? I wonder if she has done this, She doesn’t now. Her eyes are sealed, Keeping the remaining light in, And the darkness out. The memories come easier with Tight eyes; I don’t always cry. And these, Thy gifts, Only a dinner prayer, The anguish on her face expresses the need For more than blessed food, peace. Which we are about to Receive from thy bounty, The children have grown and gone, Some have spoiled, and it’s still called a plentiful bounty? She holds this faith with so much lost? Maybe that tightens the grip. Through Christ, Our lord, She braces for the change. How can this end so soon Without easing any pain? Amen
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Mark of Cain Rebecca Scassellati digital painting
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Senior page OF THE SEA by Marisa Valotta I drown in the hospital where I was born, choke on the sterile hands of the stranger who pulls me from my mother’s womb. I breathe in the air swirl it around for a taste: lips tongue lungs— spit it back out. In my dreams the ocean gives birth to me in languid waves. The depth of its belly swells with great heaves of salt-laden air— It lulls… surges down in an exhale, nudges me out of the water wrapped in a blanket of ivory pearls. I am not the wished-for child. Name me of the sea. Throw my faith underwater for the starfish to grasp in their coral-edged hands.
Congratulations to our December 2018 graduate. Marisa joined Eye Contact as a staff member and later worked as web editor and assistant literary editor.
In the night ocean let the waves clamor around my feet while thunder hangs in the air, a drummer hesitant to start the beat. I will not forget where I’m from if you name me of the sea.
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Contributors Nasseem Adam
loves art in every sense; he’s all about anything that requires creativity, and he loves making music, art, stories, etc.
Matthew Boyer
from Shanksville, PA, is currently a junior at Pitt-Greensburg studying creative writing.
Alexandra Gipson
is a senior creative writing major who is passionate about books, feminism, and the Oxford comma.
Sam Gray
is still trying to figure out if life is one big game of SIMS, the butt end of a cruel joke, or a series of the most amazing things that will ever happen to us (and he suspects it's probably all three).
Laura Kupets
is a senior studying English and theology at Seton Hill, and her favorite genre to write and read is fantasy.
Bridget Malley
eats words and will be an archivist someday.
Jacob Meager
is an artist based in the Appalachian Mountains of Pennsylvania whose work focuses on working-class individuals and the environments around them, utilizing natural elements such as charcoal, bone, wood, and steel to compose his work.
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Leta Meyer
is a student studying art education who enjoys playing around with different mediums in expression, regularly visiting nature and finding serendipity in life's patterns.
Matthew Osche
is a senior at Penn State University studying international relations and Spanish who also enjoys traveling, reading, and indepth conversations about Star Wars.
Rebecca Scassellati
is a defective prototype that figured out how to color nicely but forgot how to do simple math.
Bianca Socci
wants to know why round pizzas are put in square boxes and cut into triangle pieces.
Marisa Valotta
is a senior creative writing major who loves nature and rainbows, and strongly believes in the existence of ghosts and aliens
Jordan Waylen
is a struggling construction worker who makes art because it allows him to temporarily live in the present and forget himself.
Albert Wendland teaches English and Writing Popular Fiction at Seton Hill University.
Madison Wilson
is a senior sociology, psychology, and gender studies student at Seton Hill who enjoys mom jeans and feminist art.
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Patrons Michael Arnzen Christine Cusick Dana Elmendorf Dennis Jerz Laura Patterson Kim Pennesi Kathryn Rother Beth Runquist John and Fides Scassellati Yoko Sekino-BovĂŠ Caitlin Srager Maureen Vissat Kochanek David von Schlichten Mike and Kristi Wilson
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Look to our website for information about the Spring 2019 issue. Our theme will be:
VOYAGE
For submission guidelines, please visit:
blogs.setonhill.edu/eyecontact
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