Eye Contact
The Literary and Art Magazine of Seton Hill University
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"The past beats inside me like a second heart." – John Banville
Eye Contact Vintage
Volume 31 • Issue 2 • Spring 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.
Staff Editors-in-Chief
Madeleine Robbins Madison Wilson
Art Editor
Devina Colรณn
Literary Editor
Alexandra Gipson
Layout Editor Bianca Socci
Assistant Layout Editor Rebecca Scassellati
PR Manager Evan Vissat
Faculty Advisory
Dr. Michael Arnzen
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Cover Art
Eye Can't See by Bianca Socci
Web Editor
Marisa Valotta
Business Manager Zachery Odenthal
Staff
Morgan Bergman Tasha Brownfield Jacob Meager Kemaura Vance
Contents
Foreword . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Destined to Return . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 The Most Vintage of Days . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 To Wine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 Chamber . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 A Woman's Day . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Woman by the River . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Slave Gravesite . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 Peace in Pieces . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Centuries . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 On Overusing Greek Mythology as Metaphor . . . . . . . 15 Unlucky Seven . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 What I Discovered in the Attic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 Permanence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Ballet Movement . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 Out of Tune . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 The Factory Boy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 Court Painter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 The Virginian . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 Vintage Man . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Virulent . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26 Worms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Insert Eye Pun . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 Senior Page . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 Patrons . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 3
Foreword I would like to say that this semester’s theme applied smoothly, lovely and neat, like a classic floral wallpaper. At staff meetings, we might have smiled over tea, confident that our magazine’s quality would continue to increase. In reality, we had quite a bit of uneasiness about what “vintage” means, but I think that this issue celebrates the concept and all that it encompasses. As usual, our submitters did a great deal of artistic work, from which we have created an art piece of our own. On behalf of the staff, I thank the artists and writers who submitted their work and our patrons for their support. Thank you to our dedicated staff – my co-editor in chief, Madison; Ali and Devina, Bianca and Rebecca, Zach, Evan and Marisa, and all staff members – whose commitment to vision and willingness to try new things keeps our magazine fresh and lively. Thank you especially to Dr. Arnzen, for trustworthy guidance. The vintage theme permits an enchanting fascination with the past, and although “vintage” can invite mere nostalgia, I hope that the pieces in this small collection encourage readers to celebrate the past and leave something beautiful for artists in the future.
Madeleine Robbins For the Spring 2018 issue of Eye Contact, we selected a theme that would pair with Seton Hill’s Centennial Year Celebration. Although our magazine has not been present for all of these past 100 years, our sentiment of creativity and originality is at the heart of Seton Hill’s educational mission. We seek to honor and appreciate our university and our predecessors through this theme selection. Through “Vintage,” we enjoy the warmth of nostalgia, celebrate our past, and revel in our current progress and progresses yet to come. I would be remiss to not acknowledge the brilliant minds who make our art possible. Thank you to our staff for your devotion to cultivating our magazine. Thank you to Dr. Arnzen for your humor, experience, and intellect. Thank you to Maddie Robbins, my co Editor-in-Chief, for guiding me on my creative journey. You have helped this magazine beyond measure, and I know that, after you graduate from these halls, you will continue to teach others as you have me. Thank you to our patrons for valuing and believing in the arts. Finally, thank you to our contributors and readers. You are the essence of this magazine, past and present, and allow our art to survive and thrive.
Madison Wilson
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Destined to Return
Victoria Hrach
stagnant air holds the musty scent of books whose pages have long been painted in the yellow of old age vanilla-tinged lignin lingering throughout the empty halls a while ago decades ago, years ago, even – they weren’t so empty the sound of footsteps against their hard wood a steady rumble shoulders bumping and doors creaking secrets borne by every drop of ink across each inch of paper smooth, wrinkled, large, small sought out like prize money to fill wallets like food with the nutrients needed to sustain life – or maybe more like dollar bills spilling out of wallets, those extra slices of bread left over in a basket empty is not yet gone, though, as slender blades of moonlight pierce through the blinds, highlighting creased spines and bent pages amidst dust like dandelion seeds or pillow stuffing, illuminating the place to which one day we will return
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The Most Vintage of Days
David von Schlichten
Rain pounded on the roof. We sat facing each other, joined our wrinkled hands across the table. We wore matching bracelets of purple beads. Your silver hair framed your sweet, creased face and dark, glistening eyes. “This rain reminds me of that glorious day,” you whispered. “I relive it over and over,” I whispered back. “Our wild vineyard, our scandalous sanctuary.” “The smell of the grapes.” “The music of the rain. Much softer than today.” “Lying heartbeat to heartbeat.” “Skin to skin.” “The most vintage of days.” “Like the finest of wines.” “Eternally intoxicating.” “Breathlessly holy.” I leapt up, kissed you on the mouth. Long. Warm. You pulled away. “Where’s your husband?” “Probably passed out drunk somewhere.” Your eyes blazed. “When the rain stops, let’s run away.” O, I should have said yes. But I thought I couldn’t leave my sons. True, they were adults, but I was still their mother, their one merciful parent. And their wives had become daughters to me.
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And I was unable to envision how two old women could survive on their own. My imagination was so timid then. The door flew open. My husband rushed in with our three sons. “No stowaways!” he thundered. I stood in front of you. “She’s just one person, Noah!” “Only our family and the animals. Everyone else is wicked. Especially her, this woman who lies with other women like a man. I must throw her overboard!” My husband and Ham grabbed you. Shem and Japheth held me down, even as I cursed and punched and bit. As they carried you away, you screamed my name. Many months later, as we finally stand on dry ground and everyone stares skyward, I slip away. Leave them all. I refuse to look at the bow. Refuse to worship. I will live alone or gladly die. Do penance every day. With no one to absolve me.
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To Wine
Stephanie Malley
“Wine is bottled poetry.” – Robert Louis Stevenson Location, certainly, is key, from soil To sunlight, rainfall to humidity. Strong stock, of course (weak vine, weak wine). And toil— Relentless pruning—shear monotony!— A must, the clusters harvested by hand. Equipment matters. Cleanliness. Some skill; More luck. The finest wine cannot be planned, Fermenting in the dark, a mystery still When bottled. Length of aging, vintage years, Like labels, merely hint. By chance, by choice, You fill your glass: distinctions disappear: All nature, nurture, science, art one voice And you a poet, though you never write A word and simply sit and drink all night.
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Chamber
Madison Wilson watercolor on book page
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A Woman's Day
Julia Natalia
1958 Wake up. Tea, Honey. Breakfast. Pancakes, Sausage, Eggs. His key on the hook.
1978 Wake up. Fruit Water. The craft of Good Housekeeping. Curtains, Pillows, Hats.
1998 Wake up. Coffee, Black. Take kids to practice on time. Try new recipes.
2018 Wake up. Iced Coffee. Out the door and off to work. Empowered self-love.
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Woman by the River
MaKenzie Mueller colored pencil
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Slave Gravesite
Joe Carter photography
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Peace in Pieces
Megan Smoulder
Jailed between trees, teal Volkswagen bus immovable after cement blocks replaced wheels. Fused with foliage, amber grass ascends, grasps windows where Bob Dylan’s voice wove with laughter, strums on guitar, and grey wisps mingling with azure sky. Jimi Hendrix sang his banner when a flag first stood on the moon, now some kneel during anthems as thousands recline on couches, staring as believers protest the same battles M.L.K. sacrificed his life to.
record player’s ceaseless song, no official will flip. An expanding chasm with one link– a frayed rope bridge. No builders or tightrope walkers embrace challenge. Blood splatters classrooms, 4 dead at Kent State, killed by protectors; 17 dead in Parkland, AR-15s in backpacks. Teachers the new soldiers killed in line of duty. The bus still stands speckled in peace signs, crimson with rust.
A nonviolent savage rivalry between two zoo animals,
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Centuries
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Colleen Malley body paint, make-up
On Overusing Greek Mythology as Metaphor
Colleen Malley
My sister bought a pomegranate yesterday, and I think we all know how this story goes; I eat the seeds, doom the world to six months of winter, and my family goes out to dinner to a nice little place called hell. Well, it doesn’t have to be hell – you could call it white middle class suburbia and that’s pretty much the same thing, right? (Except, in this version, I don’t turn anyone to stone, but I still can’t meet their eyes, carve your vision from my shoulder and pretend I’m alive) Grow some wings and head off the sun, listen to cautions, but always with a grain of salt and I have to ask, when it comes down to it – will I turn to softness or to savagery? (Cut off my head and two hearts will grow in its place – cut out my heart and my head will finally shut up) These days they’re finding magic in high school parking lots and endless strips of tarmac where kids create their own gods to believe in, and the gods continue to create their own worst enemies. (Fuck it, man, chain me to the rock, eat my liver out for all I care, so long as it means I’ve actually done something important enough to be punished for) I think what I’m getting at here is that I am not the hero of this story and my monsters do not come from the center of the earth but from somewhere hard beneath my sternum. That holding up the sky and rolling boulders up hills is not something to leave your day job for. That sometimes family can drive you down to hell. (So yes, I eat the pomegranate, yes, I doom the world to darkness and get carried away, but does anybody bother asking why I was so hungry in the first place? Maybe it tasted sweet. Maybe I was under a spell. Or maybe, I knew the consequences, and just wanted to be anywhere else but here)
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Unlucky Seven
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Andrew Fecik woodblock print
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What I Discovered in the Attic
Julia Natalia
I climb up through the narrow attic steps. A glimmer of light creeps though the window, shining on what appears to be an old record player. Once I get closer, what I’m looking at becomes clearer. Old albums are stacked up against a shelf overstuffed with books. So many of the greats appear in front of me – Steinbeck, Hemingway, Bowie, Dylan and more. I can barely contain my excitement. I attack the shelves, holding a record in my left and a thick novel in my right. I breathe in and exhale with all of my might. The dust sparkles as it fades away in the light. I find an outlet and plug in the record player – it still works. I sit up there for what seems like hours, hearing my favorite songs and reading my favorite words. I can barely breathe. I reach the last page of the chapter and wait for the song to end. Before I realize it, my eyes are bloodshot. I’m crying. I feel elated. I put the albums away for another day, but I take my book with me. As I climb down the attic, my mother hears my sniffles. She asks me what is wrong. “You hate reading,” she comments, seeing the book in my hand. I remark that I am just happy and overcome with emotion. She gives me a look that only mothers can, telling me that I have gotten it all wrong. I look at her, puzzled, as I wipe away tears. This is the day I learn that I am just allergic to dust.
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Permanence
Victoria Hrach
A lush voice lingering over gauzy melodies of keys and strings, the fraying nylon at the seam of a faded yellow backpack, a swift streak of color across plump lips – the memory lasts forever, and with it, the images. A cotton sundress draped over shapely legs, bare feet poking out from its bottom – it’s getting cold outside, but not too cold, not just yet, and as those slender fingers dance across the piano, notes echoing around the empty room, she wonders how it’ll ever be too cold for this.
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Ballet Movement
Sonny Bahe film on fiber base paper
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Out of Tune
Alexandra Gipson
The once-grand piano sits in the garage, amidst storage boxes, junk, and other forgotten relics. On the piece of wood directly above the keys the name of its creator is printed in black. Now almost illegible, its clarity fades like a poorly-done tattoo. Neglected by humans, dust covers it, acting like a thin, wool blanket that provides warmth during cold winter days and nights. Mice that have found their way into the garage have gnawed on it to dull their teeth, adding to the ever-growing inventory of scratches and dents on its wooden body. Spiders have adopted it as a home, their webs stretching from the back corner of the instrument to the front leg of the stool. But even those are old and wispy, remnants of what once was and might never be again. It longs to breathe its music into the surrounding air once again, to return to its former owners who would fill a room with its melodies and harmonies. Calloused fingers would glide with elegance across ivory and ebony keys, soft and smooth like porcelain. Now they are chipped like plates of fine China, and too rough a stroke would slice open the skin of fingertips. A mouth missing teeth, the instrument is embarrassed to open its mouth, to expose the gaps in its once-perfect smile. The keys, no longer the polished, untouched white of their youth, are dull and grey at the top, like roots of human hair losing color with age. Miraculously, only one is permanently out of tune, past the point of being fixed. If you attempt to play a song, you might close your eyes and forget the world as the music floats around and through you. That is, until you would press the broken key. Your eyes would then open and you would cringe, like cold ice cream just struck a sensitive tooth. The dream-like moments of bliss, of peace, are interrupted and over. You might then be left with the reminder that not everything is perfect, that everything is subject to time and will someday deteriorate.
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The Factory Boy
Rebecca Scassellati
Every Friday when the grubby envelopes were parceled out she shoved the meager wad down tattered stockings pressed against her inner thigh and then across the cobblestones her footsteps clopped like engines plunking off a belt because those boots outweighed their harlequin at least by half a pound. At night the boots would lay deserted by the broken Wurlitzer and tangled ringlets would cascade as the asbestos curtain rose and she would catch the pennies dead men spiraled at her through the smoke. It had rained today. Clammy soot on rouge on liar.
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Court Painter
Rebecca Scassellati charcoal, colored digitally
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The Virginian
Jacob Meager etching
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Vintage Man
Madison Wilson
You were my vintage man Old Camaro, ride or die A menthol perched on your lip And vinyl records piled high Honey whiskey love, it bit You said I should drink it straight To drown your backseat deceit When your Camaro’s out late You danced my accusations With swiftness of Fred Astaire Your swing dance left me steaming Cool, poisoned smoke filled my air But this new era’s changing As sisters, we march goodbye Time is up, Mr. Johnson Your records are piling high
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Virulent
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Evan Vissat digital photography
Worms
Matthew Boyer
The ground was slick for such a beautiful day Man and woman coming together to stay The nephews got restless and the woman’s brother took them outside The two eldest spoke, as the youngest chased worms Worms that came to the sidewalk during the rain Worms that the uncle told the boys could grow again once slain Worms will remain The sun came out and the worms went away Years pass, and the brother went away Months pass, and the uncle went away But the worms remain All that’s left of the three The youngest now walks alone in the rain Swapping one for another Worms are all that remain
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Insert Eye Pun
Bianca Socci digital collage
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At Clanmacnoise
Madeleine Robbins
Off the highway past the bog, brown sandstone walls, green with moss and dotted with purple flowers, stand watchful and vigilant like rugged ascetic monks at midday prayer. Down the road, buses line up outside a gift shop where tourists cower from the rain. The nearby River Shannon, steady and unhurried, makes its way from Cavan to the Atlantic. The river flows and wind ripples the long grass - a woman laughs and a cell phone rings. Across the churchyard stands the crumbling cathedral whose walls open to the sky, misty near the end of May.
Congratulations to our May 2018 graduate. Maddie joined Eye Contact as a freshman staff member and later worked as art editor, prose editor and finally, coeditor-in-chief. Her poem “At Clanmacnoise” was created for this themed issue.
With a cap of yellowed, brittle lace, enter beneath the whispering arch as it echoes the voices of centuries, “bless me, Father,” into beauty ever ancient, ever new.
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Sonny Bahe
Contributors
is a third-year computer science major who aspires to be a cinematographer.
Matthew Boyer
is a junior in the creative writing program at the University of Pittsburgh at Greensburg, originally from Shanksville, PA.
Joe Carter
is a junior at California University of Pennsylvania with a major in studio art with a concentration in ceramics, and a minor in environmental studies.
Andrew Fecik
is a visual arts and ceramics teacher at BVAHS and a mixed media sculptor/illustrator, making personal art with figures and imaginary creatures and using found objects such as rusty metal, cactus pieces, plastic, or whatever else he is inspired by.
Alexandra Gipson
is a writer and poet who enjoys petting dogs and drinking coffee.
Victoria Hrach
is a biology major with a Spanish minor and a member of the SHU Honors Program.
Colleen Malley
is a junior theatre performance major with a penchant for gluing sparkly things to her face and playing with words.
Stephanie Malley
a SHU parent, is not a wine drinker, but she does enjoy writing poems about poetry and couldn’t resist the R.L. Stevenson quote (though she did resist titling the poem “Rhyme in a Bottle”).
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Jacob Meager
is an art education student with interests expanding into traveling, creative writing, and the fine arts.
MaKenzie Mueller
is a student at Belle Vernon Area High School, exploring a range of art styles and/or media.Â
Julia Natalia
is a junior English literature major who is passionate about social justice, the human spirit, and avocados.
Rebecca Scassellati
steals art from trash cans and can play the ukulele while walking her cat.
Megan Smoulder
is a junior creative writing major with a secondary teaching certificate at Seton Hill University.
Bianca Socci
will attend the function if it means free pizza.
Evan Vissat
makes art, writes poetry, and talks too much.
David von Schlichten
is an assistant professor of religious studies at Seton Hill, the coordinator of the Gender and Women’s Studies Program, and a student in the MFA program in Writing Popular Fiction.
Madison Wilson
is a psychology, sociology, and gender studies student at Seton Hill University.
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Patrons Daniel Casebeer Christine Cusick Dana Elmendorf Dennis Jerz Jen Jones Karissa Kilgore Corey Niles Laura Patterson Kim Pennesi
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Judith Reyna Beth Runquist David von Schlichten Charmaine Strong Tamara Swank Maureen Vissat Kochanek C.T. Wansor Emily Wierszewski
Look to our website for information about the Fall 2018 issue. blogs.setonhill.edu/eyecontact
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Indiscreet Public Statements