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Brookdale Community College
Student Magazine of the Arts Vol. 48
2018
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This book is dedicated to every student, educator and artist who has something to say.
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Mission Statement
Collage Arts & Culture is a forum for sharing ideas within the ever-expanding realms of art, culture, music, and literature; although we are certainly not limited to just those disciplines. The magazine and website are managed and fully staffed by the students of Brookdale Community College in Lincroft, New Jersey. Collage is a diverse publication aiming to share our interpretations of the complex world we all live in. We are expanding and growing every day and are all very excited to share our ideas with you. Welcome to Collage.
Collage 2018 Vol. 48
Table of Contents 9
James Boyle – Sunset on Lake Jill Martin – Hawaiian Sunset
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Fernando Rojas – Artist Spotlight
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Courtney Walsh – Self
Robert Grandcolas – Don Quixote Defies a Monster
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Katie Dempsey – Bench
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Shaina Donner – Untitled Matt Nash – Decaying Water Tower
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Sonal Madhok – Reaching for the Light and the End of the Dock
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Helena Ylagan – Untitled Photo of Cat
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Victor Oliveira – Untitled Zachary McWeeney – Oil and Candle
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Matt Nash – Lady of Vines Shaina Donner – Untitled
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Lenny Campos – Artist Spotlight
Nicholas Nugent – Turmoil Michael Meinberg – American Roulette
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Riley Gerard – Home at Last Emily Weiss – Route 35 #2
Robert Grandcolas – An Unusual Union
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Joe Gentempo – Rooftop Chillin’; Velma
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Chris Wira – Queen of the Lost Robert Grandcolas – Three Bottles
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Hamdam Goudarzi – Jungle
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Jill Martin – Charleston
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Antoinette Galassa – Religious
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Michael Meinberg – The Lake
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Isabel Rechten – Artist Spotlight
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Courtney Walsh – Space Park; Red Girl
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Juliana Rodre – One Piece Stip Matt Nash – Love Seat
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Sonal Madhok – Neighbors
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Tate Hewitt – Pendulum Jenna Corso – Jewelry Piece
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Katie Dempsey – Underwater; Gramophone
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Blase Cafasso – Stipplephone
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Katie Dempsey – The Thing That Comes at Night
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Jill Martin – Artist Spotlight
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Gabrielle Jordan – Motherly Skull
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Colton Healy – Linked
Katie Dempsey – Hand in the Clouds; Your Cloud Storage is Full
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Michael Tucker – Dragon Danielle Azzolina – Mountains
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Emily Brown – Still Life of Pots Robert Grandcolas – Rooster Emily Weiss – Route 66
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Matt Nash – 1st Street Victorian Minh Connors – Beach Goer Enjoys Solar Eclipse in Ocean Grove
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Chris Wira – Revelations in the Shadow of Love
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Helena Ylagan – Untitled
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Erica Gonzalez – Words Hurt Courtney Walsh – Stick
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Robert Grandcolas – After Three Katie Dempsey – Still Life
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Varun Medidi – Artist Spotlight
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Erich Drazen – Summer
Joe Schondel – Intrepid Juliana Rodre – All Seeing Cat
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Riley Gerard – My Mother, My Friend
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Basem Hassan – House Picture
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Erich Drazen – Artist Spotlight
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Anonymous – Untitled
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Emily Weiss – Top
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Helena Ylagan – Untitled Photo of Rose
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Danielle Azzolina – Cherry Trees
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Danielle Azzolina – Cloud City
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Linnet Westerwick – Blowing in the Wind
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Natnicha Thanomrat – Artist Spotlight
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Erich Drazen – Stacey
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Emily Weiss – Route 35 #1 Sonal Madhok – Golden
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Tom Smith – Delaware River Barn
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Tom Smith – Tinton Ave. Barn
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Michael Imbro – The Ocean
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Tate Hewitt – Tributary Town
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Katie Dempsey – The Kingdom
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Riley Brouwer – Skinny Boy, Where Your Muscles At?
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Christopher Williams – A Waking Dream
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Sonal Madhok – Eunoia
Judith Cusack – Last Man Standing Courtney Walsh – Broken Boag
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Michael Meinberg – Charred Grounds
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Shelby Ulrich – Artist Spotlight
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Colton Healy – Through the Window
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Joe Gentempo – Entombment Sonal Madhok – Smoothing Calamity
Christina Berndt – Pear Character Study Amanda Trerotola – Little Red
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Linnet Westerwick – Ode to Escher
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Lydia T. Pinzon – Jewelry piece Rosemary Wright – Blue Beads, Silver Cross
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Marissa Barbieri – Chasing Sunsets
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Nicholas Nugent – Artist Spotlight
Will Kokinakos – Cemetery Wind Michael Marino –Columns
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Hamdam Goudarzi – Obama Marissa Barbieri – Countryside
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Isaiah Drake – Artist Spotlight
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Sonal Madhok – Within the Eyes of the Beholder
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Tom Smith – Hanging Swings
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Colton Healy – Wavelength
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Walt Miller – Artist Spotlight
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Jewelry pieces by Lydia T. Pinzon, Kathleen Eovino and Lisa Mangel
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Sunset On Lake James Boyle
Blue veins course through grayness Celluloid sundries reflect in the ripples Of a pond, swaying in circles Loving, stumbling, lilting, in compulsory soirees Meaningless, in the end. But maybe I’ll let the light in, Chase the chromes, the violets, the ambers Violently refracting in endless directions Emerging from an ever-fading fluorescent sun. Or maybe I’ll just throw stones, Watch the ripples cascade into oblivion Let myself fade into the sun Yeah, maybe I’ll just Watch myself Disappear Into the sun.
Hawaiian Sunset Jill Martin
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Don Quixote Defies a Monster Robert Grandcolas
Robert Grandcolas created this wire sculpture for his Sculpture class with Professor Lori Uffer. He also works in graphite and pen and ink.
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Bench
Katie Dempsey 1111
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Reaching for the Light at the End of the Dock Sonal Madhok
Untitled Victor Oliveira
Oil and Candle Zachary McWeeney
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American Roulette Michael Meinberg August 4
Turmoil Nicholas Nugent
The ball fell onto the roulette wheel and began to bounce. Jeff Devereaux watched each turn of the spinning disk as his knuckles turned white on the rim of the table. Every last cent from his savings was wagered on black. Bounce back: March 15 Jeff stepped out of his twodoor sedan and was joined a moment later by Beth. Together, they gazed at the two story townhouse, with its gleaming white edifice. The sight of it, shining in 14
the sun, everything he had worked for, brought a grin to Jeff’s lips. Beth asked, “Are you sure we can afford this?” Bounce forward: May 6 Jeff fumbled through the papers
scattered over his desk as he grew more and more heated on the phone. He nodded silently to Bill’s words on the other end as he searched through the mountain for something that wasn’t a bill. He tossed to the floor sheet after sheet, pausing only as he came across his latest life insurance
statement. He slid that into a drawer then turned his attention back to his call. “What the fuck’s a subprime mortgage?” Bounce: June 27 Jeff stared at the screen as the solemn-faced newscaster pronounced a bear market. The country was officially in a recession. Beth slipped up behind him, dressed in her pajamas, hair pulled up into a bun, and lightly tousled his hair, pulling him from that numb awareness. She said, “Are you okay?” Jeff turned to look up to her. With her eyes beaming with concern
and compassion, she had never seemed so beautiful. “As long as I have my job, everything will be fine.” Bounce: August 1 “We’re going to have to let you go, Jeff. What with the economy and all, we’re downsizing, and your performance reviews for the last few months have been not great.” Jeff snapped his cell phone shut without a word and heaved it at the nearest wall with all the strength his rage could muster. It hit solidly and then…. Bounce: August 4 Again If the bet landed, Jeff
could make do for another couple months, long enough to find another job. It couldn’t be that hard to find one, he was well trained and experienced, he was smart, he was capable, he was worthwhile, he could do it, but he needed a moment. Time raced forward around him, turning everything into a blur save for the bounces of the roulette ball which seemed to freeze with every impact. He couldn’t see the results. He couldn’t see anything except for the moment. Then the croupier called out, “32-red.”
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An Unusual Union Robert Grandcolas
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Velma
Joe Gentempo Joe is a member of the Collage photo team. Visit our website to see more of his work.
Rooftop Chillin’ 17
Jungle Hamdam Goudarzi
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a s I
l e b
c e R
n e t h
Isabel Rechten is a first year student and an exceptional artist. She likes to use a variety of media when making art, such as acrylic and oil paint, but mainly uses colored pencils. With colored pencils, she explains, “You can get a lot of detail,” as opposed to acrylic, which is more stylistic, and oil paint, which is more smooth. Isabel is highly influenced by her brother, who inspired in her a love for the beauty in abandoned buildings. This love inspired her Ghost Series. One of her favorite pieces is titled Window to Another World. She explained that it started with reference photos, since she “liked the colors and textures.” It took around a month to complete, and was created with colored pencils. Isabel also adds, “The ghosts live in the abandoned places. The ghosts tie into the locations that I draw. Most people will think that the ghosts are malicious or evil, but they are not.” The ghosts have appeared in many of Isabel’s projects in high school and beyond. Isabel is exploring various possibilities after graduation, including becoming a freelancer. Brookdale has benefitted her by giving her the freedom to explore her potential.
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One Piece Stip Juliana Rodre Juliana, a Graphic Design major, created this piece with Micron and Prismacolor ink pens.
Love Seat Matt Nash Matt is a current Graphic Design Major as well as an alumnus of the Video Production department.
Fernando Rojas, a local 3-D animator, brings a dinosaur back from extinction in his own way with this expertly designed triceratops head. Rojas has worked in different types of 3-D art media, such as hard-surface modeling. He’s designed futuristic Egyptian helmet armor into the shape of a lion head as a reference to the Egyptian gods with inspiration from the movie Stargate. He tells us that he likes the storytelling aspects of 3-D animation and art and that the 3-D world is more enjoyable than the 2-D world. Rojas appreciates his Brookdale education, saying that you can “get a good education depending on what you put into it.” He is hoping to transfer to FIT or SVA.
Triceratops Head Fernando Rojas
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Self
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Courtney Walsh
Decaying Water Tower Matt Nash
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Untitled Shaina Donner
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Untitled Photo of Cat Untitled Photo of Cat Helena Ylagan Helena Ylagan
Lady of Vines Matt Nash
Untitled Shaina Donner
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Lenny Campos
After starting out as a technician at the studio, Campos got into glassblowing, and has been working with glass ever since. According to Campos, the process of glassblowing begins with stainless steel metal or hollow rods. This material is then extracted from a furnace, which the artist then molds into the final piece.
Calavera
Lenny Campos was able to take a negative period of his life and turn it into something beautiful. Down on his luck, he was unsure of what to do, and looking for something to lift his spirits. “I kind of just stumbled upon a glass studio,” Campos said.
In terms of inspiration, Campos said he has a wide variety of influences. “I really like the work of Dale Chihuly, as well as the people around me in the studio.”
on Campos. “I like how it is very team-oriented at the studio, so you can get feedback and inspiration.” For Campos, the one challenging aspect of glassblowing is learning new techniques, which can often take many trials to master. While he is still unsure of where his artistic future will take him, Campos knows that glassblowing will always hold a special place in his heart. “Even if I can’t do glassblowing in the future, I hope it always remains a part of my life.”
Campos said he really enjoys designing cups and glasses. “I usually start with a vessel and then blow into the pipe at the places where I want the bulges.” The incredible opportunity to work at a glass studio is not lost Pink Pimp Cup
Pimp Cups Corazon Negro
Time is Money Clear Pimp Cup Evolution
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Home at Last Riley Gerard Dreams of Alaska, Watching the sky sparkle, And shimmer above the frozen lake. Wandering through Anchorage, Drunken stumbling, following Snowy footprints drawn By loose dogs in the night.
Route 35 #2 Emily Weiss 30
Queen of the Lost Chris Wira
Three Bottles Robert Grandcolas
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Charleston Jill Martin
The Lake Michael Meinberg I checked into the manor just as the sun began to fall beyond the horizon. The journey left me exhausted and my left leg ached where it rested on the pad of my prosthetic. The bellhop pushed the cart that held most of my bags, while I leaned on my main suitcase's handle like a cane as we made the way to my suite. He was a sallow faced young man with a gaunt build and eyes that never lingered anywhere for longer than a moment, and did not speak for the duration of the walk. Upon arrival, he extended his palm towards me and coughed. I searched my pockets and found a ten dollar bill to slip into his hand, which made him nod and leave me to my privacy.
The suite had an extensive main room with a comfortable and plush looking couch and a trio of chairs set around a table. I imme diately dragged one of the chairs over to the bay windows that overlooked the lake. The sun reflected off of the still waters beyond the windows, casting the surrounding space in a golden glow that radiated skyward and reflected onto the forest that encroached on the far shore. With that view in mind, I set up my easel and placed a sketch pad on top of it. The straps attaching my prosthetic to the rest of my leg itched, and I knew that the long drive had ground out most of my strength. Nevertheless, I flipped open the sketch pad and took a seat. The sun crept lower and lower as my pencil worked over the paper, tracing patterns and transferring
the imagery of the lake to the page. Eventually the darkness settled in thick enough that I could no longer see by the light of the window and I rose with a groan to turn on the light. From the distance I stared at my sketch and the words I had received in response to my last portfolio submission came to me. “Technically proficient, but creatively deficient. The artist fails to capture the spirit of the subject, however accurate the details.� I saw the subtle flaws in the sketch, the way that the lines came together too precisely, the lack of room for a viewer to interpose themselves and their emotional state into the work. I tore the page from the pad and allowed it to drift to the floor with far more grace than I could muster as I retired to .bed 33 33
Space Park Courtney Walsh
Red Girl Courtney Walsh
Neighbors 35 Sonal Madhok
Pendulum Tate Hewitt Sitting in a mitsubishi pickup its chassis rebuilt with angle iron and square-stock, its engine hauled from the carcass of a junkyard reject, its body solid, always had been. Lovingly rebuilt for nothing else than his own satisfaction.
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Jenna Corso
My uncle’s marble-like eyes peer out, through their glaucomic gloom, across the cab, toward mine.
He explains how my grandfather, A physicist and engineer, had shown him this magic.
Instead of answering me, he reaches into his tattered Carhartt, his most used pockets colored by years of grease and steel filings, and pulls out a weight at the end of a worn rope, unravels it and holds it by the tail.
Stuffing the object back into his jacket pocket, drawing the duck fabric in close to his diminished chest. He smiles at the memory, the determined, precise manner of letting the plumb bob choose one’s direction, at random.
We watch through the raking light while the pendulum spins, making our decision for us.
Katie Dempsey
Gramophone
Underwater
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The Thing That Comes at Night Katie Dempsey What is that creature, creeping along the floor of your bedroom? It twists itself around the leg of your bookcase, through the dust bunnies and crumbs that you had intended to sweep up before bed. It is made of smoke, but don’t let that fool you. It can still bite. It wriggles over empty shoeboxes and claws its way over a shirt that’s been lying on the floor since Tuesday. You feel the covers twinge; well, you don’t feel it, you’re asleep. It’s just climbed onto your bed. It’s only at your feet though, it can’t do much damage there. But soon it starts to creep over your calves, your knees, your torso, and finally comes to a stop at your face. It’s so close to you, I’m surprised you haven’t woken up to its breath
on your cheek. It lifts one of your nostrils with its clawed hand (maybe it’s a paw?), eyeing the size. It rethinks its plan; your nose is too small. So it climbs over your face, whipping its tail against your forehead (how are you still asleep??). It puts its face up against your ear and takes a large sniff; yes, this will do just fine. It delicately sticks one claw into your unsuspecting ear. There’s a significant amount of wax, but it will have to do. It holds its breath and scuttles right through your ear canal.
to go to a concert and had to be driven home by a police officer. Then, your adult memories: a half hearted attempt at college, ending in disaster; a repossessed car that cost more to get back than it had originally cost from that sketchy guy on craigslist; a broken engagement (was it you or her who called it off?); a miscarriage that feels like it was yesterday, even though you and her weren’t very serious, and you had thought that you didn’t even want a child at that point in your life.
Now it’s in your head.
These memories, the ones buried deep down inside your head, are exactly what it’s been looking for.
It looks around at all the garbage you’ve picked up throughout the years; that scary movie you definitely should not have seen when you were in grade school; your awful fourth-grade teacher; that history project you failed, but never showed to your parents; that time you snuck out
It delicately takes each memory, turns it around in its hands for a few moments, and sets it aside. It’s looking for something. The night your grandfather died? No, too degraded, not fresh enough. The night your father died?
Perfect. It shrivels up its nose in delight. Now for a little color: it moves to another pile, of horrible things, things that aren’t quite memories, it’s hard to say exactly what they are. Everyone has one of these piles in their head, and the contents are usually fairly similar from person to person. It sifts through the pile; a snake with yellow eyes? A hooded figure leaning over you? A bloody hand reaching from under the bed? A gaunt face with hollow cheeks and a disproportionately toothy smile? Perfect. It excitedly grabs a handful of particularly harrowing memories and thoughts and shoves them into… what is basically a VHS player in your brain, I’m not sure of the scientific term. Suddenly your eyes begin to hurriedly slide back and forth under your eyelids as a horrible scene plays out before you, a scene unique to you and
your experiences. It sits back and smiles; its job is done. It wriggles out of your ear, this time struggling a bit due to your tossing and turning. It proudly licks its claws and scuttles up your wall towards your window. It’s almost out when it senses something wrong; you’re mostly asleep, but not entirely; the nightmare has startled you almost into consciousness. It halts, unmoving, on the wall, hoping you will go back to asleep. It doesn’t like to be seen. Please close your eyes. You don’t know what it will do if it is caught. Close your eyes. Go back to sleep. Don’t open your eyes even a tiny bit. Try to stop breathing so dramatically as well. Please let it leave. Please. It’s still there, why won’t it go saway? Just keep your eyes closed as tightly as you can. Don’t peek. Not even a little. Don’t look at it. Whatever you do, don’t look up.
Motherly Skull Gabrielle Jordan
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Linked Colton Healy 40
Dragon Michael Tucker
Mountains Danielle Azzolina
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Beach Goer Enjoys Solar Eclipse in Ocean Grove Minh Connors
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1st Street Victorian Matt Nash
Erica Gonzalez
Words Hurt
Stick Courtney Walsh The bold babe in the mirror with the luscious lips wiped away her neon dreams. I retired my reds. Back to bare.
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Varun Medidi
Varun Medidi is a multi-faceted artist who brings a wide array of inspirations to his work. Medidi typically works with ceramics, specifically red clay, while using iron oxide to create a glossy texture. The title of this piece is Gajakarna, an Ancient Indian Sanskrit word, which Medidi says means “one who has eyes like an elephant.” While Medidi has been heavily influenced by modern and abstract art for, he wanted to explore a more classical aesthetic for this project. “This piece was based on Indian textile patterns and old age Hindu dynasty designs from previous
Indian empires where they used elephants as defense in their armies,” Medidi said. While Medidi enjoys ceramics and is very talented, he created this project for an elective class, finding his true passions in architecture. His favorite project is an architectural design he created for the Freehold Train Station, which created realistic, costefficient solutions for the site.
grown a lot as both an artist and a person. In addition to his artwork, Medidi is also a drummer in a local band called The Down and Outs. In terms of his future plans, Medidi plans to transfer to Philadelphia
University in order to obtain a Bachelor’s in Architecture. Wherever the future brings him, Medidi will be able to take with him an eclectic mix of artistic styles and inspirations.
Brookdale has given Medidi endless opportunities and memories. As president of the International Student Association and an active student ambassador, Medidi has
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Summer Erich Drazen
My Mother, My Friend Riley Gerard Night goes on, life grows long, time slips away,
I look at the stars, remember what’s ours,
But the sun always rises for another day.
Admiring the ocean’s light spray.
I look to my friend, ask “Is this the end?”
And it was alright, when I look to my right.
But he only points towards the ocean.
To see the sun rising for another day.
To think it would end, is a logical bend,
My mother died, my sister cried, my dad walked away,
But at least it keeps my life in motion.
But we’ll all follow in her footsteps one day.
That night I wept, but my friend kept Open my curtain to let the moonlight in. “I’m so afraid, that all our lives will fade,” But the night’s sky continued to twinkle. I wiped the tears from my eyes, and to my surprise, Everything was all okay. And now this fear has passed, and now at last, I see the sun rising for another day.
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Erich Drazen Fashion Photography
Andrea in Infrared
Cupcake Fashion
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Underwater Fashion
Redheaded Marjorie
Painted in Light The Elements: Earth
Figure Silhouette “With fashion photography, I love working with other creative people to create a moment of fantasy that is frozen in time and can always be looked back on.�
See No Evil
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Top 50
Emily Weiss
Cherry Trees Danielle Azzolina
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Blowing in the Wind Linnet Westerwick It was quiet except for the steady click-clack of the train. Tessa leaned against the window as she watched the world pass by, lost in her thoughts. Her cell phone rang, breaking her out of her trance. It was Kimberly, her sister. “Hey. What’s up?” “Hi. I just got home about an hour ago and I have to tell you, Mom and Dad are really excited that you’re coming. Mom made a pumpkin pie even though you’re the only one who likes it.” “Oh, great. Like I wasn’t nervous enough already. Can’t say I’m surprised, though. It’s been a few years since I’ve been home for Thanksgiving.” 52
“Yeah. How do you think they’ll take it?” “I don’t know, Kim… But I have to tell them.” She fiddled with the charm on her necklace, which was shaped like a musical note. “It would be worse if they found out on their own.” It had been a crazy few weeks since the store closed down. For most people, losing a job is a huge setback; but it was different for Tessa. She never liked working there anyway. College was okay, but what was the point now? She’d been laid off. Why should she stick around? It was nice to think that she finally didn’t have to work on Black Friday, but this year she had an entirely different reason to dread Thanksgiving weekend: She had to find a way to tell her parents that she was unemployed and had dropped out of school. She’d only agreed to
go in the first place to make her parents happy. Singing was what made Tessa happy, and she finally felt like she had a good reason to pursue that as a career. She could hear her father’s voice now: You had a full scholarship! How could you throw that away? But Tessa didn’t see it that way. Being a singer was her dream and she had a right to follow it. It was all she ever wanted to do. The muffled voice on the intercom announced that they were approaching the next station. Tessa tightened her grip on her rolling suitcase as the train slowed down and glanced out the window. She realized in that moment that she hadn’t been paying attention to where they were. “Oh crap, I missed my stop! I’ve been so distracted. Sorry, I’ve gotta go!”
Tessa quickly hung up, grabbed her bags and bolted out the door just before it closed. She headed straight for the opposite platform; she would get on the next train going in the other direction and make sure to get off at the correct stop. While she caught her breath, she scrolled through the transit schedule on her phone to see how long she would have to wait. A swift breeze came through, swirling the leaves on the platform around her. A piece of paper came loose from one of the pillars and floated through the air, descending in front of her as the wind died down. Tessa caught it before it landed on her feet. It was a flyer for a local band, which was seeking a new lead vocalist. There was a number to call for information
about auditioning. Tessa couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Was this a sign that she had done the right thing, or just impeccable timing? Either way, she didn’t have to think about it for very long. Tessa looked back at her phone. She knew what she had to do. She had to take this chance. With a new burst of confidence, she dialed the number, took a deep breath, and made the call.
Stacey Erich Drazen
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Stipplephone Blase Cafasso
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supply of sights, sounds, and sensations are “calming forces” for her.
Jill Martin A natural fluorescence permeates through the flowing cascades of color in local artist Jill Martin’s work. While Martin can light up a room as much as she can light up a canvas, her journey has not always been so bright. “I struggle with a lot of anxiety. I’m lucky to live by the beach, because it’s a great place to clear my mind,” she said.
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Martin’s primary source of inspiration is the beach, whose seemingly endless
“I find myself always looking to art to calm myself down whenever I’m feeling stressed,” she said. Basing a lot of her work on surfers and surf culture, Martin relates her process to the ocean, with her ideas and movements freely flowing onto the canvas. Jill Martin has grown a lot since starting college. “Starting at Brookdale, I had no idea what I wanted to do. I really didn’t even want to go here. But after a while, I started to realize that going here was the smartest decision I could make,” she said. Martin describes her style as vibrant, citing her natural inclination for bright, saturated colors. In many ways, her style is an extension of her personality. While not always so glowing, she holds the rare ability to capture the brilliance of the world around her.
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Hand in the Clouds
Katie Dempsey
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Your Cloud Storage is Full
Still Life of Pots Route 66
Br
W
r
e st
oo
R
eis s
ow n
ily
ily
Em
Em
Robert Grandcolas
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Revelations in the Shadow Revalations of Love In the Shadow Chris Wira Of Love Chris Wira
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Untitled
Helena Ylagan
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Still Life Katie Dempsey
After Three Robert Grandcolas 62
Intrepid All Seeing Cat
Juliana Rodre Joe Schondel
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House Picture Basem Hassan
Untitled Anonymous all houses are haunted recorded with stories of childhood, then transitions, into adulthood this one remembers naive laughing from summer birthdays or snowy sundays and under those decades of peeled paint in the back room it still smells of fear hearing him from hiding spots come home and then smacks and cracks with that laughing pretending to sleep while babysitter whispered “i gift you with your story of #metoo” surely that house remember’s her name they showed me how soft my skin is filled with emotion when it’s touched that one was big enough that i could hear those logs stomping down the hall it gave me enough, time to get ready feet shoulder width, never swing first i’m lucky though i got to record those
virgin walls with poetry and passion that room above the garage always so cold with best views of night skies and fireflies oh and my love of driving, down the driveway forgetting at all cost how to get back my house. how much i wished this one to record something other than logs and silence instead i’ll paint the walls with bright colors and cook and cook and cook too much in this orange kitchen i built with love with all the best spices filling that back room a sweet smell of cinnamon and sunflowers between that lingering smell of disappointment reading cook books while eating alone sometimes the sage covers it up maybe i’ll try selling it again next summer before my hardened skin starts to crack i’m sure i’ll love to drive, down the driveway 65 65
Untitled Photo of Rose Helena Ylagan
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ty a Ci olin ud Azz o Cl elle ni a D
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Natnicha Thanomrat
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Natnicha Thanomrat is an ESL student at Brookdale. She uses a brush pen to create her otherworldly illustrations.
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Golden Sonal Madhok
Route 35 #1 Emily Weiss 70
Delaware River Barn Tom Smith
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The Ocean Michael Imbro
Liberal Arts major Michael Imbro based this painting of algae-covered rocks on a photo he took in Asbury Park. It was created using acrylic paint on canvas.
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The Kingdom Katie Dempsey My kin have ruled this empire for generations. The water roils and sputters but we do not flinch. The wind roars against our ears and pushes into our chests, but we do not react. Rocks and sand cut into our faces like daggers, but still, we are stoic. Enemies have come by way of the air, the sea, and the land, but we have overcome them all. Our kingdom is a paradise of vibrant flora and fauna, bordered by imposing walls of jagged black rock. We are strong, and we are protected. My arms gleam in the
sunlight, strong and regal. Ancient tools that have been improving ever since they first appeared, far before anyone can remember. Sharp enough to draw blood with a single prick. Effective against any enemy that has dared to challenge us up to the point. My bloodline is ancient and honorable. I had once thought we were indestructible, that my progeny would continue the greatness of our fathers. But there are murmurs of a new kind of foe; one that shall not suffer us to live in peace. They rip my brothers from their homes, tear us apart as we scream in agony, crush entire families under their mighty limbs. They drown us in massive buckets of water and sand, and
laugh while doing it. They mutilate us with curious contraptions. They build magnificent palaces, and then mockingly abandon us on the tallest spire, unable to escape, helpless against the elements. The pounding of their brightlycolored shoes sends a pang of fear into the heart of even the strongest warrior. We cannot win against a foe that is so impervious to any kind of attack, especially one that seems lacking in any kind of mercy. Our reign is coming to an end, but those of us who remain, though few in number, continue to guard our domain as our fathers did before us. We will not give up until they have destroyed every last one of us. We will not go without a fight. We, the hermit crabs. 73
A Waking Dream Christopher Williams Williams created this “dream-like scene� in Photoshop, using layers, masks, adjustments, gradients, and lens effects in order to transform ordinary stock images into an incredible work of art. His unique, almost cinematic style is far from ordinary.
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Eunoia
Sonal Madhok
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Charred Grounds Michael Meinberg The barista nodded solemnly and turned to make my drink. “I’ve never seen you around here before,” she said. It sounded like a pronouncement. I could only shrug and then drop my shoulders and head, trying to make myself look as small as possible. “We don’t get many newcomers here.” Again, her words carried a formal air, making it clear that this was not a place for intruders. “My apartment burned down last night.” I don’t know why I said it. My eyes popped wide as soon as I realized what I said. “Ah, I’ve been staying at the hotel around the block. Came looking for a place for some coffee. Couldn’t sleep last night.” I struggled in vain to silence myself. “And this
place seemed interesting. I like more personal locations rather than stuff that’s more corporate.” The barista eyed me again, then nodded solemnly. I could feel her distaste in the space between us, the condemnation that I had earned the fire, that at least I was fortunate enough to have a hotel. I knew not everyone was so lucky. She slid my drink over towards me and named the price; I paid and then found an unoccupied corner to slowly sip the still steaming cappuccino. The pair in the adjacent corner stared at me, and I slumped my shoulders further, feeling the withering distaste aimed in my direction. Their words blended together into a background hum, a quiet whistle
whose specific words I could not understand, but which formed a vague pattern of dissection. Meanwhile, the punk-haired woman studiously ignored my presence. I drank my cappuccino as swiftly as I could, burning my tongue in the process, but the burst of caffeine flared inside of me, and exhaustion’s grip on me eased. I immediately exited from the building, trying to make as little of a scene as possible, but I felt eyes still lingering on me until I stepped out into the light of morning. The sun beamed down bright in the clear sky and I felt ever so pale within that burning radiance. I gazed upwards, eyes reflexively shutting against the light, but I stared onwards, feeling the light suffuse me and expose me anew. With a shake of my head, I hurried down the street, making my way
into the shuffling crowds that meandered their ways in lonesome paths towards distant destinations. I fell into the throng and it enveloped me in anonymity, just one broken soul in a city filled with multitudes. Slips of conversations and raw sensations of thought slipped through that veil, and I tasted a hundred pains, driven inwards by the press without, alchemizing in the crucible of the city into a tapestry of self loathing and isolation. Even those that went with companions were alone, even the most popular and most loved felt distant from each
other. The space drove wedges between selfs and created absence even in communication. I darted down side streets to escape from the press and found myself standing before a boutique, adorned with bright colors that shined even in the dimness of the city. Letters in warm pastels anointed the boutique as “American Blues.� I entered, following some tug from outside of myself.
Through the Window Colton Healy 77
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Pear Character Study Christina Berndt
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Little Red Amanda Trerotola
Blue Beads, Silver Cross Rosemary Wright
Lydia T. Pinzon
The grandmother who loved to pray gave me Rosary beads from Lourdes imported with a bottle of holy water: a string of blue pearlescent seeds. Side by side we knelt her black beads, my blue moving to an ancient rhythm, each prayer a supplication to the Mother of Mercy. It was the age of reason the year I turned seven, my whispers joining hers, mastering the pattern, discovering the sorrowful mysteries. Based on Red Rooster, Yellow Sky by Amy Uyematsu
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Nugent has been designing levels for Valve Hammer Editor in Source SDK since 2006. These are examples of various levels that he has developed for a mod of the video game Brainbread 2, that’s available on Steam.
Surgery
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Junkyard
Nicholas Nugent Medium: Level Design
This piece, called Coltec, is based on the S.T.A.L.K.E.R. universe. This piece of the level shows the harshness of winter in Chernobyl.
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Obama Hamdam Goudarzi
Countryside Marissa Barbieri
Wavelength Colton Healy
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Lydia T. Pinzon
Lisa Mangel
Kathleen Eovino
Jewelry 85 85
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Tinton Ave. Barn Tom Smith
Tributary Town Tate Hewitt
I know a right-eyed man from Alabama who once told me that earthworms are not indigenous to America, and that he once ate one-and-a-half earthworm pies on the cobblestones of Berlin while in the army, his high German confusing the words. Who thinks that bottled wine is a conspiracy and drinks merlot from a box in the trunk of a civic in a parking lot as we talk about how he and his wife almost died in Arizona without enough water to last the weekend, how they went down the wrong side of the mountain, how he went alone after that. I remember how he once told me that as a child in a tributary town he would watch the Governor's son catch squirrels and other small things tie them up in the grass and mow the lawn. I remember how quiet he got then, the only time I have ever heard him breathe, the first time I saw him think, except for rare drunken moments in the light of the campfire.
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Skinny Boy, Where Your Muscles At? Riley Brouwer
an di
ng
He’s not the one for you As been told to you before Yet you’re pulled to him Like a magnet to another The weightless touch A touchless grasp Pulling you and pulling you Towards the bad
k ac
Cu s
th di
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You can’t help but wonder As curious as a cat If maybe you’ll be different That maybe, you’ll last
Broken Boag Courtney Walsh
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PROCESS
RHINOCEROS DESIGN WITH NURBS MODELING CONCEPTUAL SKETCH
PERSPECTIVE DETAIL PLAN VIEW
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ELEVATION 1
ELEVATION 2
Shelby Ulrich Shelby Ulrich’s work invites the observer into the page, where a world is to be explored, one that is equally as real as it is uncanny. She has been interested in art since high school, but did not have any formal training until college. “It really wasn’t until I started taking interior design at Brookdale and saw all the pieces around the school that I started to become really interested.” Describing her style as “sketchy,” Ulrich’s handdrawn methodology includes a plentiful use of cross-hatching with long strokes. However, like many artists, Ulrich does not box herself into one genre of art.
“I really enjoy digital art as well, and I try to use a lot of organic form in those pieces,” Ulrich said, while also listing architecture and interior design as major sources of inspiration. Some artists that Ulrich admires include architect Zaha Hadid and sketch artist Frank Gehry. For someone so naturally talented, Ulrich said her biggest artistic hurdle is her own self-doubt. “There’s been a lot of times when I’ll be working on something and I don’t think it’s very good, but when I show it to other people I get a lot of good feedback.” Despite her humility, Ulrich’s work stands on its own, truly distinctive and inspired artwork that leaves a powerful impression on any observer.
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Smoothing Calamity Sonal Madhok
Entombment 92 Joe Gentempo
Ode to Escher Linnet Westerwick 93
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Chasing Sunsets Marissa Barbieri
Cemetery Wind Will Kokinakos
The pain is unbearable but I've got nothing to point to when asked who's hurting me I fumble like Polyphemus, blinded and wailing: "Nobody" It's only pins and needles where you were, where you are. An absence that sings in my flesh like a knife, and like a black hole that devours all life Never a goodbye will I have, only a haunting. like a lost limb reaching, or frostbitten fingers blue – I don't believe in ghosts but I believed in you
Columns Michael Marino
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ISAIAH DRAKE Attempting to evoke feeling through photography and art work is no easy task. Artist Isaiah Drake is an exception to this, as his work makes one wonder, stare, and think. Isaiah enjoys painting and drawing as well as digital design. He explains that design is more functional, while painting and drawing is more for fun and self-expression. Isaiah cites his biggest influence as Andre Durane, because of how “bright and expressive� his artwork is.
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Though only a first year student at Brookdale Community College, Isaiah has his goals set. He would like to continue his education at a school such as SCAD or Flagler, which have “culture and character; those are the things that inspire me.” Brookdale has allowed Isaiah to have more free time and to think independently; he explains, “I am driven by God’s intelligent design to design independently as a reflection of his nature.” One of Isaiah’s most interesting pieces is his digital collage of himself on the beach. He explains that it shows “the raw thoughts of the moment...the chasm of inaccessible thoughts that motivate me to design.”
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Within the Eyes of the Beholder Sonal Madhock
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Hanging Swings Tom Smith
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Collage 2017 - 2018
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Administration & Production
Design Team
Photography & Writing Team
Jack Linkin
Katie Dempsey Head of Design Staff Editor
Head of Photography Production Manager
Juliana Rodre
Linnet Westerwick
James Boyle
Creative Director Production Manager
Head of Web Development
Secretary/Coordinator Lead Designer
Emily Weiss
Faculty Advisors Jennifer Kaminski Literature
Basem Hassan Design
Sean Cahill Design
Lead Designer
Justin Hintz Lead Designer
Colton Healy
Designer/Photographer
Michael Tucker Designer
Carrie Starek Designer
Joe Schondel
Editor-in-Chief
Joe Gentempo Courtney Walsh Marissa Barbieri Jonathan Niles Callie Heroux Minh Connors Photographers
Chris Eng Staff Editor
Matt Nash
Cinematographer
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Collage is funded by The Associated Students of Brookdale Community College (ASBCC). Would you like to see your work in the next volume of Collage? Send it to us at brookdalecollage@gmail.com. All submissions are reviewed by the Collage staff before inclusion. Images should have titles and be submitted as .TIF files, if possible. Some artwork may have to be properly photographed by a member of the Collage photo team. Writing submissions are limited to 650 words and may be edited for length and style. All accepted submissions, including unabridged versions of writing pieces, will also appear on artcollagemag.com unless requested otherwise by the artist/author. The Collage staff is not responsible for any incorrect or missing information and credits. Front cover created by Carrie Starek. Back cover created by Katie Dempsey.
Collage Volume 48 Š 2018
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Brookdale Community College 765 Newman Springs Road Lincroft, NJ 07738-1543 (732) 224-2354 brookdalecc.edu
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“The first step to controlling your world is to control your culture. To write the books. Make the music. Shoot the films. Paint the art.� - C. Palahniuk
Brookdale Collage is accepting submissions now for the 2019 print edition and artcollagemag.com, our online arts magazine. Rule the world. Email your art, photography, writing, film, music and design samples to brookdalecollage@gmail.com.
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