SCAD ATLANTA’S STUDENT MAGAZINE WINTER 2022 | VOL. 14 NO. 1
Grace Wroblewski and Michelle Carmona pay homage to Ancient Greece.
04. LEGENDS OF SCAN
06. STUDENT SHOWCASE
Our staff and their chosen myths.
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22. THE TALE OF KIEU Emily Truong brings the classic Vietnamese epic poem to life through a modern lens.
18. CREEPYPASTA: HORROR FOLKLORE FOR THE DIGITAL AGE How Internet culture makes a mark with its own lores and their consequences.
12. LOVE, DEATH AND NATURE: THE JOURNEY OF A PRINCESS The earthly and divine attributes that connected ancient heroines and what they mean to us now.
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The dark secret behind Lord Byron's legendary 1816 writers' retreat.
Echo and Narcissus live their best and worst lives in modern-day America.
28. THE TALE OF ECHO AND NARCISSUS
34. A MURDER UNTITLED
Childhood mythicized.
A girl ventures into the woods and into witchcraft.
40. FULL BUCK MOON
Ashley Trawinski rediscovers ancient goddesses through lighting and makeup.
46. STUDENT SPOTLIGHT
48. ARTS CORNER
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Written and illustrated by Julie Tran
We asked members of the SCAD Atlanta Student Media team to pick a figure that represents them best, culturally or personally. Here are the answers.
LEGENDS OF
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GRACE WROBLEWSKI Fourth-year, fashion design Interviewed by Anokhi Dodhia Photographed by Xavier Thompson
Why did you decide to go into fashion? I decided to be a fashion designer when I was about five years old. I always felt drawn to illustrating clothing and the idea of creating clothes for others to wear. I decided to be a designer because I believe that everyone should feel beautiful and I want to create things that can make someone feel not only beautiful but like the best version of themself.
What kind of materials did you choose and why?
Model: Rebehak Nadolny
My collection was inspired by the question: “What would Ancient Greek civilization look like if it were transported into the future?” I wanted to take those contrasting styles and see if I could successfully make a cohesive collection that embodies a sense of masculinity and femininity.
Do you have any further plans for this collection?
What kind of materials did you choose and why? In this particular outfit, the materials I chose were: vinyl, silk satin lining, satin, and poplin, as well as silver chain and grommet accents. The structure of Ancient Greek temples inspired the jacket. I chose the glitter vinyl because it reminded me of space and the Greeks' relationship with astrology and futurism's obsession with outer space. I created my print for the lining. I wanted a pop of color in this majority grayscale look, so I created a glitch print that has been manipulated into a swirl-like design to mimic what is seen in marble. The style of the shirt is to bring in the masculine influence, while the satin pants are to bring in fluidity and femininity to make the overall outfit cohesive.
This outfit is a part of my senior collection, so I look forward to expanding it and creating a more developed story with the upcoming outfits. Of course, everything is subject to change, so I am excited to see where this collection ends up going and how it will turn out.
How has being a SCAD student influenced your journey as a designer? SCAD has helped me learn and grow tremendously as a designer. I have learned techniques and concepts I would never have experienced if not for my education here. SCAD has pushed me and challenged me, constantly making me question myself so that the work I put forth is my very best and that what I create are pieces I am truly proud of.
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MICHELLE CARMONA Fourth-year, photography Interviewed by John Warner
What inspired your mythology-based series? My mythology series was based on Greek myths I learned as a child, mainly from a sudden and acute interest in the “Percy Jackson” books. What attracted me to the series was how it provided mysterious answers of the world that somehow made sense. I guess that’s why we’re all so interested in myths and faith — those things still unknown to man that can be explained by the stories passed down through generations. Myths not only shaped my perspective of the world but fueled my obsession with gladiators and Renaissance art.
How does the Renaissance apply to your work? Renaissance is inspired by Roman and Greek myths. You can’t look at a Renaissance piece and not be brought back to Greek and Roman myths. But the question is how? Renaissance art plays a lot off of Christianity and s ecular ar t while implement ing stories, themes and poses based on my thology. One aspect I’m heavily influenced by is Rembrandt lighting. This is a lighting style that a modern artist, Chris Knights (@chrisknightphoto), brings onto his sets. It’s typically not a common light style for the modern era and I wanted to adapt that with my own unique touch. That unique touch can be found in the photos with the gilded finger, referring to the story of King Midas. The stills featuring the gilded apples refer to the trials of Hercules and the stills featuring the vase refer to the story of Persephone and Hades.
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What is your creative process like per shoot? My creative process may seem a bit backward to others. I don’t normally have a starting point on what I do. I keep this notebook with concept thoughts, lighting ideas, sketches of compositions and clothing choices. Once I do start to bring an idea to life during the shoot, I spend time building my moodboard, color palette and source materials as well as searching for the perfect model. It is a trial-and-error process that creates the foundational tools necessary to capture the perfect images.
How do you think being at SCAD has pushed your abilities? SCAD provided me with access to a plentiful amount of resources to accomplish what I desire. Forrest McMullen, a photo professor, was a big influence here at SCAD for me with his critiques. I think without him, it’d be difficult for me to push and challenge myself to get better.
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Love, Death and Nature: The Journey of a Princess Written by Benjamin Greennagel Illustrated by Keith Alexander Lee
When I was six years old, I received an invitation to a Halloween party. I was particularly allured by the fact that I was expected to wear a costume, and I spent every afternoon picking through my sister’s closet until I had crafted the perfect ensemble. When the day of the party finally arrived, I pushed through the white picket gate of my best friend’s backyard, my plastic tiara gleaming on top of my head and my long, sequined gown trailing on the grass behind me. It took me at least an hour before I even noticed that I was the only boy who came dressed as a princess. From a young age, I have been drawn to stories about characters I can relate to, which were feminine people who felt out of control and those who struggled to belong. Reading these stories made me feel as though I was part of a coalition, standing alongside the princesses who, despite their circumstances, found empowerment through their personal relationships with the natural world. As I grew older, I realized that these princesses seem to stand side by side with each other, too, as their core values echo in folktales around the world.
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"Sleeping Beauty," France Many people believe Sleeping Beauty is one of the most passive heroines of the fairy tale genre. It’s not as simple as that; her tale contains complex ideas and disturbing content, and it is her reaction to these events that denotes her as an empowered person who has merely been impacted by things that are outside of her control. Most of the narrative details have remained consistent since early iterations of this story were published by Giambattista Basile, Charles Perrault and The Brothers Grimm. In the beginning, Sleeping Beauty is cursed by a wicked fairy, who is angry and vengeful after being denied an invitation to the princess’s christening. Later in life, when the princess pricks her finger on a spinning wheel, she falls into a deep slumber. Over the years, her palace is engulfed by briars and sharp thorns. A century later, a prince finds the castle buried deep in the woods, and he cuts through the foliage to find the sleeping princess. This is where the original story deviates from modern retellings. The prince is taken with the princess’s beauty but dismayed by the fact she is sleeping. He rapes her, leaving her pregnant with twins. The children are eventually born while their mother sleeps, then they suckle the poisonous needle from her fingertips, waking her up. The spinning wheel was a reference to the string spun by the Fates of Greek mythology, who determine the beginning, middle and end of each human’s life. This symbol was a way for French and German storytellers to explore the idea of immortality and controlling one’s fate. When the princess pricks her finger on the legendary object, she is granted a form of eternal life, sleeping soundly in the
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forest without aging for a century. But the course of her life is determined by those around her, usually in a violent manner, which demonstrates the objectifying and deeply harmful perception of women at that time. This is one thing that initially drew me to the story; Sleeping Beauty seeks peace and reunion with her family. She is protected by a council of women, who are the other twelve fairies of the forest, and she is ultimately saved by her own children, not by the man who violated her. Disney recently explored another retelling of this story with the 2014 film “Maleficent,” which follows the wicked fairy, who, after being betrayed by a human man, developed a grudge for both the man and humankind. Although Maleficent is a reimagination of the 1959 adaptation of Sleeping Beauty, taking many liberties with the plot, it doesn’t stray far from the original themes of the story: vengeance, misogyny, greed and the loss of innocence.
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"Yeh Shen," China The story of Yeh Shen is one of the oldest variants of “Cinderella,” predating Perrault’s famous retelling by several centuries. This version was first published during the Tang dynasty by Duan Chengshi, around 850 C.E. Once again, the tale is remarkably consistent throughout the years, featuring an evil stepmother, a lazy stepsister and a lost slipper, though this one was made of silk, not glass or gold. Many readers are critical of Yeh Shen and her variants, believing that they were at the mercy of their male love interests. But almost every version of the story shows our protagonist cultivating a firm sense of hope and an optimistic perspective of her future before falling in love, despite being raised in an abusive environment. I am particularly inspired by this tale, as it is ultimately about perseverance and faith. At the beginning of the story, Yeh Shen establishes her relationship with the natural world by befriending a goldfish in her backyard pond. The fish becomes her confidant, and they spend every moment of Yeh Shen’s free time speaking with each other. Unfortunately, the wicked stepmother discovers the goldfish and, out of spite, cooks it for dinner. That night, a mysterious street vendor meets Yeh Shen and instructs her to place the fish’s bones in four pots at the corners of her bed. Once she does this, she is able to speak
to the fish, who has gained the ability to grant any wish. At Yeh Shen’s request, it provides her with a beautiful jade gown and silk slippers to wear to the ball. Ultimately, the emperor meets her and falls in love. There are a few examples of how this story handles death. The goldfish attains a form of immortality and agency, affecting the plot even after its death. In one version of the ending, the stepmother and stepsister are buried in a tomb and later become goddesses who can grant wishes — an unusual but not unwelcome redemption arc for Yeh Shen’s family. The goldfish is a common symbol in Chinese folklore, and we see it referenced again in Grace Lin’s novel “Where the Mountain Meets the Moon,” which was inspired by a slew of Chinese folktales. At the very beginning, the heroine, Minli, receives a magical talking goldfish from a mysterious street vendor. The fish becomes a guardian for Minli’s family and guides them home after the tumultuous events of the book. This might have been a reference to Yeh Shen’s best friend and the protective role it played in her life. This adaptation, as well as Yeh Shen and its different versions, often circles back to the same simple, evergreen advice: “Have courage and be kind.” (Cinderella, 2015).
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“The Bamboo Cutter and the Moon-Child,” Japan This is one of the best-known folktales in Japan. It serves as a whimsical bedtime story and contains the classic components of a fairy tale, but it is also an etiological tale for one of the most notable geographic features of Japan. One day, a bamboo cutter was wandering the forest at the base of Mount Fuji. He struck down a stalk of bamboo and found a tiny baby girl inside. She was radiant, like moonlight. The bamboo cutter took her home and raised her as his daughter. She grew up and began helping her father in the forest. Every time she joined him at work, he discovered gold inside the bamboo, and soon their fortune grew. Eventually, the emperor hears about the young woman and asks her to marry him. But then she reveals that she is a princess from the moon, where her kingdom has been seized by civil war. She was sent to earth for her safety, but she has decided to go home. To express her gratitude, she gives the emperor a note and a vial containing a potion that would grant him immortality. The emperor sets fire to the princess’s gift and leaves it at the top of Mount Fuji. The flame sinks into the heart of the mountain and never dies, which explains every volcanic eruption that has occurred at the site since then. This tale also deals with the concept of death and defying fate in a more literal sense; it features the Elixir of Life, which first appeared in stories in this region thousands of years before it appeared in Europe. As a result, the Japanese word for immortality, 不死 (fushi), might have inspired the name of Mount Fuji, according to Live Japan Travel Guide. There is a refreshing twist in this story, as an immortal woman determines the emperor’s fate, rather than the opposite.
In 2013, an animated adaptation of the story was released. It was called “The Tale of Princess Kaguya,” after the moon princess in the original story. The film was produced by Studio Ghibli and was a departure from the style of animation audiences usually associate with the studio. The static landscape and flat, watercolor backgrounds meld harmoniously and many stills from the film emulate the pages of an old storybook — perhaps an homage to the ancient nature of Princess Kaguya’s story and the timeless role it has played in Japanese culture. This adaptation looks at the behavior of humans from a critical perspective, as Kaguya prays to the moon and deals with her disenchanted expectations of living as a mortal on Earth. Although she does appreciate aspects of her human life, she ultimately decides that her strongest empowerment came from her relationship with the Buddha and the life she led on the moon. Before ancient storytellers brought folktales over mountain ranges and riverbeds, feeding them into the mythology of new cultures, they each told the same story, with explanations for the inexplicable and quests that felt both heroic and mundane. Each princess is bound by fate and social expectations, yet the actions that drive their stories are most often driven by the values obtained in spite of their circumstances. Echoed throughout their stories is one overwhelming human desire that transcended borders and wove its way into the folk tales around the world: a desire to triumph over evil. To live free of pain. Perhaps it is the simplicity and totality of this notion that make stories about princesses so appealing to children. Whether we wear plastic tiaras or silk slippers, we adorn them as symbols of autonomy and hope.
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CREEPYPASTAS: HORROR FOLKLORE FOR THE DIGITAL AGE Written by Eva Erhardt Illustrated by Ernest Brants
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blog platform’s factor of realism, many readers didn’t know if Ted’s story was fictional or a true account, ultimately causing its quick spread across the internet, setting the score for subsequent Creepypastas. The stories eventually outgrew chainmail and rudimentary blogs and found a home on Creepypasta.com in 2008. The Creepypasta Wiki and famed Reddit forum r/Nosleep followed soon after in 2010, turning what was a subgenre of internet lore into a real presence in popular culture. Slenderman, the faceless poster child of online horror, was born out of a Photoshop contest on Something Awful in 2009, which asked users to digitally craft their spookiest paranormal encounter. User Eric Knudsen (under pseudonym Victor Surge), submitted two black and white photos depicting a spindly faceless man dressed in a suit looming over a group of children. They stood out from other entries by their captions, the first of which read: Folklore, both written and verbal, has been a building block for all cultures since the beginning of time, shaping tradition, celebrations and fears. As it evolves into the information age, we see the emergence of the controversial and illusive genre of “Creepypasta,” named aptly as a blend of “creepy” and “copypasta” — i.e: creepy, viral, copied and pasted.
“We didn't want to go, we didn't want to kill them, but its persistent silence and outstretched arms horrified and comforted us at the same time …” — 1983, photographer unknown, presumed dead. And the second:
Although the origins of Creepypastas are still widely unknown, its early form emerged from the depths of the early internet, birthed from mysterious chain emails in the 1990s, later posted on to message boards. Many believe that the earliest known Creepypasta is Ted the Caver, a short story about a young man exploring a mysterious cave. Posted on Angelfire in 2001, the story was posted as a blog and gained traction due to its “Blair Witch” style of storytelling. The author had posted day after day for months, updating his audience about the horrors he was finding in his local cave. The final blog entry leaves on a cliffhanger, leaving readers to presume that Ted had succumbed to the mysteries of the cave. Thanks to the
“One of two recovered photographs from the Stirling City Library blaze. Notable for being taken the day which fourteen children vanished and for what is referred to as "The Slender Man". Deformities cited as film defects by officials. Fire at library occurred one week later. Actual photograph confiscated as evidence.” — 1986, photographer: Mary Thomas, missing since June 13th, 1986. With the added text, Knudsen had transformed his meager Photoshop experiments into a piece of fiction ready for interpretation and expansion, not unlike a classic piece of folklore. It went viral quickly, sparking countless works of
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fanart and derivative creepypastas, transforming Slenderman from a two-photo contest entry into an expansive form of mythos, catching like wildfire through the early 2010s internet and thrusting the genre of Creepypasta into the mainstream. At this point, it was common to find Slenderman merchandise, games and movies, with their target audience being Millennials — the first generation raised with the internet, who, as young as they were when the first Creepypasta came out, certainly knew how to access the stories, despite their age-inappropriate subject matter. Children’s imagination and vague yet realistic lore are sure to create complications. At a young age, it can be difficult to process and understand explicit or frightening content. The affair becomes even more muddled when combined with untreated mental illness, creating the perfect storm in a young mind. This was exactly the case in the 2014 “Slenderman Stabbings,” resulting in the near death of a preteen girl. Creepypasta took a hit, as the media blamed both the genre and the community for the incident. Parents were outraged at the stories their children were consuming during their sanctioned “internet time.” The genre was condemned and, as the news cycle eventually moved on, lost its sensational grip on popular culture. Currently, Creepypastas are still being created, although at nowhere near the rate of the 2010s. But just like how folklore survives alongside culture, Creepypasta as a genre will persist as long as the internet is there. Myths and legends never really take the center of our lives anymore, but any storyteller worth their salt knows where they live — on the fringes of culture, in the back of our memories, waiting to be rediscovered, ready to be retold.
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The
TALE of
KIỀU Creative direction and styling: Emily Truong Photography: Daniella Almona Photo editing: Lucas Tam Assistants: Xavier Thompson / Lexi Anthia Waldman Models: Nguyen Ho / Thuy Ngo Translation: Huynh Sanh Thong, Yale University Press, 1987.
“The Tale of Kieu” is a visual exploration of the classic 19thcentury Vietnamese epic poem “Truyen Kieu" by Nguyen Du, more specifically the opening lines (15 – 26) which describe the sisters Thuy Kieu, the main character, and Thuy Van.
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“Đầu lòng hai ả tố nga, Thuý Kiều là chị, em là Thuý Vân. Mai cốt cách, tuyết tinh thần. Mỗi người một vẻ, mười phân vẹn mười. Vân xem trang trọng khác vời, Khuôn trăng đầy đặn, nét ngài nở nang. Hoa cười, ngọc thốt, đoan trang, Mây thua nước tóc, tuyết nhường màu da. Kiều càng sắc sảo mặn mà, So bề tài sắc vẫn là phần hơn. Làn thu thuỷ, nét xuân sơn, Hoa ghen thua thắm, liễu hờn kém xanh.”
“Two daughters, beauties both, had come before: Thuý Kiều was oldest, younger was Thuý Vân. Bodies like slim plum branches, snow-pure souls: each her own self, each perfect in her way. In quiet grace Vân was beyond compare: her face a moon, her eyebrows two full curves; her smile a flower, her voice the song of jade; her hair the sheen of clouds, her skin white snow. Yet Kiều possessed a keener, deeper charm, surpassing Vân in talents and in looks. Her eyes were autumn streams, her brows spring hills. Flowers grudged her glamor, willows her fresh hue.”
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This body of work uses natural elements to highlight the beauty of each sister. Flower petals symbolize the soft and innocent femininity of the traditional Vietnamese woman — represented by Thuy Van. As for Thuy Kieu, the more beautiful and less lucky sister, she posesses a grace that could turn nature against her out of jealousy. Even though we are visualizing beauty standards from past society, we still wanted to stay in touch with a more contemporary set up.
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T h e Ta l e o f
E cho and NarcIssus (short story) Written by Elijah Johnson Illustrated by Anami Hayes Echo only went to the speed dating event because some divine force (read: a desperate need for a human connection) told her too. James had veneers too big for his mouth and talked about the weather. He was a weatherman before he moved, and that was the highlight of his otherwise mediocre life. Otis came on too strong with his never-ending list of business plans. Echo liked a man with a goal, but he was only mature enough for one night, not something serious. Narcissus, though, felt different from the moment he sat down. There was an obvious attraction — the soft honey curls, the way he held his chest when he laughed, the dimple on the left side of a Greek god jawline. Narcissus made her feel safe, something uncommon in L.A. Back home in the shadow of the mountains, everyone knew each other. Here, Echo never saw the same person twice on her daily morning walk.
“A red would’ve paired nicely with your meal.” “Hm. I like reds.” Echo took a sip of her white wine. “Sometimes.” “Like what? Sangrias?” Narcissus chuckled. “I don’t drink drinks sweeter than me. Unless it has cherry notes.”
Narcissus took Echo to one of his friend’s art shows for their first date. He went so far as to preplan the entire thing before, so the only surprise was the art itself. Then there were nail dates, picnics and lunches, but her favorite was the wine tasting event.
“Hm.” Narcissus tried hiding a smile behind his glass. “Cherries are my favorite fruit.”
“Interesting choice,” Narcissus said.
So the speed dating event wasn’t a total fail. Echo had found Narcissus, a man who made her feel things with every supportive note, glance and joke.
“Why is that?” Echo said.
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“Echo!” Narcissus called from the balcony. “Come look at this.” It was the first nice day of autumn. Echo only remembered because he was wearing a burnt orange sweater that brought out the blond highlights in his hair. When she opened the door to the apartment, Narcissus had the biggest smile on his face as he complimented her green sweater, which matched her eyes. Then they both whisper-chanted “Sweater Weather” until one of Echo’s neighbors entered the hallway, confused. “What is it?” Echo sat down the coffee cups on the table in front of him. “You know those smartphones creep me out.” Before leaving her beloved mountain, Echo only had a landline.
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“Instagram.” Narcissus took her hands. “I, too, was a skeptic, but it’s been live now for three months. Julius and I —” “So it’s for work only?”
her dark wavy hair, the way her green eyes darkened and her hands clenched when she said “selfies” — he had never seen so much grace in a human before. Zeus wondered how she would take living on Olympus with him.
“Well, no. It’s both?” Narcissus ran his hand through his hair. “I mean, yes, I’m using it to promote my photography business, but I also post myself. My self-portraits get a lot of positive —” Narcissus trailed on, listing all the comments underneath what he called “selfies.”
“I think I can help you,” Zeus said.
His excitement over this new app and what it could do for his career made it seem like anything was possible. Echo knew dating an artist meant long hours working and bouncing from project to project; she was one herself. But she was a different kind of artist. Echo taught people how to connect with the Earth through ancient beliefs and powers. Echo’s favorite was the ancient Greeks, who seemed to have an explanation for everything. So when Narcissus became more absorbed with his selfies and the growing business he had with Julius, she asked the ancient gods for advice on a whim. To her surprise, it was Zeus himself who answered — she had expected a lower god like Koalemos, not the king.
This made Zeus laugh. “Of course, my love.”
Zeus watched Echo’s cheeks change color. He liked what he saw. “I’ve been watching you, Echo. Your love for Narcissus —” Zeus stopped. He had to make sure his lie was convincing. “It’s genuine. Something rare in the mortal realm.” Echo sighed in relief before unloading her worries about Narcissus’s obsession, about how he was seeing her and the world less and less. As Zeus listened, he took in her smell,
“Really?” Echo said. “I just don't want him missing what’s around him. His love for the world is his main inspiration.” She paused. “Besides me, of course.”
“Just to have him back for the weekends. Maybe a Friday once in a while —” “You’re both busy people —” “Yes, but that wasn't a problem before. Before, we had a balance. If —” “Here,” Zeus waved his hands, and out of thin air popped a small bottle filled with a sparkling liquid. “Drink this, then say your name three times when you're close to him. But it only works if he can’t see you.” Echo took the bottle. It was cold. “And he would be mine once more?” There was a pause before Zeus answered. “Of course.” *****
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For all her determination before the King of the Gods, Echo didn’t take the potion. Weeks flew by. She blinked, and then it was her and Narcissus’s six-month anniversary. Well, her, Narcissus and Instagram’s — a throuple Echo didn't approve of. Narcissus still came over, they still had their dates, but each day he seemed more distant. Instead of being five minutes late to something he was thirty minutes late. On the rare occasion when he was able to pry himself away from his phone, things were what it once was. Echo held on to those moments as best she could, but it was getting harder. The anniversary dinner had been one of those moments, but by the end of the night, with Narcissus back on the app, she could barely even feel it, like a fantasy of the past instead of a memory.
This is unbearable. This silence, that blue light, the sound of Narcissus’s double-tapping thumb. She escaped to the bathroom. On the sink stood Zeus’s bottle. For weeks it had mocked her, her hesitation, her foolishness. She had wanted to believe that an app — an app! — wouldn’t consume her love. But look at them now. Echo snatched up the bottle. It was as cold as the day she received it, the liquid glittering even in the bathroom’s dirty light. Inviting. She held her breath when she drank it, but it tasted like nothing. Going out to the living room, she saw Narcissus stressing over his latest post. “Echo,” she said.
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It happened too fast. Narcissus's head snapped up. His skin turned gray. Horrible choking noises came from his throat. Terrified, Echo grabbed a glass of water and made him drink until the choking stopped.
Echo’s tears came in streams that trickled down onto her lover’s beautiful face. But then a cold rush of air dried them all up. Zeus’s presence was cold and quiet, in a way just like her stricken rage. He stood before her, offering his hand.
“I don't know —“ Narcissus coughed, leaning into her. “I don't know what happened. It was like air was being sucked out of me.” Minutes passed. Narcissus put his forehead against hers and tucked her hair behind her ears, kissing her softly. “Thank you.”
“Come home with me.” It wasn’t a question.
Echo smiled. She opened her mouth to say how much she loved him. “Echo.” Narcissus’s eyes went wide. Choking. Coughing. Hissing. Echo watched helplessly as Narcissus reached out to her, his fingers grasping at the air he was so desperate to have. Her name. Her name had done that. Her name was doing that to him! Echo heard herself scream — Nar-cis-sus. His name. How often had she said his name? And yet now it wouldn’t come, for somewhere between her heart and her mouth, his name had been chopped and twisted, and all that came out was — “Echo!” Echo put her hands over her mouth. Before her eyes, she saw just what Zeus had intended. Water wouldn’t help Narcissus now. She saw his throat collapse on itself, saw his lungs give out just as his heart danced for the last time. Zeus didn’t want to help her. Zeus wanted her. And to get her, in his three-thousand-year-old logic … Narcissus was dead before she finished the thought. What was a mortal to an immortal god?
Looking up, Echo saw the gold-eyed god look down at her. He wore the same shining robes he had on the first day they met, but this time she saw the red under his fingernails, the grime that clung to his teeth, the sinister glare he had in his eyes. This, a god? She had her voice back now. It rose in her, ready to unleash her wrath onto the being before her, but that was unnecessary. Since when has it taken much to sour greed? To spoil lust? To enrage a powerful man? “No.” The god’s expression changed the way the sky changed preceding a storm. Echo knew not to anger a god. But Narcissus was gone. The one person that made life worth living was gone, and it was his fault. “It’s a mistake to deny me,” Zeus bellowed. “From this day forward, girl, you will never have the first word again.” With his curse given, Zeus disappeared, never to be seen again. But then again, what was a mortal to an immortal god? ***** The doctors ruled Narcissus’s death as a heart attack. Echo and what remained of Narcissus’s family held a small closed funeral. If Zeus was watching, he must be damn well pleased with himself. “Are you okay?” someone from his
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family would ask Echo, and all she could say was “Okay, okay, okay.” “We’ll miss Narcissus.” “Narcissus, Narcissus, Narcissus.” “Oh, marvelous boy, farewell.” “Farewell, farewell, farewell.” On a whim, Echo logged into Narciss’s Instagram account. What was this thing that stole so much of his living moments — his limited living moments? Instantly she regretted it. The selfies he took were abundant, but tried as she might, she couldn’t hold onto them for memory or solace, for he wasn’t hers, not on here. He was everybody’s. Narcissus's timeline was flooded with so many memorial posts that Echo found it hard to put the phone down. “I can’t believe you're gone.” “I’ll miss you, buddy.” “You were gone too soon.” Most were from people she had never heard of. His sweet smile jumped out at her every hour, accompanied by a stranger’s words of love — identical, incessant, intolerable, worse than in an echo chamber, worse than an endless funeral, worse than any curse. It became too much to bear. She rid herself of the phone for good. It wasn’t months later that people began to wonder if she had rid herself of the city, too, and where she might have gone. It was rumored that she had moved to a cabin deep in the woods where there was no civilization, much less cell reception. But it was also rumored that she never went anywhere, for once in a while those who knew her would hear her, in empty and cavernous places, repeating their words back to them, sad and blurry. Some others maintained that she had gone East to be an Instagram influencer, making big bucks to repeat ads for air purifiers, athleisure wear, beauty activated-charcoal masks, masks, masks ...
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A Murder (short story)
Written by Alejandro Bastidas Illustrated by Rachel Ong
This is the story of a dead writer. Nameless, sunken under Time’s cruel currents as it happens to those who dare leave their mark in literature and fail, for a great number of reasons, but in the end become victims of their own creative devices. Was the writer’s quill cursed? (Actually, he was so poor he couldn’t afford ink. The man used a makeshift pencil of mysterious origin instead). Was his imagination not really his own but rather the product of arcane forces? All we can do is speculate. Surprisingly, this writer had friends. Among them was the great Mary Shelley, who, unlike this other dead writer, cemented herself as one of the most influential authors of the century. The hero in question needs a name. How about Alexander? Or Reginald? What about your name, dear reader?
Unti After all, you could find yourself in a similar position, forgotten and unremarkable after the arts drained the life out of you, so why not start practicing from now? Let’s call him Luke. The problem of the man’s story is the same as this one, or at least the portion you’ve read of this one, where a lot has been said but not much has happened. This sentiment could also describe the man’s life up to the point where his friend Lord Byron invited him to spend the spring in Geneva, along with Percy Shelley, Claire Clermont and Mary Godwin, who would later marry Percy and assume his last name. The trip to Geneva inspired Mary’s story well enough but also erased poor Luke from existence, after the writers locked him away in the back of their memories — and also a basement.
itled
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Geneva, 1816 Spring dressed up the willows in lush green braids but offered little else to the humble bushes and wildflowers frozen by the winter. The season’s turn led to an uncertain divorce between subzero evenings and scorching mornings, so Lord Byron did not know what to pack for the improvised trip to Geneva; he took all the coats with him and fled London without looking back. His name had been dragged in a scandal involving love affairs with foreign duchesses, a brawl with a British officer and the attempt to steal a Pre-Raphaelite painting. To lower suspicions regarding his abrupt disappearance, he invited friends over to the mansion, far away from gossip and the burden of high society. When Lord Byron opened the door of his mansion and found Luke standing there in his tattered robes, bent-double and carrying a rucksack that looked stolen, he smiled — not out of genuine delight to reunite with an old friend, but out of egoism, realizing that Luke was by no means better off than him. Sure, Luke wasn’t a wanted man in his hometown, but he looked invisible, like the kind of person you’d turn away from if you ran into them on the street, the kind of person you’d gladly forget about, or choose to remember whenever you needed to boost your self-esteem. “There he is!” said Lord Byron. “The man, the myth, the legend.” Luke bowed his head in doubtful reverence and patted Byron’s shoulder. He was neither a hugger nor a talker. Luke wondered what it would take for a man to be considered a myth and a legend. Saving, killing or creating? After supper, Lord Byron had planned a late-night trip to the mountains by the mansion. But the sightseeing was to be delayed to another day when a storm rattled Geneva, sending forks of lightning that frightened the host.
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“I know!” called Lord Byron as the awkward silence of boredom invaded his guests. “We will each write a ghost story. Whoever writes the most frightening, visceral, sinister tale will win our undying respect and be forever welcome in my home.” The guests agreed, some with more excitement than others, like Mary Godwin, whose quill was already in her hand at the time. Each guest found a quiet room to write in except for Luke, the man with the pencil, who had to carry a desk down to the basement before he could get to work. “All respectable families follow tradition,” began Luke’s story, written upon the scraps of paper Mary Godwin had lent him. “Some are families of lawyers, and no other career choices are considered for the sons; some are families of bakers; some families manufacture political snobs for generations; other families, no less respectable but perhaps less fortunate, produce murderers. It is their inherited trait. Not just the capacity to take a human life, but the pleasure that comes with it …” There he stopped to drink from Lord Byron’s wine and stepped away from his desk to think. What seemed like a promising beginning came to a sudden halt, the muse s l i p p e d b a c k to t h e i nv i s i b l e wo r l d a n d n eve r c a m e back to him. Luke downed his cup. The last time he’d written anything was six years ago. Somebody told him he had a long career ahead of him, until Luke published his novel and was butchered by the critics, ridiculed in all of Scotland as a pathetic excuse of a writer and exiled himself to England where nobody knew his work. As it happens, Luke tried to write the bones of his story in Lord Byron’s basement but realized there was no meat, nothing genuine to be savored, much less to frighten readers. He knew lawyers well enough: they’d sued him multiple times and drained his savings in the process.
He also knew bakers, as he’d fallen in love with a baker’s daughter and tried to court her once, until a terrible sickness made her eyes bleed and she died in the bakery because no one cared enough to rush the baker’s daughter to the apothecary. But of murderers he knew the same as everyone, and that is, nothing true. It would take another sixt y years for Jack the Ripper to arrive and start the obscure fascination with serial killers that seems so popular these days.
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“Th is isn’ t any g ood ,” Lu ke s a i d a f te r t h re e hours of writing, scrapping entire pieces of paper, pulling at his hair and recalling every insult thrown at him by the critics, to the point where his own handwriting withered into childish scribbles. The door to the basement creaked open and snapped him out of his self-deprecating trance. It was Rita, the maid, coming down the stairs with a meal. Through the open door he heard Mary’s calm voice sharing a passage of her story, then a round of thunderous applause and praise from Percy Shelley, who encouraged her to keep writing. His curiosity made him stand from his desk and walk up the stairs. In the same instant, Rita tripped over her own feet and almost tumbled down the stairs, had Luke not been there to catch her in his arms. The tray flew over their heads and almost crashed into the manuscript. Rita’s eyes were shut, her body tense as if anticipating the fall. And there, holding her close to him, Luke realized her life was literally in his hands. She seemed smaller somehow. His grip tightened on her arms. Her eyes opened in surprise. He shoved her down the stairs. Her frail body rolled to the depths of the basement, her whimpers filled the room. Luke’s shadow blocked the frail light from the open door above. He picked up a fallen knife and pounced on Rita as he imagined the characters in
his story had done, that family of professional murderers, whose line of work he couldn’t quite describe, until that moment, when he stabbed the maid to death and rushed back to work with her blood still soaking his shirt and face. Crimson droplets stained the manuscript as his rushed handwriting filled the rest of the page with a detailed account of what he had done, what he had felt, a vile rush, an unstoppable hunger, a beast rising from the depths of himself — no, not himself. From his character’s self. Luke himself had killed no one. No one. Upstairs, a nonchalant voice called to Rita over and over again, until the silence in response gave way to frustration and Lord Byron raised his tone as he did whenever somebody ignored him. Luke ignored the commotion and crafted another sentence detailing the texture of another person’s blood. A second voice called Rita. It was Mary’s, who claimed to have heard loud stomping down in the basement, finding it unusual for Rita to take so long in the simple task of leaving a meal for a guest. “Luke!” she called. “Everything alright?” The rushed scribbles stopped. Luke couldn’t keep writing with all those distractions. Never mind the pool of Rita’s blood under his feet. That he could tolerate. But not Mary’s incessant calling. He ought to silence her too, like he’d silenced Rita, with the same knife so he could give the object greater weight in the story. He left the pencil on his desk, picked up his weapon, then raced up the stairs, hop-
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ping over entire steps with inhuman speed. Mary peered down from the threshold and screamed at the sight of the haggard man covered in blood, a silver knife in his hand, eyes like the hollow sockets of a skeleton. She slammed the door shut before Luke could reach her. He barreled into the door. On the other side, Lord Byron screamed a series of commands. Percy Shelley and Claire Clermont dragged a heav y bookshelf to barricade the door and fixed a wooden stool under the door handle. “Let me out,” Luke hissed. “I did what you asked. I wrote the story.” But nobody answered him. Nobody opened the door or asked him why he’d killed Rita. The other writers gathered in the living room to decide what to do with Luke, until they reached a unanimous agreement to leave the barricade where it stood, to leave the madman in the depths of the basement with the fresh corpse and his manuscript, where he could hurt no one who tried to confront him. It would take weeks for the constables to arrive and bring him to justice anyway. They found it best not to confront him. Not to remember him. They would leave the mansion the following day after reinforcing the barricade and never speak of the man again. They would keep on writing about other monsters, not knowing Luke would do the exact same thing in the basement and bury himself deeper into the story that became his life and his death, for he never finished the tale, starving in the darkness, talking to himself and Rita’s ghost.
Lord Byron’s mansion in Geneva still stands today, a macabre tourist attraction where literary enthusiasts go to conjure the image of Shelley writing the first draft of “Frankenstein,” not knowing it was there where she first witnessed a man, an inventor of sorts, driven mad by his creative obsessions. The man in question was forgotten. Down in the basement there are two dusty skeletons and a brittle, bloodstained manuscript. A pencil adorns the crooked desk like an afterthought. Some tourists swear they’ve heard incessant scribbles somewhere in the mansion, others suggest the stairs speak in a secret language of their own and unseen objects fall behind the door, always around the spring.
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Luce listened, her whole body tense for the right moment. Slim, the gray cat curled in her lap, found her impatience irritating. He flicked one ear back and stretched, pricking her thigh with his claws through the patchwork quilt. She scratched between his ears and he turned to look at her, eyes glowing in the moonlight of the open window. It was a full, golden, end-ofsummer moon. The buck moon. She had work to do. The cat seemed to understand. He lifted his chin, sniffed the warm night air and sprang from the bed to the window ledge and down out of sight. Luce went through the checklist in her head. She had everything packed in the Food City bag already: kitchen shears, twine, a flashlight, an old jam jar, an empty water bottle, her favorite rocks, a candle, rosemary from her garden and a matchbook marked “Lucky’s.”
FULL BUCK
MOON
(short story) Written by Hannah Mosley Illustrated by Ajani Pratt
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Down the hall, a screen door moaned then banged shut. Skeeee — BAM-bam-bam. Luce counted to five. Right on time, the truck engine sputtered to life. It s cat tered gravel ac ros s Lu c e’s g a rd e n a s i t p u l l ed out, its headlights swinging past her window and d i s a p p e a r i n g d o w n t h e ro a d . S h e w a s f re e . D a d d y wouldn’t be back from Lucky ’s until near dawn — more than enough time to get what she needed. She was already in running shorts and her mother’s old “ Welcome to Fabulous L AS VEGAS Nevada” T-shirt from before Luce was born, when she and Daddy had lived there. She threw back the quilt and grabbed her sneakers. The other children at school said “tennis shoes,” but she t h o u g h t “s n e a ke rs” wa s m o re a c c u ra te. H e r s h o e s weren’t for playing tennis. Granny had taught her that words — and especially names — held meaning.
Granny was her mother’s mother and what many of the older neighbors called a “granny woman”: a healer, a midwife. She took care of the neighbors before there was a doctor in town. When a real doctor moved in, he told people that Granny ’s plants weren’t medicine. Granny could make a tincture to help you fight off a cold, but the doctor could give you something to kill it outright. And if the doctor invoked science, the neighbors got to thinking, what was it that Granny, whose mother had been Cherokee, called to her aid? It wasn’t any thing Christ ian, to be s ure. S o neig hbors stopped v isiting her mountain. Their children began calling her a witch. Daddy told Luce she couldn’t see Granny anymore. Not that she had listened. Luce tightened her laces, grabbed her supply bag and swung one leg and then the other out the window, dropping behind the azalea bush with practiced ease. Standing, she was barely taller than the azalea, which was getting leggy and overgrown in the heat. She’d cut her black hair short for t he s ummer. H er s k in was a deep tan f ro m t wo months spent outside. C o n fe d e ra te j a s m i n e a n d h o n eys u c k l e c l i m b e d t h e b a c k wa l l of t h e t i n - ro ofe d shack and filled the evening with redolent perfume. She g rabbed a yellow honeys uck le blos s om, pinche d the g reen calyx s urrounding t he bud and pulled t he st yle slowly through the flower until a bead of nectar formed at the end. It tasted like summer.
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Luce caught up with Slim, who was chasing fireflies in the long grass behind the house. They had just reached the trailhead when a light from a nearby copse of black gum trees caught her in the chest. “Jeez, Lucinda, you look like you saw a ghost,” said a voice behind the flashlight. “Who’s it?” Luce held her own light out like a sword in front of her and switched it on. A boy stepped into her light. “Only me,” he said. Henry Rayburn lived on the leeward side of the mountain, down by the fishing creek. When they were younger, Henry and Luce would spend their summers swimming in the creek and racing Henry’s hunting dogs down the dirt road that connected their houses. A few years ago, though, Henry had started playing football for the school team. He came over less often and then, not at all. When they started high school, he stopped talking to her all together. He was tall, blond and good-looking, and she was odd and boyish and the granddaughter of a medicine woman. There was an understanding that they moved in different social circles. Still, it was just Henry. “That’s not my name,” she said and kept walking, which he took as an invitation to follow her. Slim hissed and shot off the path. “What are you doing here?” Luce said over her shoulder. “I should ask you the same thing,” said Henry. He crashed t h ro u gh t h e wood s b e h i n d h e r, b re a k i n g b ranches , stomping undergrowth. “You’re out here alone, at night, on a full moon, with a black cat. And you wonder why they call you a witch?” “Slim is gray, not black.” She turned around. “Why are you here?”
“To see if you’re a witch.” He grinned. “Well, I am. Now, go away. You’re making enough racket to spook the whole mountain.” “Come on, Luce. Lighten up. If you send me away, I’ll be obligated to go tell your daddy what you’re doing. For your own safety, you know.” His smile was a threat. A good one. If Daddy found out about where she was going, he’d board up her window and bolt her door. She’d have chores for the rest of the summer. It was bad enough last winter, when he caught the flu, and she’d put elderflower, echinacea and marigold in his tea. He’d made her do pushups on the gravel driveway and tore up her garden, saying afterwards it was to protect her, so that people wouldn’t drive her out of town like they had her mother. Which was ironic, since Mom hadn’t been driven out so much as she had run, and she hadn’t run so much from the town as from him, his temper and his drinking. Most of the time, he wasn’t too bad. Not really a dad, just someone she fed and cleaned up after. But recently, after long nights at the bar, he’d gotten into the habit of coming into her room, sitting on her bed and calling her Laura, her mother’s name. When he got like that, Luce was scared.
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you’re not a witch.” She pulled out the water bottle and filled it from the spring. It was clear and bracingly cold. “Here,” he said, pulling a metal flask out of his back pocket. “If you want a drink, have some of this.” He took a long swig. “I don’t get it,” said Luce. “I thought you didn’t like me anymore.” “It’s not that,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “You’re unapproachable at school, you’ve got your guard so far up.” “Fine,” she said. “Swear you won’t snitch, or I’ll hex you.” “I have to, around your friends.” Henry held up the Scout sign. “Swear.” She had hoped Henry would get tired of the hike and go home, but no such luck. They reached a cliff face of lichen-covered limestone. “Watch where I step,” Luce called. “It can get slippery.” She scrambled up and stepped into a clearing in the tree cover. The moon glowed gold above and lit up the surface of a small spring. All around its banks grew wild herbs. Luce pinched off yarrow and skullcap leaves and the tiny yellow flowers of St. John’s wort. The stinging nettles were next. She was used to their bite at this point, almost fond of it. Last, she needed valerian root. Henr y pulled himself over the edge of the cliff, panting. “You’re here to pick flowers?” he said. “Not exciting enough for you?” Luce asked, uncovering the thin, pale roots. She snipped off the stems and bundled the roots in twine. “You’re plenty exciting.” He picked a cluster of milkweed blooms and tucked it behind her ear. “But
“They’re not that bad,” he said, trying to play it off with a smile. Luce turned away and started up the trail across the meadow. “They are to me.” Henry took her by the wrist. “Come on, Luce, have a drink with me. Let’s get trashed and go swimming in the creek. The moon’s out and we can swing over the blue hole like when we were kids —” “You go,” she said, pulling her arm away. “I’ll catch up with you. There’s something else I have to do.” She saw something shift in his eyes. A flash of anger, maybe? If he could tell she was lying, he didn’t say anything. “Okay, see ya later,” he said, and then he turned and began working back down the mountain, still draining the flask. As soon as he dropped down the cliff, Slim reappeared ahead of Luce on the path. “Back on track,” she told him. It wasn’t far now, maybe a quarter mile up to Granny’s old hous e. No one went t here any more bes ides the
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o c c asio n al g rou p of k i d s d a ri n g e a c h ot h er to go in “the witch’s house.” She was lucky tonight; she and Slim were alone. Around the back of the house, under an old, gnarled apple tree, was a small headstone. Atop the grave grew a fairy ring of mushrooms. Luce hadn’t tried real magic before — she just knew what the herbs that grew around the mountain were naturally good for. Granny had taught her that most of an herb woman’s work was mundane: identification and recipe-making, trial and error. But every now and then, Granny would coax something extra from her blends. Luce needed that power now, needed a protection spell. She kneeled in the dirt and dumped out the Food Cit y bag around her. Slim shot up the apple tree and turned his glowing eyes on something at the side of the house. A rat, most likely. Inside the fairy ring, she arranged her favorite stones and stuck the candle in the center. Out came the herbs: nettle, yarrow and rosemary to protect her room. St. John’s wort, skullcap and valerian root to give her father restful sleep. She c h a r re d t h e ro ot u n t i l i t s m o ke d and then cut everything with the kitchen shears. She sprinkled the mix with water from the spring and some of Granny’s grave dirt for power. She filled the jam jar halfway with salt and mixed everything together with the shears.
“Granny, I need your help on this one,” she whispered. “I need it to be strong. I need you to keep me safe.” A voice behind her said, “You really are a witch.” It happened too fast. Henry pushed her to the ground, one hand on her back, and began fumbling for the waistband of her shorts. He was too heavy to throw off, but the shears, still in her hand, coated with herbs and salt, found their way into his side. He bellowed and reared back, and Luce scrambled up, backing away from the bleeding boy. “I didn’t believe them,” Henr y panted, “but they were right!” He stepped toward her, one hand holding his wound, the other picking up her candle. “You know what we do with witches? We burn ‘em!” He came at her with the candle. She grabbed the water bottle and, just as he stepped onto Granny ’s grave, flung a stream of water at him. Henry gasped, and then his skin began to melt where the moonlight touched it. Luce screamed and backed into the tree behind her. His clothes and skin blurred and g rew s of t brown fur, his leg s lost t h eir bulk and became s lender. H e fell on all fours , landing not o n his hands but cloven hooves. A short tail sprouted from his spine. His neck and face elongated, his eyes went black and wide, and cream-colored horns sprouted from his head.
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Henry was gone. In his place stood a handsome young buck with six-point antlers and a wound in its paunch. The deer started and leaped past her and across the meadow, heading pell-mell down towards the Rayburn house. Luce sat with her back against the apple tree and cried. Was she crying for Henry, the little boy who used to race her to the creek? Was it for what she had done to him — had she done that? Was it for what he had wanted to do to her? She kept telling herself she was safe until the shaking stopped. Later, Luce collected her supplies and her cat and began the hike h o m e. By t h e t i m e s h e m a d e i t to t h e f i e l d behind her house, it was near dawn. The round, fat moon was still visible, but the sky was pale blue at the tips of the mountains and the valley was blanketed in low, damp clouds. Through the mist, she could see the headlights of a lone truck coming up the dirt road. Luce ran the rest of the way back to the house, hauled herself gracelessly through the window of her bedroom, grabbed the spell jar from the Food City bag and kicked the rest of it under her bed, and, as the truck pulled into the gravel drive, made
a line of protection salt across the threshold of her room. Skeeee — BAM-bam-bam. He was singing a tuneless rendition of a Hank Williams, Jr. song, “There’s a Tear in my Beer.” Luce kicked her sneakers off and slid under the covers. If he did come in, may be he was too far gone to notice the evidence that she’d been out. “And then maybe my heart … won’t hurt me soooo,” he crooned, pa u s i n g o u t s i d e h e r d o o r. Lu c e h e a rd h i m l et o u t a tremendous sigh. He began to hum, and the tune carried him down the hall to his room and to sleep. When she woke, Luce saw there were mud stains and blood splatters all over her mom’s Las Vegas shirt. She changed and took it to the kitchen sink to scrub. While it soaked, she put the coffee on and put four frozen waffles in the toaster. “Mornin’, Lucy.” “Hey, Daddy. Sleep good?” “Like a log. I’m hungrier than a bear. Those all better be for me,” he said, gesturing to the toaster. Luce nodded and poured them both some coffee. She wrung out the shirt and took it outside to dry. “We were happy there,” he said, noticing the shirt. “I miss her too, you know?” “I know you do,” said Luce.
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ASHLEY TRAWINSKI
BFA Photography
The “ Por t rait of G oddes s es” s eries por t rays fo ur women as four different deities. There is Nut, Egyptian goddess of sky; Thetis, a Greek goddess of water; Eos, Greek goddess of the dawn; Artemis, Greek goddess of nature, vegetation, wild animals and the hunt. W it h t hes e photos I want to hig hlig ht t hese women's beauty, using makeup and light as the key components to create that alluring sense of the unfamiliar and mysterious.
Ar temi s
Nu t
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Eos
Thetis
Childhood
ARTS CORNER
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Aarohi Devashale
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AAROHI DEVASHALE
Graduate student Illustration
“This is the beginning of an old story: Once upon a time, a happy clever monkey lived in a tree that bore juicy, red rose apples. One fine day, a crocodile swam up to that tree and told the monkey that he had traveled a long distance and was very hungry. The kind monkey offered him a few rose apples. The crocodile returned again and again and the monkey was always happy to share. They soon became unlikely friends.”
FANGYU MA
Graduate student IlIustration
“ In ancient C hines e my t hs and legends, Kunlun Mountain is the residence of gods, the capital of the Heavenly Emperor. The water under it can't float feat hers and the trees around it are immor tal and s acre d. I t has nine gates and a nine-headed, enlightened beast as its gatekeeper. The beast, Kaiming Shou, stands facing East, while each of its heads keeps an eye on a different direction.” Fangyu Ma
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About the Cover Artist Herok is a fourth-year illustration major. He was born in South Korea and is now based in Atlanta. His unique abstract, surrealist style is characterized by mysterious, strong, vibrant colors and airbrush texture. His digital work often imitates an actual painting. Most of his artworks are produced using digital media, but Herok is also a traditional painter. He is passionate about finding the optimum balance between illustration and modern art. With his work, he aims to explore the subconscious and create shared emotion amongst people who hold different cultural values. Website: www.herokstudio.com Instagram: @herok
Scan to see the work in motion
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Julie Tran SCAN is the quarterly student print magazine of the Savannah College of Art and Design in Atlanta. All editorial content is determined by the student editors. Opinions expressed in SCAN are not necessarily those of the college. ©2022 SCAN Magazine. All rights reserved. No part of this magazine may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher. Visit us at scadscan.com for all previous issues and more.
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