SCAN Fall 2022

Cover Credits

Creative Director: John Warner

Photographer: Xavier Thompson Model: Ayanna Wardlow

Makeup/ stylist: Lexi Athina Waldman

Artist statement

“This project was inspired by my interest in Trypophobia, which is the fear of or aversion to clusters of small holes. As well as Scopophobia, the excessive fear of being watched or surveilled. The overall atmosphere is one of unease. From the blue lighting reminiscent of horror films like The Ring, to the endless abyss behind the figure. While googly eyes separately have a comical feel, placed en masse they illicit imagery of millions of tiny holes, but then you realize they can see you. I wanted the imitate the fear one feels within a horror movie running from a killer you cannot see, but you know he’s watching. Everyone in this artistic exchange has eyes on them. All the eyes on her are watching you, while you are looking at her. The eyes are also physically on her as well as metaphorically. I wanted to create a subject whose beauty grew on you the more time was spent with the photo, and that delayed response forces the viewer to connect more strongly with the subject. The subject isn’t someone to be mindlessly ogled. Because she has many eyes on her the alluring nature of the subject confronts the viewer’s voyeuristic search for beauty in every crevice of a photograph.”

SCAN is the quarter print student magazine of the Savannah College of Art and Design in Atlanta. All the 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.

Letter from the Editor

When I was a child, I’d often have a specific, recurring dream. For years, it would plague my sleep, playing out the same way, every time. Although I was five years old, I’d be behind the steering wheel of a Jeep, driving it up a steep, sandy mountain. The path was small, and I couldn’t stop the car as it hurtled up the incline, several miles over the speed limit. It was only a matter of time until my hands slipped, and the Jeep crumbled down the side of the cliff. I haven’t had the dream since high school, but I still remember the feeling in my stomach as I plunged into the unavoidable depths.

It turns out that I wasn’t alone with this dream either. Almost 65% of Americans have fre quent dreams about falling, making it the most common nightmare in the country, followed by being chased and losing teeth. But what about the other fears we hold? Surely falling and dental accidents aren’t the only things that keep us up at night. There’s so much more that curls toes and disrupts REM. Little, mundane things can worry us too, making them as frightening as the folklore we’ve heard for generations.

In this issue of SCAN, we wanted to explore the concept of a nightmare, and what’s behind everyone’s deepest fears. Whether it’s something small and intimate, or something out of a child-like imagination, no one is safe from what goes bump in the night. Welcome to your greatest nightmare…

-Eva Erhardt

Staff Page : Cait Jayme

Eva

Written by : Jackson Williams Photography by : Harrison

If Dad hollered my name, I answered—especially during my evening rounds on the farm. I usually photographed the animals after my chores, but developing the photos would have to wait. I sprinted from the sheep pen to the back porch of my house, and by the time I arrived, Dad scrambled for his hat and coat—things he only wore during winter, church, or a trip into town. It was a clear Monday in August, so I knew something was wrong when he grabbed my shoulder with his calloused, firm hand.

“You’re in charge,” he told me without elaboration.Those words were sharp in my mind as I sat on Mama’s bed, placing a damp washcloth on her forehead, trying to reduce her fever. She said Dad went to fetch her some medicine the doctor recommended for her nasty illness. She patted my back in slow, controlled rhythms with her frail hand. Even in sickness, Mama cared for others.

“Don’t you fret over me, Davis. Once I get that medicine, I’ll be good,” she said and forced a chapped-lip smile before taking a sip of water. “You mind closing the window when you leave? Those windchimes keep rattling, but the wind isn’t reaching me.”

“Sure thing,” I said and nodded to her heavily pregnant stomach. “But it’s not only you that I’m anxious about.”

Mama rested her head on the pillow and took a deep breath. The mattress creaked as I slid off Mama’s soft bed. Soon, the scent of baby powder and laundered blankets would replace the lavender perfume and pine that clung to the sheets. Even sooner, my animal photographs on the wall would be replaced with newborn pictures. I shut her window and cut the lights, leaving only the glowing firefly mobile over the baby’s crib.

Our dog, Red, barked a loud whimper from downstairs, and his heavy paws smacked the back screen door. Mama winced at the noise and pressed a hand to her head.

“I’ll go see what he wants. Get some rest, alright?” She waved me off and pulled the blanket to her chest, after which I rushed out the door with my dog. Red dashed ahead of me, crossing the length of our farm with ease. My chest tightened as we passed the cows who quietly slept in their pasture and the chickens safe in their coop because only one enclosure sat to the North, the sheep.

I could’ve sworn that I secured the pen before Dad called me home, but the gate was wide open. Did I leave it unlocked? Dad was going to kill me if any sheep escaped. Red ducked and sniffed around the pen, wagging his fluffy tail and flaring his nostrils. I secured the enclosure — for sure, this time — and counted the sheep.

Fourteen … Fifteen … Sixteen. There were supposed to be seventeen sheep. I counted again — sixteen. I broke the numbers into ewes and lambs, and one ewe moved around more than the others, wagging her head in confusion. I shined my lantern on her underside and knew she was a mother sheep. I thought of how sad my mama would feel in that situation.

Red ran a few leaps into the woods and barked. It must be where the lamb went. My heart pumped against my chest, but I couldn’t be scared.

Before my trek into the woods, I left Red with the other sheep to make sure I’d hear the commotion if anything else went wrong tonight. The musky farm smell shrunk with every stride. It was pitch-black, save for the fireflies

blinking across the trail. Cicadas whirred in the distance, where they’d abandon their husks in the morning for me to sweep them off the chicken coop. One tree supported an orange birdhouse with stripped paint from the many seasons it endured. Dead leaves crunched under my feet and the dewdrops reflected my dim lantern.

“Dad left me in charge.”

The condensation sank through my sneakers. My next step nearly hit the dirt, paused for small hoof tracks dotted ahead. It had to be close.

The ground rumbled. It thundered with a weighted footstep and freezed any other movement. It got closer, shifting somewhere behind me. Heavier than a lamb, heavier than a feral hog too. A twig snap made me whip around, but only fireflies danced in hypnotizing waves in the now-silent atmosphere. I followed them deeper into the mass of trees. Mama always told me that these bugs protect the forest, and I could stay out until they went to sleep. She was real strict about being home before that. She was superstitious, all right. Did they even sleep at night?

A scream punctured the air like a bullet, and it wasn’t human. The familiar cry of a lamb echoed in panicked desperation until it strained like a hand grabbing a record — warped, struggling, piercing. It stopped as quickly as it started. Interrupted.

I should look for it. I should see if the little lamb was only frightened and tripped over. My body refused, washing an anxious wave of lead over any righteous actions my brain wished to take. Smart cowards lived longer than brave idiots, right? I walked toward the noise. After all, the fireflies were up with me.

The trees parted to a grassy clearing of dandelions — no lamb in sight. Everything was still under the enormous

harvest moon, which was unusual for this time of year. I didn’t even remember seeing it. Cicadas quit whirring, and the grass was dry while my feet remained wet from the nervous sweat accumulated over my skin. I smelled something metallic, similar to ozone or gasoline. It stung my nose. And while I was sure the lamb’s cry came from this direction, nothing was here except a ringing like my house’s windchimes. I had to be a mile or two from home by now. I’d never been to this part of the forest because the fireflies stopped flitting around here. Did they go to sleep?

The ground rumbled again, and the metallic clinking crescendoed until a tall, lanky creature stalked into the clearing. As the black mass approached in jerky, patient movements, my throat tightened with nausea. It was taller than any bear but as thin as a human, crawling with rickety limbs. Rattling jars of fireflies hung from its waist, illuminating skin as pale and flaky as lichen. Its skull wore thinly-stretched human skin that bore no eyes, nose, or lips. Every sensory area was hollow except for more fireflies floating like pupils in the eye sockets. The mouth was the worst of all — a snake-like, unhinged jaw with another jar shoved inside, preventing it from closing. The object pushed the head to uncomfortably tilt back, causing the creature’s body to bend forward like a bird. Drool slid down the glass jar and dripped to the ground like a leaky pipe.

It took every ounce of willpower to step backward. And I’d been hunting with Dad enough times to recognize this scene. Like a chess piece, I inched away again. One of us had to make a move, and my small frame was incredibly outmatched in this unfamiliar part of the woods. Now, the creature stopped. Now, I ran.

I might as well have been running on air with how light the dirt felt beneath me, especially with the titan chasing from behind. Every tree and landmark blurred past and sunk into the nightmarish landscape. My lungs and calves burned from the adrenaline as if saying, “you’re not dying here!” Again, my mind disagreed. I was being hunted by something beyond anything natural. And I’d only seen helicopters from a distance, but I could imagine the experience up-close for the first time.

A cool wind whisked my skin from behind despite my hot body temperature. I checked over my shoulder, where I saw the creature’s entirety in front of the harvest moon, unmasked from its cloak. Insect wings spanned from its back, allowing two insect arms and feet to dangle while two human arms reached out like a crucifix. The jars bumped and rang while it followed me through the lightless labyrinth of the backcountry.

My hunter crossed more ground than I could outrun and the buzzing closed in. Distracted, a root snagged my foot and slammed my right side into the dusty foliage, causing my head to pound from the impact. People felt bruises before they see them, and it felt like my brain got replaced with sloshing water. Stunned from the wipeout, I couldn’t move as the creature landed in front of

me. Staring at its grotesque face and crooked, gumless teeth took my mind from the forming concussion. Its sharp hand extended, shiny with half-dried blood and white fur — a result of the lost lamb. Something poked into my leg, and it hurt when I tried to drag myself away.

I slowly rolled onto my back and reached into my pocket, where my camera lens was cracked. With a shaky hand, I raised it to the light catcher that stared into my soul with its cavernous eyes. I clicked the flash to capture the monstrosity. While it pondered my offering, time went from immediate to infinite.

“I can catch light too.”

Its large hand clawed my camera with a surgeon’s precision, close enough contact for me. The machine shuttered in rapid fury, erupting bright bursts between us. Small photo cards printed and fell like an autumn leaves. When the camera couldn’t print any more, the light catcher pushed it into its ribcage by ripping into its leathery skin, joining it to the most horrifying ecosystem I’d ever witnessed.

The light catcher receded into the shroud of endless trees — a glowing silhouette interrupting the dark as I stood to my feet and I pondered how long it lived in the woods behind my home, chiming on windless nights.

Queer Moxie

Written by : Daniel Shaw

Photography by : Chandler Gartman

Queer Moxie is a documentary released in 2016 by filmmakers Heather Provoncha and Leo Hollen Junior. The film is an on the ground look into the lives and art of the Atlanta queer scene through the decades. It showcases interviews and performances from historic figures, as well as individuals who have grown into superstars seen across the city today.

Hi, Leo. Can you tell us a little bit about yourself? What’s your background in film?

I grew up in Cleveland, Ohio, but I’ve lived in Atlanta, Georgia for the past 14 years. I’ve completed several short films, but Queer Moxie was my first feature length project as co-director. Along with directing the film, I was also editor of the documentary.

What is “Queer Moxie?” Did you feel responsible for telling a story that hasn’t been told yet?

I think a part of the reason why anyone makes movies is Queer Moxie is a film celebrating Atlanta queer performance, from drag to spoken word, comedy, burlesque. It’s celebrating the artists that took up space and created change. It’s a big story because it’s big history. We wanted to provide an entry point, a celebration, a sort of collage. We didn’t go in trying to tell a story that hadn’t been told, our responsibility was

about honoring these performers with our own form of art. But also, we are queer filmmakers telling a queer story, so of course we are going to do it in our own unique way. That’s what we do.

Do you fear being forgotten as an artist? Do you think being part of a marginalized group makes you more likely to fall to the waste side?

I’m gonna keep it real. I don’t necessarily think that it’s the queerness that’s going to really keep people from possibly remembering me. I know I’m talented and I know I’m fabulous. But if I didn’t have to spend my days working a day job because I’m poor, then maybe I could spend more time doing things to enhance my cultural cachet. So I do worry I’ll spend so much time working to pay the bills, on day jobs, on other people’s projects, on other people’s stories or art, when I could be using that time creating my own art, that would outlive me, and represent me and go on forever. But it’s a combo of all that, young, gifted, queer and black. But also poor and tired.

Overcoming the fear of being forgotten as a gay artist.

How do you feel that applies to

Queer Moxie?

I think a part of the reason why anyone makes movies is because they want to be remembered. You get to create a world and have it last “forever,” whatever forever turns out to be in the end. With Queer Moxie, it’s more, a time and a place that I want people to remember. Going through all the footage and interviewing all these people – it was just a giant history lesson and time capsule for me.

How does it make you feel to think that so many of the people in the documentary are already being forgotten by young LGBTQ+ members coming into the scene?

I don’t know, it’s a bit unfortunate … it’s also just the way the world works unfortunately. But that’s a reason we made this movie. So people could look to it and see all these amazing queer artists that have come through and made their mark in Atlanta, in the queer scene and in performance. And to be honest, I don’t really think that they are all being forgotten. I just think, like I said, it’s a part of the life cycle. People are going to forget about us at some point. But, those that are cultured will make it a POINT to know their history. Trust and believe. I think you can tell when you see and meet artists who have a sense of where they’ve come from.

What do you think is the future for queer Atlanta artist? Are we doomed to forget the performers, Trailblazers, and artists that have come before us?

Oh goodness, absolutely not. What I really worry about is what is the future for queer spaces in Atlanta and in America. I remember talking to some of the performers, and queens when we were filming interviews for Queer Moxie and they were talking about how the stages were disappearing. Now all of those bars are closed. And now it’s like the queer specific spaces are dissapearing. I hope that the performers of yesteryear and the trail blazers aren’t forgotten, but it’s really hard to say, and it’s not for me to say.

Does it scare you to consider that this film will out live you, and most of the people in it?

Nah.

Written by : Annika Harley Visual by : Jane Zhang

The mothers have been saying things behind my back again. I heard it from a nanny at the playground, that they say things like Homewrecker and Slut in the same breath that they croon over their little ones dangling from the monkey bars. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last. It’s on days like this that I cross my arms and keep my gaze on my own children on the swings, listening to them shouting higher higher higher. In my mind’s eye, I see them crumpled on the mulch, a pile of themselves. But no, they keep swinging, a pendulum in the park, and I can hear the clock ticking because my time is running out.

I’m not the first mother to think these things, I know this to be true. There used to be a woman in a house up in the hills, I think she had two children of her own and took on two more when she remarried. So many sticky little mouths to feed, so many grabbing hands, I can’t imagine. Yet, no one felt bad for her, no pity, no sympathy.

I see myself in her. Not the end of her story, but the beginning. It was a pulsing, an aching, a scream, and then I was stuck. Handed a baby in a bassinet and wheeled out the front door. Good luck, they said. What a joy it is to be a mother. But I have felt no joy in this arrangement. I give myself to them, they have the world wrapped up in a neat little package. When is it my turn? All I know is that I wouldn’t do it the same as she did. If I had the chance now, I think I could follow through. And I wouldn’t let the shame finish me off.

Her shoulders were stooped under the weight of the other mother’s words. It’s what you signed up for, isn’t it? When you decided to get married? Precious, aren’t they?

Day in and day out, the children became unrecognizable. Just a buzzing mass of want want want. The mother started to wonder, is there more to this? More to life than to provide?

Sacrifice, more like it. How many more play dates? How many more parent-teacher meetings? How many little hands pulling at her hair, my clothes, clawing for more more more. Late spring was blooming and her head must have been bursting when she finally did it. Floor polish in the little one’s cereal one morning. Or was it drain cleaner? What a way to go, I don’t know how she choked it down herself. Sometimes, I wonder if it was the floor polish that killed her, or if it was the guilt.

Fiercely Fa sh io na bl

Written by : Eva Erhardt Visual by : Dannie Niu

The Bride of Frankenstein (1935):

Although “The Bride of Frankenstein” is a sequel to its 1931 predecessor, its fashion statements have solidified itself into popular culture. This monstrous look was made in conjunction with makeup artist Jack Pierce, and uncredited costume designer Vera West, who was best known for her slinky gowns. Perhaps the most iconic facet is The Bride’s conical wig, embellished with bright white streaks. Although we know the hair-do to be black in color, the wig was actually red, but appeared in greyscale in the classic movie.

“Carrie” (1976)

Blood counts as an accessory in 1976’s “Carrie.” When Sissy Spacek’s titular character is invited to prom, she crafts a pink slip gown in her room, away from her mother’s controlling gaze. When she arrives to the dance, her classmates are stunned at her transformation… but not enough to keep them from dumping gallons of pig’s blood on her head.

The dress now symbolizes a form of female empowerment in sexuality. For years, Carrie was mocked for the childish clothing that her mother dressed her in. But when she makes her own prom dress, she is able to break free from her stifling mother and the torment of her classmates. Only when she’s covered in blood that she realizes her power.

“Beetlejuice” (1988)

Although the “bio-exorcist” goes through many costume changes, Beetlejuice’s most famous outfit is his moth-eaten and pin-striped suit. Paired with a pair of black combat boots and a stringy green wig, this is one of the replicated costumes in the Halloween season. Costume designer Aggie Guerard Rodgers had a hard time convincing director Tim Burton to go “all out” on the costumes, but proved it to him after styling the characters of Lydia and her mother, Delia.

“The Candyman” (1991)

Candyman may have been a murderer, but at least he looked sharp doing it. The folklore character, played by Tony Todd, wears a floor-length, suede coat, complete with fur details. Under the coat, he wears a simple white button up and a dapper cravat necktie.

So many fans have sought after the Candyman’s coat that fashion brands have begun to duplicate the style in the movie’s name, giving shoppers the choice of wool or suede leather.

Fa Fiercely

“Bram Stoker’s Dracula” (1992)

After the success of “The Godfather Trilogy,” Francis Ford Coppola wanted to dip his toes in to classic horror, aiming to create a new, stylish version of Dracula. This vampire movie wouldn’t be like the ones before. This film was going to be extravagant, with excessive soundstages, costly actors, and of course, elaborate costumes. Designer Eiko Ishioka was tasked with bringing the vision to life, creating hundreds of pieces for the film.

Lucy’s death dress is a prime example of Ishioka’s talent, utilizing victorian-inspired elements, along with modern wedding attire. She was also inspired by frilled-neck reptiles, and the 17th century portraits of painter Michael Conrad Hirt. It makes for a stunning piece, complete with intricate lace details, beaded portions, and delicate pearl jewelry.

“American Psycho” (2000)

Costume designer Isis Mussenden nailed the idea of what it meant to be a man on 1980s Wall Street. Taking inspiration from the 1991 book, Mussenden crafted Patrick Bateman from scratch, piecing together his meticulous outfits with several designer labels. However, not every brand was thrilled to be included in such a gruesome movie. Calvin Klein refused to be a part of the film, and Comme des Garçons didn’t allow one of their bags to be used as an on-screen bodybag. Rolex was willing to be involved, as long as Bateman himself wouldn’t wear the watch (hence why the famous line from the book “Don’t touch the Rolex” was switched to “Don’t touch the watch.”)

Whenever he’s not running around in his birthday suit, Bateman is almost always depicted in a classic power suit. In one of the most recognized scenes from the movie, Bateman explains the significance of Huey Lewis and the News’ album “Fore,” before chopping up fellow banker Paul Allen. Here, Bateman is dressed in a charcoal Valentino suit, complete with a clear raincoat to protect the expensive garment from blood splatter. Sharp thinking on that one.

Fa sh io na bl e Fiercely

“Us” (2019)

Since the teaser for “Us” was released, all eyes have been on the simple red jumpsuits. Designer Kym Barrett, who’s best known for her work on “The Matrix,” wanted to infuse psychology with the movie’s costumes, even considering herself to be a “methoddesigner,” similar to how a performer could be a “method actor.”

By using the color red, Barrett, along with director Jordan Peele, wanted to represent trauma, anger, and resentment. They even worked to craft the perfect share that would be guaranteed to unsettle an audience, aiming for the color of an “old wound.”

A N S

L A U G H T E R

M A N S L A U G H T E R

I long for interludes of stillness as I stumble down the distance between myself and the stranger’s body I am destined to inhabit against my will, against my nature held hostage until my skin is paper thin, my name stolen from the barefoot boy running in circles in my memory another phantom

I am summarized in a title useful in business days only carbon-copied creature chemically wired to sacrifice the flexibility of the individual, the beauty of vulnerability

What if I despise the figures of manhood monochromatic, beaten into our psyche with a hammer a set of instructions: This is how to self-destruct This is how to disappear

I forfeit the language of fear onwards across the tightrope still barefoot, ready to catch myself midair

Written by : Alejandro Bastidas

Photography by : Hailee Williams Model: Noah Swart

The sidewalk along Honeydew Lane is a peaceful place. One where nothing strange or anything peculiar has ever occurred. Things are calm. Things are normal.

This is how it is until the arrival of a little girl named Lily. Marching from her house, she carries a brand new box of sidewalk chalk. 48 colors, with a built-in sharpener. It was a gift from her mom, and it’s very special to Lily. After all, she’s finally reached the age of a whole set of fingers. Well, on one hand anyway.

Sitting crisscross applesauce on the pavement, next to the crawling ants and skittering lizards, Lily gets to work. She draws a bright blue monster with jagged edges for fur and lime green horns. And a rainbow tail.

“I’ll call you, Fuzz,” she tells the monster.

But then she gets an idea, remembering that every monster has a heart. She picks up the cherry red chalk and draws a messy shape on the monster’s chest. Then, she adds a blobby pink swirl for a brain,

as we know monsters must have a brain, too. But when she adds these finishing touches on her colorful doodle, she notices something very strange.

The heart begins to seep into the monster’s spiked body, and disappears behind the fur. The chalky brain sinks behind the monster’s misshapen eyes. Her mother’s doodles of flowers and ladybugs always remain stationary on the sidewalk. But Fuzz starts to move. She jumps back, her painted toes right on the edge of the sidewalk, where her backyard grass touches. Fuzz yawns with his sunshine yellow teeth, as if just waking up from a nap

What was once such a mundane slice of their neighborhood populated by dog walkers, stroller moms and old ladies walking with bright pink hand weights, is soon to be tainted with chaos from the unlikeliest of monsters and the little one who created him.

Their next visitor is Mrs. Ruby, dragging her fat pug, Louie, behind her. They look strikingly similar, and completely unaware. Lily thinks about calling out to them, warning them about the wild monster. Mrs. Ruby gave out candy apples on Halloween, and it would be a shame to have her eaten alive.

Before she can do anything, Fuzz hurls himself at Louie. The pup yelps, yanking Mrs. Ruby’s arm. But before she turns to scold him, she spots Fuzz, in all his teeth-y ferocity, hurling himself right at her toes. Mimicking her pug, she jumps into the air with a scream. In seconds, they’ve shot into the other direction, doing a prance as if they’re stepping on hot stone.

“Uh oh,” Lily watches. Here come the stroller moms, their nonsense chattering sounding down the path. The moment their wheels cross the pavement crack marking Lily’s property line, Fuzz springs into action. He lets out a snarl and nips at their sensible walking shoes. The young moms yip, jogging with their strollers away from the horrifying chalky blue monster, checking their backs to make sure Fuzz doesn’t follow. But he stops. He’s marked Lily’s section of the sidewalk as his territory.

“Now this just won’t do,” she says, “You are not a friendly monster!

“You meanie!” Lily yells at Fuzz. He responds with a shrug, then turns to the stray lizards on the pavement, waiting for his next victim. It will only be a matter of time before he strikes again.

Lily decides she must protect her sidewalk. Fuzz’s reign of terror has gone on long enough.

Deep in thought, a single drop of water splats on the top of Lily’s head. The neighbor’s water sprinklers. Fuzz bolts, dashing to the other side of the sidewalk, cowering and wiggling away from the droplets. Lily gets an idea.

“Daddy says I’m not supposed to touch his things, but saving the sidewalk is an important matter,” she tells herself. But first, she puts on her protective gear. Proper contact calls for a proper uniform. She yanks on her bright yellow gardening boots and her mother’s floral rain coat. She’s ready for battle.

Dragging the garden hose takes a bit longer than expected, it’s rather heavy for her twiggy arms. But she’s a little one on a mission. Soon, she reaches the battleground. Peering

through the hedges, she sees Fuzz moving across the pavement, completely unaware of his lurking demise. Her eyes narrow, studying him.

The neighborhood cat watches from a tree limb above, it’s tail flicking with delight.

And then. Lily attacks!

She jumps from behind the bushes, the water hose positioned like a weapon. She uses all of her fingers to yank the hose’s trigger back and shoot water like a rain cloud.

“Take that!” she shrieks at him.

Fuzz tries to run but his edges start to blur. She chases him, dousing him with more and more water until he is nothing but a watery, powdery blob, seeping into the concrete and rolling away into the grass.

She releases her fingers, the water dripping to a stop. Seeing her destruction, she drops the hose with a thud.

“Lil Bud?” Daddy hollers out to her. “What are you doing with my hose?”

She jumps for joy in the puddle. “I slayed the monster!”

Daddy assesses the damage, seeing his once perfectly clean section of the sidewalk now oozing with chalk made into watercolor.

“Fuzz was scaring the neighborhood,” Lily tells him. “I had to protect the citizens.”

“Sounds like you’re a real hero,” he says, ruffling her hair the way dads do. “C’mon. Let’s go inside for supper.”

“I think I’m not gonna chalk anything living from now on,” says Lily. “Nothing with a heart or brain. That’s for sure!”

Love Letter

Written by : Stephanie Dejak Illustration by : Haoyun Tan

It’s been a few months since we parted. We stayed up together until the early hours of the morning, absorbing every last drop of our time together. I cried when you left, but you urged me that you’d be back soon.

We met when I was twenty-two, a week before Halloween, which was only fitting. I curled up with you on my sister’s sofa while wrapped in a vintage blue sweatshirt, taking you in with wide green eyes. You were bewitching.

We met when I was afraid of everything. Afraid of the solo Greyhound bus ride that I’d taken back to North Carolina from Atlanta for the weekend, afraid of the schizophrenia diagnosis that had just shaken my younger brother. Afraid of living alone in a city that I didn’t know yet, afraid of walking past the Marta station at night without a tightly gripped pink pepper spray in my hand. Afraid of the murderer that had stabbed a woman and her dog in Piedmont Park that July, only a mile from my new apartment. Afraid of turning up dead after a date with a

man from Hinge. Afraid of loving someone again. Afraid of you.

I was drawn to you because you were everything I wanted to be. Scary and intriguing on the outside, beautiful and raw on the inside. We can’t deny that I am much kinder than you are. But if my smile was a little dimmer, if my height stood a little taller, if my bite was a little sharper - maybe I’d be more like you. Maybe I wouldn’t get hurt anymore, maybe I would stop spilling my guts everywhere. Maybe not everyone deserves to see that beauty and rawness that we share. Maybe it’s safer that way.

In retrospect, I guess you weren’t immediately bewitching. I didn’t give into that allure of yours that grabbed nearly everyone by the neck a decade ago. I wasn’t prepared for you then. As a scrawny twelve-year-old that was battling mean girls and divorced parents, I didn’t exactly have the stomach for gory gougings and ghost stories.

On finding comfort through ‘American Horror Story’

My reality felt scary enough as it was. Perhaps you were just the right person at the wrong time.

My sister is the one to thank for warming me up to you, ten years later. Maybe it was our synchronized tensed shoulders as you rambled on about the rubber man. Or maybe it was the text messages that she and I exchanged about the Hotel Cortez that you so badly wanted to show me. I wouldn’t have given you a chance otherwise. I’ll be sure to thank her for the both of us.

After all, why would I have let you in, even at twentytwo? When every haunting interaction with ex-lovers was already keeping me up at night, when you had just as much power to hurt me, too? I knew better.

I watched you slit throats without blinking, I watched you put bullets into brains without flinching—and yet, I was enthralled by you. The way that you made the buttery yellows and the cotton candy pinks of Florida in the fifties look so terrifying. The way that you made the coven of witches at Miss Robichaux’s Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies seem so comforting.

The way that you somehow tied an apocalypse into a world of murder houses and warlocks. I don’t know how you did it. Maybe it’s because you’ve always been beautiful and brilliant and blood-curdling, all at once. I’m sorry that it took me so long to realize it.

I think you’re the love of my life. You make me laugh; you make me cry. You make me tense; you make me weak. You take a drink with me; you take a drag with me. You introduce me to fantasies that I never knew existed. But you’ve never, ever hurt me.

You’re always there for me when I need you. If anything, you’ve mended a battered heart that’s somehow still beating. And for that, I’ll love you until my last days.

Come home soon, my dear. I miss you.

Forever yours, Stephanie

Nitya Bellani

Infographic by : Bhavyata Shah

Designer: Yunqi Zhao Photographer/ Creative Director: John Warner Makeup Artist: Fangyu Ma Models: Cindy Dong & Ayanna Wardlow

“IF I WEAR BLACK PLEASE DON’T APPROACH ME is based on me. I’m introverted and I often wear black, which makes me look more low-key. I find the widespread mourning rituals of the Victorian era led to the increasing use of black cloth and the central function of the strict dress code was the control of females. I consider using functionality to replace the original restrictive body structure of the mourning garment to oppose the monstrous Victorian aesthetic and consider how these garments appear in the modern world. I combine Victorian mourning with modern garments to create a cold and mysterious modern Victorian style.”

They’re All Gonna Laugh at You

The story of “Carrie: The Musical.”

Written by : Victoria Radnothy Illustration by : Patrick Medina

Musical theatre is better known for jazz hands and catchy tunes than adaptations from famous horror authors. And yet, the creators of “Carrie: The Musical” saw Stephen King’s hit novel, “Carrie,” as the perfect source material to adapt into Broadway’s next big mega musical.

“Carrie: The Musical” tells the story of a young girl who recently discovered her telekinetic powers. At school, she’s constantly bullied by her peers. At home, she’s ridiculed by her extremely religious and oppressive mother. Eventually, Carrie seeks revenge through her telekinesis, making it a dark coming of age story. Both the book and the movie adaptation were roaring successes in the 70s.

About a decade later, writer Lawrence D. Cohen, lyricist Dean Pitchford, and composer Michael Gore, got together to adapt this iconic horror novel into a teen musical. However, the show was plagued with issues from the start. They had major difficulties finding producers who believed in Broadway’s first horror musical. And members of the creative team were in a constant battle with differing opinions on how to execute the show, struggling to find

that sweet spot of music, story and character that so many musicals have previously achieve. The show had rewrites until a few hours before the curtain went up. The entire rehearsal process was one bad omen after another.

Barbara Cook, the iconic Broadway star, played the role of Margaret, Carrie’s mother. She was the production’s darling, the famous figure to get theatre goers through the doors. But she was justifiably down on the show since her involvement, seeing the disasters unfold first hand. Legend states that Cook left a note for Cohen, one of the creators, on his desk for opening night. It was a drawing of an axe that said, “You deserve this after how badly you’ve butchered the show.”

Opening night was something of nightmares. During the show, Cook was taking her place onstage when a set piece malfunctioned. The moving wall was supposed to go up and shift behind her, bringing in the new scene. Instead, the wall fell, nearly missing her head. Cook was inches away from being decapitated on stage. community.

After the final scenes and the lights went down, the actors, creators and everyone backstage waited in silence to see how the audience received the strange show. The audience erupted in boos. What was supposed to be a powerful, dark Cinderella story, became the laughing stock of the Broadway community.

Every performance following was met with the same reception. Scathing reviews littered the newsstands. The majority of audience members wanted to go just to see how horrible this musical actually was. A morbid fascination of art gone horribly wrong from well respected artists and creators.

After three days, “Carrie: The Musical” closed, making it Broadway’s biggest and most expensive flop ever. Investors lost every penny of the seven-million-dollar budget.

But 30 years later, this show’s status has changed from a financial horror story into a cult classic. That initial hatred turned into fascination, coated with humor and nostalgia from theatre lovers across the country. Eventually, “Carrie: The Musical” became the perfect show for local theatres and high school productions, with its small cast, minimal set pieces and relatable commentary for the misfits at school, this show morphed into a beloved classic for the small stage. And while Carrie has yet to make her Broadway revival, perhaps she’s better without fancy set pieces that can malfunction. This story now belongs in the horrors of high school. Besides, what’s it matter if they’ll all laugh at you?

How did you discover your passion for painting and what has it done for you?

I was really more into just drawing for most of my teen years, I kind of didn’t do art for most of my childhood. I was more into colored pencils and everything, watercolor. I went to a class at my local community center that was teaching oil painting and I’d never tried it before and I thought I would hate it because it takes so long to do and so long to dry, but it’s so much fun. I just love how you can always go back to it and if you want to fix something, you always can. You can paint over it, you can start again and I just think it’s something that lasts forever. It’s just really satisfying to make a finished piece.

What did your process look like in creating this series of paintings, from conceptualization to putting the final strokes?

I have a different process for every piece that I do. I don’t

Elizabeth Efferson

Second Year, Painting

Interviews

by : Anthony Kosenkov Portraits by: Jazmine Marie

have a step one, two and three. I really should, but I don’t. It depends on the project, sometimes I’ll have a solid idea and I just start painting. Sometimes I just go through iterations in my sketchbook before I start putting it on canvas. My first painting in this series, I did a painting with a face and I didn’t like it, so just blocking it out was my solution. I thought that was really interesting and thought it would be fun to do a series of them.

How do some of your works come from a place of fear and what do they aim to convey?

In this series, many of my works were kind of going off of the theme of identity and lack of identity so that the viewer could kind of project their own meaning onto them, like who that person is. I guess fear would be an interesting way to interpret that. A fear of yourself and your identity is one way to see it.

Lauryn Phillips

Second Year, Painting

How did you get introduced to printmaking? Why do you prefer the medium over others?

I took a year off during the pandemic and when I came back, I was a fashion major. I was going to have to start taking fashion classes again and I was like “Wow, that sounds really miserable and I don’t want to do that at all.”

I was just kind of taking any class that wasn’t fashion and I kind of randomly got thrown into this intro to print class.

I knew nothing about it, I was just like “Yeah sure, random class, I don’t have to deal with fashion people, sounds fun!”

I ended up loving it, it was amazing. Robert, our professor, is super cool. I don’t actually like painting, I don’t like digital art at all, so this was not something that I expected to like but I think I bonded with it so much because it’s very handson. I’m a very process-based worker so I like when things take a long time.

You’re a sculpture major. In your experience, how does working with prints differ from working with sculptures? How does the audience respond differently to each medium?

I actually think they go pretty hand in hand and I’ve been focused on trying to combine the two in my work. They’re both very hands-on, process-based mediums. Like I said, I like to use my hands as much as possible and physically building and constructing things is always very satisfying for me. Printmaking is fun because you can kind of incorporate it into any medium. Same thing with

sculpture, it’s very multi-functional. You can use it for many different things in many different forms. With sculpture, I want people to be able to come in and create their own experiences and interact with their surroundings. With printmaking, it’s like me interacting with my thoughts on paper, on plates or whatever the medium may be.

What inspired you to create this series of prints and what do you hope viewers get out of it?

My etchings are very process driven. I like exploring different ways to create textures. Each plate got its own treatment to get to where it’s at now, and it’s fun finding new methods of destruction for each of them. I hope when the viewer looks at it, they have to take a closer look to try to figure out how it was made.

From conception to completion, how do you create your works? What kind of place or mindset do your works come from?

My brainstorming process is kinda like, “Oh what happens if I throw glass at this?” Then I throw glass at it. Now its a print. Usually I’m just thinking of new ways to cause damage and what kind of marks it would result in. When I’m working on a plate by hand, I try to not think about the marks I’m making and just let my intuition take over my movements. Other times, though, if I’m doing something more destructive like slamming things on concrete, I’ll try to make myself as angry as possible by confronting all of my emotions at once.

The Night Orchestra

The Moon would poise herself in the sky, prepared to conduct an orchestra of nightly howls. Whether she were a full, placid face or a wilting, withering convex the lunar body loomed high above her earthly instruments. They watched her form rise from the horizon as she ushered them into another night of nocturnal hymns. She signaled for the choir of the night to awaken, and join her in another performance.

Coyote’s and wolves warmed their vocal chords in a raucous, soprano harmony. There was a single wind instrument that would whistle through the leaves of trees. A house sighed and settled, knocking for the performance. Pawsteps of a scuttling, red-eyed creature traced its bare shingles like snaretaps.

The audience of Onlookers watch The Moon crawl, as the celestial body becomes a baton. Her gentle movement conveyed a language that only her ensemble understood. Yet, the Onlookers continued to look on, mesmerized.

She is reflected in the wonderbound eyes of children. The incomplete halves of foregone couples yearn for her solace when they are alone. The Atrocious seek out her guiding light in the darkness. Alchemists use telescopes to investigate her face for men as strange as themselves. All the while, the Moon directs nightly symphonies for an audience of Onlookers that don’t ears for her.

There were no children who learned to soulfully sing along with her coyote choir. There were no couples who danced to the whirring whistle of the wind. Where were the directionless, if not led home by the heartbeat of her snares? Why scour her skin for moonmen when the truth stayed, stratified and woven within the fibers of her every performance?

Cement sound breakers had manifested from the palms of her audience. They rose one day without her noticing, and obstructed her melodies.

The Moon couldn’t understand why unmuffled cars ripped through her delicate concords at the witching hour.

Written by : Maya SUgar Illustration by : Tate Martison

She couldn’t combat the untired cities that raged against her soothing songs. She didn’t want to be the subject of wandering eyes and wondering nightminds. She only wanted to gently present her spectators to slumber. But, they traded her tunes for metropolises and pressed her precious instruments into the far corners of The Earth.

She weeps through every waxing performance and sighs through every waning bow. She desperately desires an audience that recognizes her tunes despite the monotone buzz of undying city lights.

But there was The Earth. She felt the silken hum that teemed from the nightly orchestra. She could hear The Moon’s faint weeping while the instruments matched across her decaying skin. From her body, warped with civilization and time, the sounds from her oldest life continued to sing. They exist as medicine; the last testament to her former glory.

So, The Earth waited every dusk for The Moon’s Night Orchestra to rise once more and sing her softly to sleep, again.

Beach Creeps

Story

by : Dylan Rose Illustration by : Chandler Groce and Luis Ponce

Arts Corner

Devanshi Chitalia Alumni, Illustration

I’ve always been empathetic to the world around me, and art has always been my main source of expressionism, a way to communicate with those around me. Using the concept of synesthesia, the visual component of this piece consists of a journey that synesthetes feel through sound, colors, and objects using all five of their senses.

Humble Beginnings 2021Born of a raindrop, Laced by the breeze, A diamond of light, A gem in the sun, A journey of hope. So cold, so clear, A new life begun.

Keeping synesthesia in mind, I began experimenting with shapes, textures, compositions, color language, and elements to bring the identity of a chocolate label created for an imaginary brand to life. As an artist, I frequently express myself through my work. Expressionism and Surrealism can be seen in my work, as I like to experiment with mundane everyday objects to create a visual story. My goal is to create art that exemplifies sharing, connecting, appreciating, and affirming life, living, beauty, nature, and peace. jewelry representing the color of the feudal empire under the apocalyptic wasteland.

Fashion Design

The digital fashion collection conveys a kind of medieval futurism inspired by architectural art and movie Dunes. I love the landscape design by artists Christo and Jeanne-Claude where they wrap the buildings and the trees in fabric, cut it out according to the shape of the object. The fabric covering the classical building emphasizes its structure and these assembly-line wrinkles conveys a sense of futurism.

Their buildings are as ephemeral as the passage of daylight hours. The draped fabrics reflect different points of light in the daylight, mysterious and clean. The religious organization of the Sisters in the Dunes inspired me to incorporate the nuns’ dress features, the light veil material, into my designs. They wore a chain called harness, a cross-bound piece of jewelry that symbolized the color of the feudal empire under the apocalyptic wasteland.

Joseph Sandefur Junior, Motion Media

At my core, I am a hopeless romantic. As much as I might not want to–however unattainable and elusive it may seem–I do believe in love; though rarely, if ever, do I explore it in my work. But with Life Would Be a Dream, I leaned into it wholeheartedly. Inspired by the photography of Gianfranco Briceño, I depict two men lying naked together, one’s arm tenderly wrapped around the other’s body, facing away. Every dot is placed with intention. Through pointillism, all context is erased–night or day, waking up or falling asleep. The blend of color places the lovers in a dreamy haze, eyes lidded with sleepy desire. It’s something I yearn for–real, honest love. Even if it’s only in a dream

Rakee Chen