SCAN Winter 2021

SCAD ATLANTA’S STUDENT MAGAZINE WINTER 2021 | VOL. 13 NO. 1

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4. STUDENT SHOWCASE

Tristan Winchester and Amanda Rivera forge their own paths

8. WOMEN OF THE NIGHT, IN DAYLIGHT

Gallery review of Maria Korol’s “Nightwork”

10. BIBLICAL FRIED GASSTATION PICKLE RECIPE A recipe for self-taught chefs/ college students

12. WHERE’S ART THE BEE? Find him if you can!

14. A FLAIR OF ONE’S OWN Same outfit, different vibes

16. ESCAPISM

Dreamscapes of nature and inner peace

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22. ALL SAID AND UNINSURED Chasing after the word “independence”

28. EMPTY SPACES

A tale of life after love and death

32. TRADITIONALLY

What to do with a family tradition now that you are on your own

34. STUDENT SPOTLIGHT

Alexander Hawkins expresses his freedom from mediums

36. ARTS CORNER In dimensions you have made

SCAN is the quarter print student 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. ©2021 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.

Cover design by Khushboo Uday Nayak Student media ads designed by Sanchita Singh Staff illustrated by Diem Quynh “Julie” Tran

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Letter from the Editor: Diem Quynh “Julie” Tran The Independent Issue wraps up a year of unprecedented uncertainty and turmoil as well as of momentous historical events. For our staff and contributors, it is a chance to reflect on the fluid meaning of indepedence, of boldness, of self-determination and everything that follows. For anyone reading, we hope you are inspired not only to study old persepctives and investigate new ones, but also to seek your own.

I. Diem Quynh “Julie” Tran Editor-in-Chief 2. Carlos Nunez Creative Director 3. Khushboo Uday Nayak Art Director 4. Zipporah Dorsey Managing Editor 5. Josiah Persad Photo Editior and Public Relations Director 6. Valeria Brugueras Style Editor

7. Rachael Ramchand News Editor 8. Elijah Johnson Arts and Entertainment Editor 9. Yibei Chen Multimedia Editor 10. Alejandro Bastidas Features Editor 11. Rachel Carp Opinions Editor 12. John Warner Assistant Photo Editor

SCAN MAGAZINE WINTER 2021

Why did you choose film and television as your passion?

Interviewed by John Warner Portrait by Kire Torres

What project are you currently working on?

Currently I’m working on “The Fashion Archive.” It’s a detailed series of short films about fashion lookbooks composed by myself for my company, Atlantic Dream Productions. I created this series extemporaneously based on my friend, John. The project explores the real meaning of “sophisticated fashion” as well as the versatile relationship clothing and culture. This project is very much dedicated to showcasing the ingredients behind my generation’s new version of style and the individual aspects of the art form to its core. What’s most interesting to note about this project is that it will only feature SCAD students.

Where do you garner your inspiration?

Steven Spielberg is a film producer that I really look up to. The type of films he creates isn’t what inspires me, it’s the narrative behind them. He’s able to break down the concepts of characters to details that make them who they are. That’s the same process I use for my films and what I am currently doing for “The Fashion Archive” project, breaking down the concepts of the subjects involved by showcasing how influential fashion is in their lives.

My dad inspired my choice. For 40 years he wrote songs and everyday, when I was younger, I’d hear him play new music every morning and every night. What I really loved about him was his ability to create an artistic experience for me when I came back from my un-artistic school. His work ethic and drive inspired me to find my creative passion as well. Ergo, at 10 years old, after watching him for so long, I decided to grab a webcam and started to make short videos about his music. From that moment, I decided I wanted to do the same thing for others: capture experiences that will be remembered forever.

What does your art stand for?

I believe my art demonstrates the drama and intrigue within t he fas hion and film indust r y. I believe t hat the amo unt of pain we experience growing up can be used to create beautiful artwork. What I am bringing to this industry is the ability to transform something lackluster into something mesmerizing. I’m also striving to become the largest name in the industry by following Tyler Perry’s example and being my own actor, writer and director for my own TV show. I believe his ability to grow in each position has led to his many successful projects and I believe I can attain the same success. Granted, this dream sounds far-fetched, but that’s exactly why I’m committed to making this dream happen. Too many times we are told we can’t succeed because we don’t have years of experience. I want to be that first-year student who changes this narrative.

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What challenges have you faced growing into a film student and entrepreneur?

The ultimate challenge I’ve had was not being able to connect with other creatives in school. The worst experience I endured was in middle school when I was bullied into deleting my YouTube channel that featured all of my short films.

I thought that would solve the problem, but the hatred never stopped. I then realized that if I want to be successful in this industry, I need to use those emotions to create projects to inspire others.

TRISTAN WINCHESTER First-year film and television Minor in entrepreneurship CEO of his own Atlantic Dream Productions

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AMANDA RIVERA Third-year writing Pen name: Mandie Ni’

What inspires you?

Definitely my failures and my heartbreaks, which sounds weird, I know. It inspires me the most only because that’s where I get my most of my creativity: from the people that hurt me the most and from the things I have failed at. But also, I’m a writer because God put me on this earth to inspire others. Sadness inspires my work because sadness can be relatable to other people. I want other people to relate to my work and relate to me, so they won’t feel alone.

Interviewed by Elijah Johnson Portrait by Kire Torres

What writers do you look up to?

How would you define your voice?

Rupi Kaur inspires my poetry, because she says raw stuff. James McBride inspires my writing with his book, “The Color of Water: A Black Man’s Tribute to His White Mother.” John Green, too, shockingly enough. Green’s novel, “The Fault in Our Stars,” made me want to read and write short stories.

I have a strong voice. It’s like the Black mom that you have in your head telling you what not to do. In my work, I’m speaking the hard truth. I don’t sugarcoat, ever.

Christians sugarcoat a lot, when in reality, no, I’m still sinning today. It’s very aggressive, stern, sassy and a little sweet sometimes.

What’s your writing process?

I’m inspired by the things around me. My process involves a lot of waiting. For example, if I’m writing a short story piece for a class, I will wait until the night before.

I’m aware that this is very unhealthy, but I’ll wait until my anxiety is at its peak, in the middle of the night, then the words just come. One night I made myself cry and that was how a lot of poetry came out.

Other than Rupi Kaur, my favorite poet is Janetteikz she doesn’t just stand there and speak into a microphone.

She acts it out and has visuals behind her. It’s gorgeous.

She did this one poem about — either an abortion or a miscarriage — it brought me to tears.

Jackie Hill Perry is amazing as well, she’s a Christian poet, rapper and she’s gay. She’s married to a man and has kids, but her need and want for women never went away. She is inspiring because her writing is so raw about herself.

The way they write is how I want to write. They write about their trauma and emotions, they’re so open and raw. I want to write the same. Well, I do write the same.

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“Unpublished” by Mandie Ni’

IN DAYL WOMEN OF THE NIGHT

Written by Clara Busé Illustrated by Kire Torres

Part of winning the 2020 Edge Award means the artist gets to have their work shown at Atlanta’s Swan Coach House Gallery. This year ’s winner was Maria Korol’s “Nightwork.” Korol is a fabulously talented artist born in Argentina, a heritage from which she draws inspirations as she channels into “Nightwork” both her family history, as well as the history of the Zwi Migdal ­— a Jewish crime organization active in the first half of the 20th century, who lured young Eastern European women to Argentina with promises of a better life just to turn them, upon arrival, into “ladies of the night.”

According to the artist statement, “These women were seldom recognized for their strength or having agency of their own. Instead, they were often reprimanded and chastised for having no moral character.” Playing off of these lines, Korol’s “Nightwork” honors these young women for their lives, ordeals and horrors, and perhaps, finds a way to finally give them agency. Upon entering the gallery, the viewer meets two stunning works. One is an ink-on-paper drawing of a seemingly depressed woman, titled “Cuarentena” (“Quarantine”).

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GALLERY REVIEW OF MARIA KOROL'S ‘NIGHTWORK’

Another is a vividly abstract oil pastel on paper work titled “Maria.” These two pieces set the tone for the rest of the exhibition: while the ink drawings tell the story of these women, the abstracted pastel works represent the women themselves: “Ruby,” “Raquel,” “Olivia,” etc.

The titles are in themselves a proclamation of selfagency, that simple act of reclaiming the names of the commodified and objectified nameless. Korol creates her oil pastel works in layers, starting with an original ink-on-paper sketch, then a second layer of abstract imagery. These images go over the drawing until they have covered it entirely — it is here that Korol goes in and carves details into her pastel works. The process moves beyond the physicality of her female subjects, of their shown off, used and violated bodies. Truly, by removing the bodily objectification, Korol’s abstractions honor the essence of these women.

telling the story of the women. In “Cómo Llegar” (“How to Arrive”), Korol reflects the long boat ride taken by the women to get to Argentina. “Laburo Nocturno” (“Nightwork”) shows the journey’s end result: not the better lives they were promised, but trickery and prostitution.

The imagery in this piece particularly sticks. A young lady sits naked, wrapped in a sheet, with an old man coiling around her like a snake, putting his finger in her mouth, dominating her in his twisted fantasy, of which she is merely the vehicle. And there is nothing she can do but sit.

As for her ink-on-paper works, “El Mercado Espectacular” (“The Spectacular Market”) stands out from the crowd.

The piece depicts a group of frowning naked women on a stage in front of a large group of men. The piece is exhibited in juxtaposition with the collection’s largest abstract piece, “El Dote” (“The Dowry”). From Korol’s titles, a story emerges, one of a wretched auction, followed by a cruel fate in sexual slavery. The show continues on with a series of vivid oil pastel works on wood panels,

Korol’s “Nightwork” collection carries a strong narrative throughout many mediums and successfully tells the untold side of this story. No longer is the brand of the Zwi Migdal upon these women, they have been emblemized into artworks and icons in their own right, showing at last after decades their sense of humanity, their individuality, their endurance through these unfortunate fates, and, in a sense, their much belated freedom.

Finally, in the center of the gallery is an installation of hand-made clay bottles, corks, hair combs and trinkets.

Titled “Vestigios” (“Remnants”), the work suggests the visual aftermath of “night-working”: a sense of being emptied, of being used, of being discarded.

F R I E D G A S -S TAT I O N P ICKLE R ECIPE re you a blossoming chef with just three ego-boosting recipes under your belt? Are you a connoisseur of gas station ingredients? Are you just plain hungry? Oh, boy, do I have just the thing for you! I’m something of a chef myself, you see. I’ve successfully saved many a meringue and lasagna from melted plastic

lids. (Who knew plastic melts in the microwave? I blame our public school system.)

Anyway, a few nights ago, full on plastic-and-tomato sauce, I popped a melatonin and laid back, and must’ve drifted into a dream, because suddenly everything went dark, and a loud, enveloping voice was chanting in my ears a list of the ingredients:

• One hot pickle • 4 oz. cream cheese • One egg • Two half-bags of uncovered corn chips in the pantry • Three sticks string cheese • 1 tbsp EVOO olive oil (leftover bacon grease is OK) • One sticky slushie • Two energy drinks

Written by Rachel Carp Illustrated by Katsy Garcia

Now I know what you’re thinking.

Just eight items? But I don’t question The Voice and neither should you. In my dream, I saw the items emerge from the dark, spun around and came to rest on a white table.

“This isn’t your mother’s cooking,” the pickle said.

“You’re on your own now,” the three string cheeses said in prophetic unison.

One of the energy drinks presented itself to me and I drank it. I tasted flavors I had never tasted before.

The ingredients on the table chanted in a language I couldn’t hear but understood all the same.

This is the gift I am bringing to you.

Found in every gas station in the country. All you have to do … is listen and taste. And drive. And pay.

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Fried Biblical Gas Station Pickle A delicious, easy fried pickle with cheese hot enough to burn your lips off.

5/5 stars (No Reviews) Course: Side Cuisine: ......................Prophetic (American) Prep Time:................. 1 hr 3 min. 26 seconds Cook Time: ...............5 min. 6 seconds Total Time: .................1hr 8 min. 32 seconds Servings:.....................1 Calories:......................1,314

Instructions 1. Create a marinade of one energy drink and one slushie.

2. Pop in the hot pickle and string cheese. Let marinate for exactly one hour.

3. Take one sip of the marinade to keep you going.

4. Drain the pickle and cheese of all liquid. Pat dry. Wipe off any paper towel residue. Should’ve paid the extra $2 for the good towels, amirite?

5. Heat up oil in a pan.

6. Cut the pickle to create an opening, but do not cut all the way.

7. Stuff the pickle with the string cheese, eat any excess. The pickle and cheese might try to reason with you at this point. They might say something like, “You’re gonna regret this.” Don’t listen to them, they’ll do anything to get out of a pickle.

8. Beat the egg. Let them watch. That’d shut them up.

9. Dunk the pickle in the egg wash. Dunk it again. Ignore the screaming, just let it soak in all the crevices between the pickle and the cheese.

10. Crush your corn chips into crumbs.

11. Dip the egg-covered-pickle in stale corn chips. Roll it around.

12. Drop it in the egg wash again. No, it doesn’t count as waterboarding if it’s not human.

13. Flap it around on the corn chips. You should no longer hear any screams for mercy at this point. If you do, it’s probably just hallucinations from the marinade.

14. Fry pickle in the pan until golden brown on all sides.

15. While frying, mix one energy drink with the cream cheese to create your perfect sauce.

16. Take exactly one bite.

17. Wash it all down with that marinade Eh? So? Have you tasted the gastronomical equivalent of diesel fuel? Can you feel its power chugging through your veins? If you do, I salute you and kindly ask you to describe the taste in every detail. No, of course I know how it tastes like, I created ­— No, I haven’t made the recipe, what’s your point — ? Oh, oh, you want me to call an ambulance? Well, let me tell you right now, insurance ain’t going to cover that. Go wait it out over there and don’t bother me. I feel another dream coming.

SCAN MAGAZINE WINTER 2021

WHERE’S ART THE BEE?

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FIND HIM IF YOU CAN! Illustrated by Shirley Susilo

SCAN MAGAZINE WINTER 2021

Written by Valeria Brugueras Illustrated by Khushboo Uday Nayak

Say what you want about past generations, but you have to admit: they gave us good fashion. Just look at the way current trends reference the outfits on television shows such as “Friends,” the stage costumes of artists such as Prince with his iconic custom-made, high-heeled boots, or the remarkable Converse shoes whose designs are still constantly being developed till this day. It is easy to admire these trail-blazers: they were true originals who influenced pop culture and popular fashion with clothes that were not only new, but signified individuality and discovery. But what about us, the heirs to these icons’ innovations?

How are we to innovate if every artistic option seems to have already been explored? Gen Z has the answer and it is unexpected: We don’t! The new generation of fashion opts to express individualism through reflection and re-branding; not through creating any new design but revolutionizing the old ones’ meanings. That is to say, we find ways to wear the same look while upholding purposefully different socio-economic values. The two dominant methods of doing so nowadays are renting and thrift shopping.

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Apparel rental services have been seeing a rise in popularity, mainly because of how their platform allows affordability, quality and freedom. Here, you subscribe and pay a monthly fee to be able to choose a certain number of garments to “own” for the month. There is nothing that satisfies Gen Z more than looking for numerous ways to feel special, and they fulfill this desire by taking whichever designer pieces they want, then wearing them however they wish. There is no catalog needed and since the clothes would be gone in a month, there are no strings attached. As for the clothes, they get redistributed to new owners every month and avoid the fate of wasting away in someone’s closet after all outfit options are explored and all ceremonial Instagram photos are posted.

Any discussion about Gen Z’s stylistic independence and commitment to sustainability would be incomplete if we overlook thrift shopping, which has become insanely popular in recent years. It revolves around the idea of

nostalgia and romanticization of the past. Aside from being a “simpler time” or a quirk that adds “past lives” to the clothes, this relates directly back to the idea of preserving the old looks, but with the new-and-improved values of environmentalism and socioeconomic equality in accessible, high-quality garments. Multiple items can make a successful “thrift haul,” but the jackpot lies in scoring vintage designer pieces for less. And here, the cycle of elevating old designer pieces with new meanings and new personalities goes on.

As times change, so does the meaning of independence in style. No longer is it about building something new or original, but about the soul of the process, the personalities that charge the “vibe,” the values that the clothes represent in different contexts. As the future of fashion goes through the trends, styles, discoveries and comebacks, we must keep in mind that the cycles of fashion in the end will always look identical, but the experiences are destined to vary.

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“Escapism” is a series I worked on from September through November of 2020. It follows the spontaneity of the daydraming cycle: the entry into a daydream-scape and then the sudden, sporadic wave of anxiety (“How long has my mind been wandering?”)

It also speaks to my personal experience of finding inner repose in nature, of losing myself in the surrounding landscape and day—dream. While this form of therapy has had its positive and negative impacts on me growing up, it is now closer to me than ever as I navigate my early twenties and my final year of college in the midst of a pandemic, a time where everyone needs some form of escapism.

Photography by Nora Benjamin

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CHASING AFTER THE WORD “ INDEPENDENCE ” Written by Julie Tran Illustrated by Daniel Choi

The lessons of war came as early as first grade.

We were 6-year-olds, not understanding anything about death and sacrifice, but we could recite the triumphs of the eighteen Hung kings, the way the Trung sisters fought off Northern invaders, the way Uncle Ho brought independence from the West, and the way the generation of our grandfathers ran from, shot at and brought down American planes. We knew it all. And fuzzy as we might be in the chronology of it — we were, after all, children — drilled into our heads were the idea of freedom, liberty, independence, which for us Vietnamese, was condensed into one sentiment: self-determination, as a nation of people.

So, why, then, when I came to America, were my classmates and teachers avoiding my nation’s politics like a quagmire? Why did I sit through literature and history classes where my American classmates denounced Communism with their whole chests, turned to me, and said, “No offense, though”? People told me to prepare for racism, but this was something different. I never had a name for it. I never would coin one. So there goes, the cause we clung to as a nation to power through conflicts with five nations, just in the last century alone (it went: France, Japan, China, France, America, Khmer Rouge, China), the holy grail of purposes: self-

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NINSURED determination, dismissed as a silly folly of a secondrate, third-world nation, because of the political party it was associated with. The West didn’t like these politics. I can’t say I don’t understand their view. The West loves their brand of liberty. Like how they never quite escaped the 19th century notion of civilization as the White Man’s Burden, they never quite let go of their supposed monopoly on freedom. Or, at least, the idea of freedom.

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But something has been happening to the ideal. In this past decade, all across the world, we witnessed country after country come under turmoil, political polarization, nationalism and anti-science populism.

Recent years have brought the trend to the United States, forcing into the public consciousness the questions minorities have been asking for decades, but is only now beginning to receive something of an answer. Between the lines of a hundred Tweets, Op-Eds and think pieces, I see two of these questions clearly.

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1: HOW DOES THE AMERICAN IDEA OF INDEPENDENCE WORK WHEN THE PEOPLE’S REPRESENTATIVES ACTIVELY GOES AGAINST THE INTEREST OF THEIR CONSTITUENTS? 2: HOW DOES THE CONCEPT OF A PEOPLE’S SELF-DETERMINATION WORK IN A MULTI-ETHNIC NATION WITH AN OVERWHELMING MAJORITY OF ONE RACE?

”

If we cast philosophy and idealism in the Dumpster and look at reality, the answer to these two questions are that, in both of these situations, the proposed concepts of independence and self-determination are not working. There can be no questions of how’s when the people in charge of answering don’t care about the hows. “Hows” make up the realm of ideals.

Reality is set in the precious traditions of voter

suppression, special interests, gerrymandering, duopoly in politics, etc. — while branding efforts to call out these wrongs as unpatriotic, ungrateful, even traitorous, when really, it is simply just unwhite. For many of the privileged class, these recent years of American politics are just a blip in the great, long tradition of democracy and American exceptionalism. But before the era of reality-TVpolitics, what was this exceptionalism like? Filled with dog-whistle politics, of ungraspable economic jargon, of purposefully complicated policies to disassociate the mass from the laws that govern their lives. Normalized is the blaming of poor and the marginalized for their own disenfranchisement, their own targeted violence, their own exclusion from the American ideals that were built on their very backs. Immigrant nation. Independence nation.

Only if you look a certain way, come from a certain tax bracket, and talk within an acceptable range of accents.

And there I was, 16 and letting myself be convinced that maybe I was oppressed, convinced by fairhaired children living in their parents’ delusions of freedom. And it has all been a delusion, hasn’t it, these past few decades? It’s a realization even worse than “it was all a dream,” which is arguably the worst of story endings. It’s a collective gaslighting of the marginalized, a cover-all blanket of contentment and confidence. Turns out, all it takes for the spell to break is some non-polite politics and some undemocratic rulers, who, unlike previous undemocratic rulers, flaunt their disregard for the pretense loudly and in full view of the public. The people have been rudely awakened, and they are outraged.

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But even here there are two kinds of popular responses. Some, angry at reality and the injustices of it, take to the streets to demand the righting of wrongs. Others get defensive of their national pride, and double down on the illusion. Somehow, through the chaotic illogic of the whole affair, pushing for a fulfillment of the ideals and protecting the ideals has come to be oppositional. Somehow, in the crossed streams of protest and counter-protests, of police confrontations, of the left’s speeches denouncing the right and the right’s speeches denouncing the left, a whole system of concepts had been turned on its head, and symbols of great pride became signals of hate speech. The word “patriot,” the Bill of Rights, the Constitution, the flag, the concept of freedom, and that holy grail of purposes: self-determination — how can they show up so consistently on both sides of the dividing chasm, how can they be used to shoot and maim the opposition, and how can they simultaneously bear their dictionary definitions as well as their weight as synonyms for xenophobia, antebellum ideologies and white supremacy?

The answer, other than blatant hatred, is a hefty amount of self-delusion. On one side of the chasm, there is self-delusion within the populace. And in the back, egging these people on, are politicians who know exactly how to play on the idea of independence and self-determination to get them into public office and, more importantly, stay there. If the same turmoil was happening to a small, far­­— off country with great natural resources (which it repeatedly had), the U.S. would have invaded it, hijacked its government, and said they had “restored democracy” (which they have repeatedly done).

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So what have we learned now that we are forced to acknowledge? What do we hear when the chants finally pass under our windows? None of what we hear is news, and the lesson, the repeated lesson, is simply what we have refused to embrace. Independence is a human concept. Self-determination sprung from our fickle minds. And like any concept, or word, or symbol, it can be abused and perverted by big and small nations, by smart and stupid men, by rich and poor people.

And if we don’t wake up to see the changing tide and fight it, the old meaning, the altruistic meaning, the meaning the generation of my grandfather and my American friends’ great—grandfathers fought for, would sink beneath the wave. It isn’t just the institution of democracy that must be constantly protected, it is the concept and substance of the word itself.

We, in our respective nations of people, grasp onto these meanings with unrelenting hands, because we know how the undercurrent of change can be insidious.

We grasp it, not out of intellectual snobbery, but out of respect for the freedom fighters who we were descendants of and the freedom fighters who will descend from ourselves. What the words “freedom,” “independence” or “self-determination” meant to our grandfathers might not mean the same to us, but the words in themselves must always be true. So when we encounter oppression that our grandfathers knew not, we act in the spirit of the ideal. How else can one still cite “all men are created equal” for social justice if they only cling to these words’ original context? The line between preservation and hypocrisy is just as fine as the one between evolution and perversion. Too fine, in fact, for them both to lead the fates of nations. But such is a fact of our species, our ambitious species, so we must partake.

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( Short story ) Written by Alejandro Bastidas Illustrated by Dannie Niu When I left for the funeral, Lulo sat on the side of H ar r y ’s ro c kin g c h a i r, l e a v i n g j u st e n ou g h room for him to sit there like every other morning before he died. But Lulo didn’t know that. Once I gathered enough courage to step back into the apartment, after screaming inside the car for 15 minutes, I found him in the exact same position. His small ears darted upwards as I walked in. Round green eyes studied for me a second, then focused on the empty space beside me, where Harry should have been, whispering pspspspsps for Lulo to run to him. The cat didn’t move. Part of me didn’t want him to. That would mean facing an empty chair. The

empty apartment was torture enough, suddenly giant and incomplete, burdened with a silence so unbearable that I couldn’t sleep through it.

Harry snored when he slept, not loud enough for it to bother me, but loud enough to make Lulo feel like he was being challenged to a competition.

The cat would crawl by our feet and purr in sync with Harry ’s snores until he fell asleep. It became a nightly ritual, necessary for my mind to stop racing and ease into temporary relaxation until the following morning. But I haven’t slept since Harry died. Lulo has, sometimes next to me, but mostly in Harry ’s chair, waiting.

Another thing Lulo didn’t know was that he would have a new home. I couldn’t pay for the rent without Harry. My parents sent me enough money every month to cover my half of the rent, but nothing else, so all my pocket money came from two minimum wage jobs on campus — emphasis on the past tense. I only have one job now. I got fired from the gym last week after my boss refused to hear how I couldn’t leave Harry’s side as he lay dying at the hospital. I hated her anyway. But my options to find a new source of income were limited. The government wouldn not let me get a job outside the campus, courtesy of my F-1 Visa, although

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I could pull a few strings and get myself hired as a caddy at a local golf course, where rich and shady businessmen had the custom of giving generous tips.

But if I got caught, they ’d deport me.

“Just you and me, buddy,” I told Lulo. He raised his head to reach my fingertips and used them as miniature scratching posts. His eyes were closed as I tickled his face. I tried not to cry. “I’ll have to send you away, OK?” Lulo didn’t answer.

“I’ll be staying at Amy ’s for a few weeks until I figure out what to do. She lives close to the shelter… so I can visit you often.”

In a perfect world, I would have kept him, just like Harr y would have wanted. But I couldn’t buy enough food for him, couldn’t take him to the vet if he got sick, and much less give him a home where he could run and climb as he liked to do. Besides, I couldn’t see him without seeing Harr y. Without remembering how he’d make Lulo wear dragon costumes ever y month or send him into a frenzy with a laser pointer.

Lulo was a part of him. A part of us. But there was no us anymore. And I had to give him away for the same reason I’d sold Harr y ’s rocking chair. I couldn’t sentence myself to live between ghosts, forever trapped in the past, wishing for a resurrection that would never happen.

I’d always had a talent for walking away. It wasn’t the same thing as walking forward, but similar enough to make me believe I was going somewhere. Somewhere other than the scariest regions of my head.

Lulo had given me more happiness than any other excuse of a friend I’d met during two years of college.

It might have seemed unfair of me to leave him alone when we needed each other the most, but I found it more unfair to force him to star ve and suffer if he stayed with me, and something I knew about my Lulo was how much he liked to eat.

***** “Mila, it ’s just for a little while. I don’t need much,” I told my sister through the phone. I hadn’t spoken to her since the funeral. She was the only one in my family who reached out.

“I’ll Venmo you a little something for groceries,” she said. “Sorr y if it ’s not much, but you know how it is.

Hospital bills are killing me right now.”

“I’ll pay you back next week, Mila. Te amo.”

She sighed. “Leo, just let me call Mom and Dad. I’ll tell them I need a little extra and I’ll send it all to you.

They ’ll never find out.”

“I don’t want more of their money,” I snapped.

“Fine. But please go see your friends now. Don’t go through this alone.”

“I’m already a burden to Amy. I don’t want to be known as that one friend always asking for favors and I don’t want anyone’s pit y either.”

“Just … be careful. And if you need to talk, call me any time.

Te amo hermanito.” *****

SCAN MAGAZINE WINTER 2021

The last time I’d been to Emor y Universit y was to indulge in clandestine business with Harry ’s party friends. Too loud for my taste, always bragging about the girls they slept with, and their leader, Topher, loved telling Harry and I how much we were missing out. But Harry liked their parties, and I liked their willingness to pay me to write. That was something hard to come by.

“Leo, my man!” Topher said as he saw me. I had no clue how his pink pastel shorts didn’t cut all the blood circulation in his legs, but he moved well enough. “Hey, I heard about Harry. I’m sorry man.

He was a great guy.”

“Thanks,” I muttered and reached for the USB in my pocket. I never emailed him the papers. “There’s eight files in there.”

“Attaboy,” Topher said. “Here’s your bread. From me and all the boys.”

Twenty dollars per page, so eight hundred in total, and one week’s worth of writing. Although time was an irrelevant concept to me. I kept myself as busy as I could, because Harry always haunted my free time and my quiet hours, and I couldn’t risk breaking down again. Not when I needed to be on my feet.

“You need anything else, just text me,” I told him.

“Yeah.”

“Sure thing,” he said and clapped my shoulder.

“But like … what’s your real career?”

“Hey Leo, you know my dad works with Warner, right?”

I nodded. “He says there’s nothing good coming out of the writers’ room right now and they’re desperate for a script. My grades tell me you’re pretty good at what you do, so … If you had a script or an idea that I could pitch to my father… He’d be real generous if you gave him something worth producing.”

“Just told you.”

“Oh … That’s sick, dude. You think you could help a guy out with some papers? I’m going to Miami this weekend and have no time for that. I gotta pass or my dad’s taking the BMW.” And thus, a formal business partnership flourished. Topher paid well.

He aced all his classes with my help and kept his BMW. I’d had no luck with internships that were willing to fill out the paperwork required to make my salary legal, so I settled for writing essays for Topher and his friends, even when Harry said I was wasting my talents on them. I told him he wasted his time going to their parties, but he ignored every comment, thinking he had all the time in the world left to spare.

“You’re serious?”

31

“Of course, dude. Harry was my friend. We’re business partners, you and I. I want to help. Besides, if I tell my dad I found him a decent writer, he’ll let me use his metal credit card. It’s a win-win situation.”

Never in my 22 years of life had I imagined that one day, I would hug a guy like Topher, but I did. I sent him a script that same night. I’d been working on it around the time I met Harry, who became my muse and my reason to write, and the first person to ever believe in my work. Turns out that Topher ’s dad believed in it as well.

Amy pulled out her phone and searched for a picture of Lulo with his dragon costume on. “Oh, that little guy?

Such a sweetheart. We’ve had a Lulu, Luna and Lina in here so I get all their names confused. But yeah, he’s still here. Follow me.”

The clerk led us to the area where they kept all the cats waiting for a home and for someone to love them.

I had taken all that away from my Lulo. But I knew he would forgive me before I managed to forgive myself, because the minute he saw me, he pressed his head against the metal cage and purred as my fingers went through to tickle him.

***** “Thanks for coming with me,” I told Amy as we entered the shelter.

“You don’t have to thank me for anything. I’m already tired of hearing you say thank you. Just … remember me when you get famous, Mr. Scriptwriter.”

“Hi, welcome to Petsy,” the clerk said as we walked in.

She looked kind. Harry would have liked her.

“How can I help you today?”

“I want to adopt a cat. His name is Lulo.”

“You’ve met him before?”

“I was his owner.”

“Oh … well, I think he’s already been adopted, actually.

The name does sound familiar. Sorry, I’m new here,” she answered.

Amy squeezed my hand as my heart sunk.

“Can you just double-check?” she asked. “Here, I’ll show you a picture.”

“Hi, Lulito. I’ve missed you.” He nibbled my index finger in response. “We’re going home.”

SCAN MAGAZINE WINTER 2021

TRADITI NALLY ( Short story )

Written by Brooke Casal Illustrated by Khushboo Uday Nayak

The soft flurries swirled through the air, stray flakes sticking to the windowsill. Thelma looked out the window of her apartment to see the fresh snow covering the trees like a blanket. Warmth radiated from the cup of hot chocolate in her hand as she sipped it. Her eyes dropped down to her boots, to the box of clothes and the age-worn tools sitting on top.

Tonight was the night.

Every winter, for as long as Thelma could remember, her family would walk to the park together after getting hot chocolates to build their collection of snowmen.

The display of the snowmen made it like an outdoor gallery. They had a theme for the snowmen’s clothes, and every year their snowmen ended up in the local paper. Their family were minor celebrities, her dad used to joke. People in the neighborhood made it a tradition to tour that section of the park. Sometimes their neighbors would try to get an early word of the theme, but Thelma’s family never budged. Surprise was in the tradition, too. Surprise, truly. This year, too, though in a different, decidedly worse way. A few months ago, Thelma’s parents retired. They’d moved away from the city. They no longer could keep up with it, they said.

It was time they settled somewhere more relaxing, they said. Her older brother, Myron, moved away to California after being offered a job right out of college.

Atlas, Thelma’s younger brother, coming home from Colorado for break, would be staying with their parents.

So it was just her here.

For months Thelma had asked for the help of her neighbors, who had fans of the tradition. No one offered their support or ideas. She knew that the neighbors heard. She knew that they made other plans, too, to fill that block in the schedule where her family used to be. Vanished from the picture, really, just like they have vanished from the city. As the winter months grew closer and the days got colder, the idea of abandoning the tradition became more desirable. Then came the first snowfall, and Thelma found herself looking outside and thinking. Thinking and planning. Finally, she took pen to paper and started sketching.

Traditionally, Thelma and her family would go to thrift stores and scout out the clothes they wanted, but her family wasn’t here anymore. If she was on her own, the clothes might, too, be her own. So for a month, the apartment hummed with the noises of rustling fabric, clicking buttons, and the buzzing sewing machine.

Pulling on her coat and boots, Thelma picked up herbox of clothes and walked out the door. The cold outside bit at her cheeks as she followed the streetlamps to the familiar ground. Thelma got to work, setting the box on a fresh pile of snow and pulling on her thick gloves. First came the bases, all varying sizes for different heights of snowmen. She worked diligently and carefully, changing out her gloves whenever her fingers started to go numb, and eventually shoved hand warmers into her gloves in an attempt to keep her hands warm. It didn’t quite work, but she ignored the cold. What she also ignored was the absence,

33 35

the absence of Mom and Dad and Myron and Atlas, running and throwing snowballs cracking bad jokes, all around her.

“Thelma, you did this? The clothes and all?”

Naked snowmen filled the clearing. The urge to fall asleep in a soft pile of snow crept into her mind, but Thelma shook it away and turned to the box. Dressing the snowmen was much easier than building them.

Soon enough, the faceless snowmen were clothed and smiling, like an odd, lively crowd in the dark. Picking up the now-empty box, Thelma began to walk home.

“They look amazing!” her neighbor said. “Listen, if you’re looking to recruit some help, I know a few people who’d love to join for next year.”

She didn’t so much walk to the park the next morning as flew to it. The usual crowd was already there — it seemed like they hadn’t filled that spot in the schedule, after all. The snowmen’s Hawaiian shirts and straw hats lit up, neon-like in the crowd of dark winter clothes. One of her neighbors saw her and waved.

Thelma nodded. “Couldn’t get anyone to help out.”

Join? The snowmen lit up the corner of her vision.

Thelma stared at them, her own handiwork, her first bunch of snowmen who had not met her parents and brothers. She turned back to the neighbor, who stood and waited.

“Yeah, you know what,” she began to smile, “I’d like that.”

ALEXANDER HAWKINS Fourth–year sculpture Interviewed by Carlos Nunez Photographed by Ellie Briggs

Alexander Hawkins has worked in a variety of artsrelated jobs for nearly five years. He has been shown in duo shows and group exhibitions all over the world and also has worked with galleries in multiple online exhibitions over the course of 2020. ​ Hawkins founded The BealART artist talk in western Ontario in 2016. He is currently the organizer and curator of ART Talks, which takes emerging artists from the Atlanta region and gives them a platform to promote their work. Art Talks is currently held inside of the Savannah College of Art and Design’s Digital Media Center theater located in Midtown Atlanta.​ Alexander is also both the director and founder of Sidecar Gallery in Midtown Atlanta, an inclusive experimental gallery meant to highlight emerging Southern artists.

ON SCULPTURES I have been independent from mediums for five years. I have an issue with people who put themselves in boxes.

I chose to be a sculpture major because sculpture is the most diverse medium in terms of materials and formats.

The sculpture program at SCAD allows you to work with whatever you need: if you need to do an installation, it’s an installation, if you need to do a video, it’s a video.

From a philosophical standpoint, I am typically working with an idea and then it forms itself onto a medium. I might get lucky and get five ideas that translate into five sculptures in a row but that hardly ever happens. I wish it did.

ON SIDECAR GALLERY AND ART EXHIBITIONS This all started because I felt like there could be more spaces for SCAD students to showcase their work.

Sidecar is an artist-run space for SCAD students to

35 37

exhibit, curate and handle work. It offers the whole gallery experience as well as a great learning opportunity.

There are so many things that are part of the art world besides creating work, like curating.

I think the role of the curator is changing. I don’t think you have to go to school to be a curator. What you need is to be able to look at art, understand it then put it all together in an idea and, more importantly, in a room.

I think of art in two ways: art for artists and art for the public. While the first kind is more academic and requires prior education, the second one is selfexplanatory — you look at it and understand it. I would

like to think that my artwork belongs in the second category, that it is accessible and viewers just need a title to understand it.

ON A CAREER IN THE ARTS I see myself working in the arts for my whole life. We are in a weird time and I’m more of a make-your-ownpath kind of guy. What are the odds you follow the path that someone else had and it goes the same way?

None. Times change. Just look at the past 10 years with Instagram and all the communication tools we have now. Who knows where we’re going to be in 2 years with all the things that are going on in the world?

SCAN MAGAZINE WINTER 2021

ve made a h u o y s mension

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Dannie Niu Graduate student, illustration

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Ian Mosely Third-year, photography

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