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February 2012
February 2012 “Turn Loose” Photography by Heather Lovett “Worm Mountain” Painting by Thomas Colcord “Sticks and Stones” Ceramic Sculpture by William Fillmore “Stroke” Poetry by Samuel Mellas “Shh” Ceramic Sculpture by William Fillmore “Cords” Poetry by Samuel Mellas “Fence (Self-Portrait)” Photo Composition by David Deaubrey “The Red Chair My Ex Loved” Painting by Terin Dickerson “Appholes” Video and Still by Taylor Bryant “Ashes and Snow” Short Story by Gwendolyn Ash
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“Neighborhood” Painting by Thomas Colcord “Foot Massage” Photo Composition by David Deaubrey “He Saw No Need to Mention His Hallucination” Painting by Renee McShane “Bang” Painting by Renee McShane “Don’t Pass it to Me” Poetry by Samuel Mellas “Basement” Painting by Renee McShane “There are Certain Realities, as Lunatic as the Situation May Be” Painting by Renee McShane “Hairball” Poetry by Samuel Mellas “Dystrophic Joy” Ceramic Sculpture by William Fillmore “Revelation” Mixed Media by William Fillmore
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“Robot on Ecstasy” Painting by Terin Dickerson “Late” Poetry by Samuel Mellas “Mind’s Midnight” Mixed Media Installation by William Fillmore Contributor’s Biographies
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Turn Loose by Heather Lovett
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Worm Mountain by Thomas Colcord
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Sticks and Stones by William Fillmore
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Stroke
by Samuel Mellas We clapped for grandpa When he had a stroke Of brilliance
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Shh
by William Fillmore
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Cords
by Samuel Mellas Umbilical cords Doctor ignores protocol Gets killer bass tone
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Fence (Self-Portrait) by David Deaubrey
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The Red Chair My Ex Loved by Terin Dickerson
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Appholes
by Taylor Bryant
Check out the video at http://vimeo.com/30986992
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Ashes and Snow by Gwendolyn Ash
I sat and watched as he burned. He burned paper mostly, but also the core of an apple and the outside of his leather wallet, which created a horribly acrid smell. He burned, then blew it out, then burned, then blew it out, scattering ashes across his bed and the illuminated screen of his computer. As he burned, he thought. About what, I don’t know. I knew he was angry. I knew he was angry with his friends. I knew he was angry with himself. He might have even been angry with me. But he seemed almost complacent in his anger, as if being angry was a validation. And it was, for burning. My brother became subdued in his unhappiness, instead of becoming loud and uproarious. I suppose his infrequent pyromaniac tendencies were his way of releasing the inner fire that people knew as anger. I did not judge him for this. He was not the only one to know the relaxation fire can bring; I felt it, too. I could never explain – and I doubted my brother could, either – why burning things, why destroying something is relaxing. It just was. I did find it a tad hypocritical of him. He’d always told me never to be damaging when I was upset, that being aggressive or pushing it all away was self-destructive and unhealthy, and I should always be constructive when I became angry. - 16 -
Fire is inherently destructive. For fire to exist at all, something must be ruined. Gas burnt, paper consumed, trees withered to cinders. For fire to exist, something must be undone. But as I watched him with interest, as the flame was duplicated in each of his eyes, as he clicked his lighter for perhaps the tenth time, I knew, just knew why he did it, and I was not worried about him in the slightest. I had no reason to be. If anything, I should have been concerned for myself that I wasn’t concerned for him, but I wasn’t. I found his burning brought me clarity, and him some peace. The piece of paper he currently burned was a red half sheet that he said he needed because it had tutoring information. Because of its necessity, he merely burned the edges. The two of us watched the flame take hold and flare blue and grow. It was a fascinating sight in his dim bedroom. The life of the flame was brief. He extinguished it before the words on the paper were touched. Once the ashes crumbled and the flickering fiber-optic edge grew cold, he turned the lighter on a different edge and repeated the process. My brother became ever more relaxed with the passing moments. I frowned as I saw the oh so important paper grow smaller and smaller. He needed it, but his need to burn was greater. He needed the ironic calm it gave him, and I couldn’t lie to myself and say that I didn’t want him to be finished burning. I looked to his floor, right below the place where my feet dangled. An envelope sat there, face down, obscuring the addresses. I picked it up and turned it over and saw that it was from the family. I remembered that he might be angry
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with them, too. I slipped the card out without looking at it and handed him the envelope. He didn’t have a second thought about setting it aflame. We both watched the fire devour the stiff paper and erase the ink-written words reminding him where he had lived and where he was. The tips of the flames tickled the middle of the envelope when he stood and went to his screenless window. He opened it with one hand, ashes snowing onto his desk. I followed my brother and moved some of his things onto his dresser so that the gray ashes only speckled the dark cherry of his desk. The snow was coming down in thick, heavy flakes at swift speed. He placed the burning envelope on the snow-covered bricks right outside. The flames wavered in the wind. When the envelope became cinders, he reached out and touched them with childlike curiosity while I searched for more paper. I found two sheets by his door; one was blank, but the other had a few scribblings on it. I returned to where he leaned over his desk. He didn’t look at me as he said, “Feel the ashes.” His expression was one of subtle amusement. I reached my hand out into the cold while my arm stayed warm. The ashes were softer than a puppy’s ears, smoother than glass, and more delicate than rice paper. I marveled that something so gentle was created by something that is used to demolish. “They’re soft,” I said simply. They disintegrated at my touch.
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We watched the snow fly, but the ashes stayed on the bricks. I leaned closer to them and blew gently on them. A few of them joined the snowflakes, but the rest stuck. He accompanied me in blowing them away, but without the tenderness that I employed. When the ashes had either gone into the wind or stuck on the roof of his porch to the right of his window, I handed my brother the pieces of notebook paper I’d found. He took the first and quickly scanned the words before he crumpled it into a ball. He picked up his lighter from where he’d placed it on the desk and clicked it once. I admired how he could get it with only one try. It always took me multiple attempts before spark became fire. He held the flame under the paper ball for many seconds before he released the button. He studied his handiwork proudly before he let it fall out the window. I leaned out and looked down. The flaming ball had disappeared; I couldn’t see it anywhere. I pulled my head back inside to find him lighting the second paper ball. He held the ball by its top corner, rotating it slowly so that the flames could find leeway to climb. He tossed that one out the window, too. I once again braved the cold. This time, the fireball had landed in the snow below his window. He stuck his head out after me and we watched the bright flames burn neon orange in the gray and white winter. Snow shot past us and stuck in our hair. Soon, though, the fire finally turned to the delicate ash, conforming to the color scheme.
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He withdrew and I soon followed. He closed the window, a small smile playing below his nose. The room smelled delightfully of smoke by that point, not as heady as wood fire smoke, but a strong scent nonetheless. My brother inhaled deeply and sat back down on his bed. One lighter he left on his desk, still dusted with ash, the other on his side table. He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and breathed in the remnants of what he burned.
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Neighborhood by Thomas Colcord
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Foot Massage by David Deaubrey
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He Saw No Need to Mention His Hallucination by Renee McShane
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Bang
by Renee McShane
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Don’t Pass it to Me by Samuel Mellas
Playing basketball Don’t pass it to me, asshole I have mittens on
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Basement
by Renee McShane
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There are Certain Realities, as Lunatic as the Situation May Be by Renee McShane
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Hairball
by Samuel Mellas Hairball on the floor The cat will die with much pain Wait, is this my hair?
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Dystrophic Joy by William Fillmore
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Revelation
by William Fillmore
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Robot on Ecstasy by Terin Dickerson
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Late
by Samuel Mellas Late to last Jonestown meeting* Apparently missed kegger Always the DD
*Jonestown was the informal name for the Peoples Temple Agricultural Project, which became infamous when a total of 909 Temple members died in Jonestown, all but two from apparent cyanide poisoning, supposedly delievered through through the punch.
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Mind’s Midnight by William Fillmore
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Contributors Biographies Gwendolyn Ash is a sophomore at Indiana University majoring in English with a concentration in creative writing. Raised in Muncie, Indiana to a divided house of Purdue grads and IU grads, her first memory of writing is her kindergarten teacher telling her not to capitalize every letter in her name. When not in class, Gwendolyn usually fences for the IU Fencing Club and works at the AMC Bloomington 11 on College Mall Road. Taylor Bryant is a motion designer and 3d artist from Bloomington, Indiana. Taylor earned a BA in Telecommunications from Indiana University as well as a BFA in Digital Art from Hope School of Fine Arts. Outside of his commercial motion design work, Taylor Bryant creates artwork that focuses primarily on visualizing thought processes and how creative ideas are formed. He recently received a grant for a building projection mapping that will take place during IU “Arts Week� starting April 1st, 2012. Thomas Colcord is a BFA in painting at Indiana University Bloomington. He mainly enjoys painting landscapes, and uses a painterly approach to abstracting and distorting the world we live in for two reasons: to further understand it, and because its beautiful. Lately he is focused on exploring other aspects of landscape and his interests outside of painting in the hopes that they will influence his work in new and interesting directions. Animals, plants, houses, lights, shadows, perspective, streetlights, and color hold particular interests for him. Drawing from these things as well as from observed reality excite him and help him inspire new work.
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David Deaubrey is a graduate student with seemingly disparate interests in evolutionary biology, ethnobotany, and art. Between his undergrad and graduate academic careers he spent a lifetime in advertising as a copywriter and creative director. Transition and transformation, especially as they relate to human form and biology, are at the core of his visual imagery. At the moment, his art is influenced by the work of the political theorist Hannah Arendt and her ideas as expressed in The Human Condition. When not smelling the flowers and eating the weeds, he can be found living and breathing art. He’s a cyclist, lepidopterist, and gardener. His work can be found in the Kinsey Institute’s Permanent Fine Art Collection, as well as in other private collections. He is always interested in discourse and can be reached at david. deaubrey@gmail.com. Terin Dickerson William Fillmore was born in Fullerton, California in 1980. Growing up in the shadow of Los Angeles was the son of medical professionals; he grew up to appreciate the complexity and intricacies of human anatomy and physiology. As a young boy William would spend his days immersed in comic books, and would painstakingly recreate the pages of those influential narratives. It was the combination of his scientific parentage and his fascination with the visual story telling that fed William’s passion for art. After completing his Bachelors of Arts degree in Small Business Management, at California State University of Fullerton in 2005, William reached a crossroad where he could pursue a career in business or follow his love of art.
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Unsatisfied with the personal sacrifices that corporate-life would require, William strove headlong into hsi career as an artist. Since 2005 he has gained enough knowledge and skill to earn admittance to Indiana University, where he is currently working towards his Masters of Fine Art in Sculpture. Heather Lovett is currently a senior in the Bachelor of Fine Arts in Photography program through the Henry Ratford School of Fine Arts at Indiana University. She is currently in her second semester of the BFA program. Heather has long had a passion for photography, and recently, much of her subject matter has been comprised of portraits with subtle traces of femininity and sexuality. In her photograph, “Turn Loose!,” Heather explores the placement of her female subject in relation to the environment. Renee McShane recently graduated with a BFA in painting from IU Bloomington in December 2011. She’s planning on possibly moving to Chicago in a few months and eventually pursuing an MFA in painting sometime after that. Her most recent series of paintings focus on ideas relating to distortions of perceptions of reality when someone is afraid, anxious, or panicked and especially when an expected, known place appears to become an unpredictable, fantastical experience due to self-inflicted paranoia. Besides painting, she loves extremely cheesy movies and books as well as suspense-thrillers, videogames, and winter holidays. Samuel Mellas: “I was born around lunchtime on September 29th, 1988. Grew up mostly in Marshall, IL where the grass smelled like wine, and Fishers, IN where everyone smelled
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like my dad used to smell when he’d fix the neighbor’s car. As a kid, I liked to throw water balloons on him while he fixed and he’d say “Cut it out. I’m working with electronics.” Then, I’d get him with the hose and he’d chase me around with that smell. I’ll always remember it. It was just like wine.”
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Staff Editor-in-Chief Michelle Sybert Assistant Editor Hilary Burns Fiction Editor Emily Mulholland Poetry Editor Chelsea Freistoffer Managing Editor Nicole Silvernell Editors Aly O’Brien Jaclyn Kessler Kate Colvin Chief Designer Kristin Ousley Designers Justin Scholfield Hilary Givens Kirsten Brammer Marketing Director Ana-Christina Acosta Treasurer Blakely Meyer
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Colophon Crimson Umbrella Review : February 2012 The Crimson Umbrella Review is a self-run and self-directed online literary journal that is published monthly during the academic school year. The Crimson Umbrella Review uses the collective knowledge of its members to teach and learn all of the necessary skills to create and maintain this online literary arts magazine. In addition to learning the basic skills necessary to publish a journal, the Review experiments with the potential of an online literary publication to find new ways to appeal to a college student market. Our goal is to provide every writer or artist with an umbrella to protect and shelter them as they develop their work and writings skills. The Crimson Umbrella Review believes that each writer or artist should have a safe-haven that allows him or her to publish his or her works freely, in a supportive, stress-free zone. All work is copyrighted by the author or artist. Archived on March 29, 2012 Available as online PDF, eBook, and Issuu Check out the latest issue at crimsonumbrellareview.com, or submit your work to crimsonumbrellareview@gmail.com.
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