Restriction by Libertas Magazine

LIBERTAS

V o l . 17, no. 1

the restriction issue

SATREBIL editorial CO-EDITORS IN CHEIF Design Emily Romeyn Managing Vincent Weir POETRY Lucia Stacey & Tim Rauen FICTION Madeleine Brown NONFICTION Claire Ittner FILM Riley Ambrose MUSIC Will Stratford CRITICISM Colin Thomson YOWL Brian Correa

contributors Emily Romeyn, Vincent Weir, Lucia Stacey, Tim Raven, Madeleine Brown, Molly Dolinger, Meg Mendenhall, Colin Thomson, Brian Correa, Cidney Holliday, Matthew Schlerf, Jacob Cole, Dave Benusa, Jackson Mauze, Michael DeSimone, Jordan Williamson, Elyas Munye, Kelsey Wilson, Vera Shulman, and Blanca Vidal-Orga.

LIBERTAS S ep t em b er 2 1 , 2 0 1 2

Editors’ Note

2 2 3 2 10

POETRY Silhouette of a Davidson Woman Reminder Dear Author... Clotted Light Bitterness

Matthew Schlerf Jacob Cole Dave Benusa Jackson Mauze

2 3 4 4

FICTION What We Have in Commons Life is Better Here Hospitality The Hunter

Vincent Weir Jordan Williamson Elyas Munye

5 6 6

FILM Moonrise Kingdom Review Lawless Review On Iranian Film

Anonymous

YOWL

8 8

MUSIC Michael’s #Relevant Music Picks Sharing is Caring: The Case for Illegal Downloading

9 10

REVIEWS Fall Studio Faculty Exhibition Davidson Beverage Company

Vincent Weir & Emily Romeyn Tim Raven Meg Mendenhall Lucia Stacey Cidney Holliday

Michael DeSimone Will Stratford Claire Ittner Kelsey Wilson

11-12 Emily Romeyn

Vera Shulman Blanca Vidal Orga

INTERVIEW Davidson’s Gay-Straight Alliance on Chick-fil-a

FC MH 1 5 2 4 7

ART Cover Art: Rescritcion Masthead art Restriction illustration II illustration for Moonrise Kingdom Review illustration for Silhouette illustration for Hospitality illustration for Fire at F

LIBERTAS LAST WORD

editors’ note. The Mirror and Guardian of the Arts How Libertas Is Expanding to Include 15 Schools and a New Davidson Culture in Its Scope

here’s a reason why critics call literary magazines “restricted,” “self-serving” and “upper-middle class trivialities” that “obsessively focus on the minutiae of life.” They do—even at their best. And yet, in more civil terms, this restricted focus and self-serving may be the point. If cultures have the tendency to produce gods and scripture in their image, then the “pseudo-aristocratic” world of “comfortable, cultured undergraduates” hallows itself in the literary magazine. Publications like The Paris Review, Harpers, The New Yorker, and BOMB have long been eidolons of sophistication and mild controversy. They simultaneously guard and copy the tastes of their constituents and often self-consciously emulate themselves. Indeed, with only slight alteration, the quotations above came from two articles describing The New Yorker and its audience—one by Françoise Mouly that aired a month ago, and the other from Robert Warshow that first appeared in the ‘40s—but the same could be said of Libertas. These self-aware “lit-mag identities” and self-sustaining production cycles lead to a narrow range of content that cynics might describe as “trivially focused” and “self-serving.” But for the sake of argument now, let’s call it sustainable. With the alternative of self-destruction or self-effacement, it may in fact be noble for cultures to promote themselves—to defend their interests through self-focus. The “self ” in this sense, comes to stand for the culture’s identity, the

community of minds that form networks like schools, film crews, and literary magazines. In this sense, “self-focus” might rebrand itself as “self-scrutiny.” And this, we hope, is still a virtue. Now more than ever, Libertas embraces this idea of responsible reflexivity—of self-focus that leads to emulation of others like itself. We are the mirror and the guardians of the arts and letters culture. We shine back what we hope to be the best of who we are—and of you, our audience. Today our audience is growing. Vincent spent the summer networking Libertas with 15 other publications based at schools of similar size and quality. During that time he learned how much we have in common with our peers in other states, many of whom read this now. Over the next year, we hope to showcase their work in these pages. In January, CLAW (The Consortium of Liberal Arts Writers, a Libertas affiliated start-up) will bring all sixteen schools to Davidson for a conference on collaboration and the future of journalism. We hope you will join us. Although a popular subject of late, the future of print ultimately affects little in discussions about the literary magazine and its “cultured undergraduate” constituency. Perhaps print magazines will disappear. In any case, the culture will adapt and move on. Indeed, thanks to reflexive tendencies, the writer will follow it—that is to say, itself—as it moves. Vinc ent Weir and E mily R omeyn

WELCOME to the New

LIBERTAS 1

LIBERTAS, Vol. 17, No. 1

SILHOUETTE OF A DAVIDSON WOMAN Look at that ass Dip, sway, flaunt melody Compounding melody. Look closerThe function manifests from Fourier footsteps, Cacophonous cicada dubstep throbbing Grace. The portraiture is so precise, And that ass Like some astronomical object Made perfect By God and gravitons, distance, eons.

email emromeyn@davidson.edu to order

V er a S hu lm an

white jersey cotton v-neck unisex sizes S-XL $15

his is my fifth tostada this week. It’s Tuesday. I throw a quick smile to Lloyd behind the counter and casually demand the usual. A girl behind me giggles. I turn, assessing her floral print sundress and the three cucumber slices adorning her almost empty tray. I bite my lower lip and furrow my brow in deep meditation before reaching my conclusion. “Tampa,” I point. Her jaw drops as expected. “Fort Lauderdale, actually. How did you know?” I slide my tray over to the gluten free soy sauce. “My grandmother once bought a poodle from Pensacola and I helped her negotiate the transaction because of her then recent dementia diagnosis, so I’m fairly well-versed in my knowledge of Floridian culture.” She is struck between love and awe. “That’s so impressive...and noble...and sweet! Are you a first year too?” I drop her off at my window seat on the light side before excusing myself to the bathroom. I welcome a warm greeting and a palm full of Purell from Diane at the register before popping in on my hall mates at the back of the dark side. I throw a few punches, slap a few knees, and then beg leave to retrieve a handcrafted salad courtesy of Cynthia. On my way across the room I nod a guten tag to the German table and bow an anyong haseyo to an international student. I discuss lentil textures with a vegan from Oregon as I write out my pizza order and then high five a fellow carnivore at the tenders station. I amble up the stairs and then turn back at the top. Smiling, I watch as a group of girls turn into hyenas over a popsicle I threw into their 3rd Belk throng. I laugh and burst through the doors of Commons, confidently heavy with the hunger of seven untouched trays and the pride of another well-spent meal. Freshman.

Ma t t h ew S c h l erf

WHAT WE HAVE IN COMMOMS

Look at that symmetry,

we sell tshirts

Down below Dark-dressed pedestrians In their morning mumble-and-sigh Brisk cobble-steps and Umbrellas under arms

Meg M end enh a l l

Those museum wax thighs like towers Strung tight with circuitry, Torqueing, torqueing, torqueing, spinning Frenetic gaseous clusters, worlds about Her Gravity. A rustle as she walks, mindful Of caterpillars, Shivers fall brush, delicate And yet Leaves lie dead in her sneaker tread.

Tim Raven

I am awakened by church bells And a mist-light from my window It’s early in the morning And the sky is nearly white

The possibility of rain And the clapping thrum of bells That toll: This And this And this You’ll never know.

Look at those thighs,

That trite, ironic architecture, Latex, titanium, sweet carbon Arranged in some unknowable equation. Each half completes the other Maybe, But do clockwork hearts know hope and hurt, Or hatred Where the heart winters ‘til the heart must Brave trust? (What loneliness is peerless radiance!)

REMINDER

LIBERTAS, V o l . 1 7 , N o . 1

IS BETTER HERE

LIFE

DEAR AUTHOR...

idepools dot the landscape, small mirrors to the vacant sky above. The water, murky with pollution, soaks through the soles of my sneakers, causing each step to be punctuated with a sickening squelch. As I continue, waves sweep over the sea’s surface and creep ashore, their gurgling foam unable to completely erase the soggy tracks in my wake. The print has vanished, but the impression remains, as if I’ve scarred the landscape. Behind me are the gaudy seaside McMansions, the plumage of the nouveau-riche. French doubledoors, three-car garages and overly-elaborate pillars sprawl over the land where dunes and waist-high grasses once abounded. The neon glow from a nearby boulevard illuminates the beach with an unnatural incandescence, obscuring the stars in the haze of light pollution, man’s childish assertion of himself as greater than the heavens. The Tower of Babel briefly comes to mind. I trudge on in silence. A little down my path, I can see a beachside park that I played at in my youth, now with its gates wrapped in caution tape and the morbid pronouncement of condemnation hanging over it. Oceanview space is at a premium, and old money from up north carries more clout than do children playing on public-access swingsets. The sandbox, almost redundant given its coastal location, still has a few pails and shovels in it, lying next to little temporary castles which, having been spared from the sea, will

Dear Author, I appreciate this, really, I do, and while there’s nothing I’d love more than to drink your words like a saint who has consigned her body to the sun-blasted, evaporative desert and her heart to her love-blasted Lord, and who, her gracious God having recognized her penance for the glorious sin of being alive, has been granted the sweet silver waters of eternal forgiveness, I can’t help but understand that you are just one Man with words, and I am just one man with words— so what can you say that I can’t?

Me g Me n de n hal l

LIBERTAS, Vol. 17, No. 1

Ja c o b Co l e

clotted light I And it’s 11:43 at night and it’s summer and Outside crickets fuck and I hear the violins of their legs Scraping like horsehair and reed bows against the legs of other crickets, As the sound of humid Georgia darkness Like a dull, wet chord, Plucked once and reverberating until the light Mutes it, mutes it. The light mutes me too, As the sun sheds Like a big yellow dog, Shaggy with electricity, tufts of light falling off Into the morning, until the camellias are white again, As the blue of night sinks back into their petals. II Purple-blue wine, finished And I’ve spilled a glass of poetry, Words and images stain my sheets. Thoughts don’t rub out. Cabernet tinted metaphors that can’t be Bleached, because the chemical composition of these memories Is ossified And the skeleton of it all, still has rotting bits of flesh, falling away, like clotted light

L uc ia Stac ey 3

soon crumble beneath a city planner’s pen. Feeling somehow burdened, I return to the parking lot where my car still sits, slowly depreciating in value as it rusts from the salty sea air. A glossy red Acura zooms by on the street below, giving me a brief window into its occupants’ carefree evening. As my engine comes to life, I peel out and start my drive past the greasy late-night diners, seedy motels, and tourist shops. A nearby sign advertises that this city is the fastest-growing in America. Farther down the road, I can make out a crane, jutting out of the horizon with its heinously sharp metallic edges. A brand-new subdivision, the epitome of progress in a growth-minded community, is off to the right, its lawns already well-maintained and its streets spotless, free from either debris or distinction. Ahead of the cookie-cutter houses, imported saplings, and brick perimeter walls is a pristine white sign bearing the emblem “Life is Better Here”.

H O S P I TA L I T Y

V er a Shu lman

urdock awoke as the sunlight climbed into his eyes through the grated window. He took the next few seconds to scrape the sand out from his eyelids. It took a little longer than usual, and his bones felt a little stiff. He tried to sit up. He didn’t realize he’d been secured to a table at the waist. The belt was bright green leather, an inch thick and a foot wide all the way around his waist. It was fastened to the ends of the table with green metallic buttons that sparkled in the sun. Murdock lay back, letting himself be engulfed by the warmth of the new morning, trying to ignore everything else. He heard a door open behind him, and he figured it’d probably be best if he didn’t try to see who it was. “Welcome, Mr. Murdock. My name is Tompkins.” Tompkins walked around the table to where Murdock could see him. He was dressed up and down in flowing green silk. It sparkled in the morning sunlight. Tompkins was an unusually tall man, but his attire was tailored to his height. His pants fit him rather tightly, especially at the seams, but formed a nice bell bottom at his ankles. His shirt was equally tight-fitting, showing off his muscular physique. Murdock was impressed that a man of Tompkins size and age could be in such good shape. Tompkins stroked his graying moustache and wiped his glasses on his shirt before addressing Murdock again.

“Now Murdock… this isn’t the first time we’ve encountered your work. You’re well aware that we refused to prosecute you for the Main Street affair last July. Is that correct? Murdock was silent for a little while before agreeing with a nod. “And you know that we’ve been in contact with The Blues for well over a year concerning your body of work in Wellington?” Murdock wasn’t aware that The Blues were investigating him as well, but he decided to play along. He nodded. Tompkins cleared his throat, “Consider yourself fortunate. We Greens consider ourselves rather tolerant. Had The Blues reached you first, you might be sitting in a prison for a considerable time longer. We’ll let you go tomorrow on the condition that you don’t show your face around John’s Ford again.” Tompkins turned to leave and just before he left the room, he said, “And you’d be wise not to show your face around Wellington again either.” Murdock chuckled. A day in prison. And they’d probably be feeding him. About a week later Murdock was atop the tallest building in St. Pierre. Three wasted gold spray cans rested at his ankles, and a few more were full in his pack. He wasn’t particularly happy with the work he was doing that day, but he knew St. Pierre would get the message. As he opened his pack for another spray can, a hand wearing a crimson glove reached out and grabbed his shoulder. Two more sets of hands cuffed him about his hands and ankles. The voice belonging to the first hand reached out to him. “You’re done, Murdock. I don’t know why you came here, but you’re done. There’s just no room for your work here. Or anywhere for that matter. I don’t know why The Greens didn’t lock you up for good, but we’re going to.” Murdock chuckled. As they took him away, he glanced down the twelve stories to the ground and saw hundreds of citizens gathering to see what he’d done. On the wall in shining gold, a great big smiling Zeus was throwing a thunderbolt down at the people. And right below him in twelve foot high letters, the phrase “Everything Evolves.” Murdock was taken away in a red car as men in red suits clamored to paint over what he’d done. As the car pulled out of its spot, a boy about twelve years old looked up Murdock’s work and mouthed – “Wow!” Murdock saw him and he chuckled. Murdock didn’t know what was going to happen to him this time. But The Reds were never too harsh. He’d be back out on the streets of St. Pierre soon, looking for the boy. Dav e B enusa

the hunter T

he Hunter crested a naked hill between two valleys. Capped on each side were craggy, sheer summits, devastations that channeled his course along the valley; there was only forward and back. He retired to a rock. Sweat layered his brows like quivering pearls, and as his chin drooped they were scooped into his black, moist bangs. With a shrug he shouldered the strap of his rifle and laid it on his lap. The black metal throbbed in the late evening heat. In silver Sharpie, on the butt of rifle, the initials M.E. blazed like faded silver. It was a precious thing, his only companion. Out of habit he forgot the rocky sentinels that watched down on him. He dusted the scope lens and swabbed the barrel. He flicked the safety mechanism on and off, on and off, absorbing the faint click as the beast became a silent listener, and then a prepared speaker, and then a wall ornament, and then a reaper, and

J a c kso n M a uzé

then a toy. Click, click, click. Once it simply hibernated on a rack, forgotten. When he closed his eyes he might return there, looking at the outside of its polished oak locker. A fullness emanated from the kitchen in that house, sometimes in flares of laughter or song, sometimes in the squeaks of old floorboards or the waft of burning lasagna. He found her there, floral apron tied tight over a collared shirt and grey trousers, short brown hair in a tight ponytail, make-up faintly askew. She didn’t see him and as he came closer, he realized that her skin had turned brilliant blue and red. Lacerations crossed her complexion; her shirt dampened suddenly, all over, with blood. She crumpled, and he lunged to catch her, but couldn’t. The Hunter opened his eyes, biting back tears, clutching the weapon to his chest. Despite its inability to speak it was grateful. He gave it purpose. His

only constant companion, his only refuge beyond the sterile walls of the familiar. From where the Hunter came the trail cut a broad swath through the glowing sea of conifers. Despite the ache in his legs, the Hunter stood and ignored that way back. He hovered over the next descent, rifle slung once more over his shoulder. The path was precarious in its footing at the start, but farther below the trees grew in knots and swarms. They obstructed his view. A warm breath crept up the hillside, maliciously. But when he looked back, he saw far away a figure walking. She wore grey trousers under a floral apron, moving monotonously forward. Hunter rubbed the stock of M.E. for support, turning away from her, and beginning the descent. Walking, at least, was better than admitting it was all a dream.

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LIBERTAS

FILM

moonlight escape Wes Anderson’s Comic Vision of the World Takes Center Screen in Moonrise

n a country-club coincidence, Mitt Romney shares a past with the nouveau-riche and contemporary film scholars. For roughly the same motives, they’re all trying to forget the baggage of thirty years and still enjoy the benefits. In academia, this Gastsby-narrative plays out in the legacy of literary theory. It’s fashionable now to discredit deconstructionism, the largely French idea that dominated continents of academic discourse from the ‘70s through the millennium. As a theory that emphasizes the culturally constructed nature of authority, deconstructionism argues that no idea has secure meaning. The problem is that this liberation ideal has led academia into a daze of solipsism, disinformation, and destruktion. We see these effects in the comprehensive irony of postmodern literature, or rather, the problem is precisely that we can’t see the effects. We can’t see what the author “really meant.” We have no objective point of view. We can’t take anything at face value. Think of a Monty Python movie (“It’s only a rabbit”), or for the bibliophile, the infinite jest in that David Foster Wallace novel. s often happens, an artist has come to diagnose the problem of irony with earnestness. Set in 1965, conveniently the year before Derrida’s groundbreaking lecture “Structure, Sign and Play in the Discourse of the Human Sciences”, Wes Anderson’s Moonrise Kingdom discovers an innocent beauty that overcomes the nuisance of deconstruction. The fictional Island of New Penzance is a little disguised utopia of sincerity, and Anderson rallies a dazzling cast alongside

LIBERTAS, Vol. 17, No. 1

Kingdom

Vinc ent Weir

this narrator (Bob Balaban), not only knows the future but intervenes as a sort of deus ex machina in a ski cap. On Balaban’s cue, the film takes a straight-forward tone that extends past the actors to the cinematography. Many shots use 90 degree angles and strict linear movements that communicate a kind of precise objectivism. Add this to Anderson’s motif of symmetry (several shots come to us through binocular lenses) and lightning bolts (two of which could have been thrown by Zeus), and the film starts to feel like a happy parable. n many ways it might be. As with so many religious worldviews, a comic ending brands this tale with an earnest improbability that may form its most proleptic contribution. Sam and Suzy escape a scrum of angry boy scouts, several lighting strikes, and the austere personification of Social Services to marry and eventually remain together. Their improbable sojourn that results in a reconstructed family finds import not only in English Departments, but throughout culture today. Indeed, we do well to look for it here at Davidson. In the midst of our own deconstructed scrum battle over homosexual rights, curriculum diversity, and Christian heritage, Davidson could find a refreshing note of optimism in Anderson’s utopia. The plot turns half way through the film when Sam’s old scout mates agree to help their old foe find Suzy. Thanks to these new friends, Sam and Suzy break free from culture and convention to marry one another and repair a destroyed family and island. We need not parse this analogy.

I his characteristic formal devices to narrate the tale of a youthful team’s triumph against naysayers. The film begins a clear dialogue with deconstructionism in the opening scene, when an old fashion cassette tape tells the audience that composer Benjamin Britten will “take apart the orchestra and put it back together again.” This motif of reconstruction plays out through the lives of Suzy Bishop (Kara Hayward) and Sam Shukusky (Jared Gilman)—two twelve-year old outcasts who fall in love as they flee the pursuit of their disagreeable backgrounds. Sam is the orphaned runt of a scout troop and Suzy the “troubled” daughter of practically-divorced attorneys. Their identities, as with their ages, come to stand for something far bigger. Throughout the tale of their union, Anderson relies on a narrator to communicate a bizarrely objective point of view. Bespeckled and omniscient,

ROUTINE STUNTS AND TASTELESS BLOOD IN

LAWLESS

Cave and Hillcoat’s Violent Gamble Ends Poorly J orda n Willia mson

ased on The Wettest County in the World, Matt Bondurant’s chronicle of his family’s history in Prohibition-era Franklin County, Virginia, is the new film from the partnership of screenwriter and musician Nick Cave and director John Hillcoat. The two previously applied Western-style mythmaking and morality to the Australian frontier in 2005’s The Proposition. That film, a story of mixed loyalties in a truly lawless land, paired extreme violence with the ultimately civilizing force of morality, and ended, fittingly, with a cathartic gunfight and rejection of violence. The Proposition’s slow imposition of moral law on its characters is nowhere to be found in Lawless, and the film suffers for its lack of restraint. Unlike the Australian frontier, Franklin County is, at least in theory, subject to laws. The Bondurant brothers and the county’s other bootleggers mostly operate without interference, though, until lawman Charlie Rakes (Guy Pearce) arrives from Chicago. He wants a cut of the profits; the Bondurants want to continue with impunity. So here we have the film’s moral equation: people who believe they have the right to break the law against people who believe you can buy the right to break the law. In scenes of escalating violence, the sniveling-but-ambitious Jack Bondurant (Shia LaBeouf), his tough-but-drunk

ON IRANIAN FILM Close Separation D

irected by Asghar Farhadi, the 2011 Iranian drama A Separation has already won an astonishing number of awards, including the 2012 Golden Globe for foreign film. Metacritics called it the best-reviewed movie of 2011, and Rotten Tomatoes gave it a 9/10 average for 143 reviews. Still, as a Davidson student I had no idea the film existed. I take the blame for my ignorance. While in Paris this summer, I could not ignore the number of posters advertising A Seperation—yet all Americans ever hear about Iran is that it belongs to the “axis of evil,” that it’s “the biggest sponsor of state-terror,” and that “Iran is an irrational player in the world stage.” These constructs, I believe, dig deep in the American psyche. Let me be straightforward: I think Iran is one of the most fascinating and important global phenomena in contemporary history. For this reason, I find Iranian cinema enthralling regardless. Generally, Iranian films use fewer graphic

brother Howard (Jason Clarke), and his substantially-tougher-and-generally-less-drunk brother Forrest (Tom Hardy), confront Rakes. It’s all pretty formulaic. The only real question of interest is whether or not a routine bar-fight in defense of pretty-but-haunted new waitress Maggie (Jessica Chastain) is made less routine because we see a man’s throat crushed by brass knuckles and spurting blood. Perhaps we also wonder if the violence can entertain viewers enough to look beyond the film’s other weak spots (too-slick digital cinematography and Shia LeBeouf). It can’t. The repeated, unrestricted violence manages, within 115 minutes, to desensitize viewers. It isn’t even menacing, really, because there’s nothing to menace. Compare this to No Country for Old Men, which kills its protagonist off-screen: that film’s violence isn’t given center stage, and its randomness threatens something more than the profit motive. Nothing’s at stake in Lawless, though, so everything can be gambled, especially the film’s innocents: Maggie, moonshining partner Cricket (Dane DeHaan), and the preacher’s daughter Jack pursues (Mia Wasikowska). Her easy acceptance of Jack is typical of a film in which moral restraint is only something to overcome as quickly and bloodily as possible.

E ly a s Muny e

scenes than Hollywood. Usually they recount simple narratives and come densely packed with complex social issues relevant to the modern world. And, by the way, Werner Herzog and Michael Haneke, two towering figures in the world of filmmaking, are ready to back me up. They both believe Iranian filmmaking is the “world’s most important emerging artistic cinemas.” We should ask ourselves, why? What are Iranians trying to communicate to the world? To fully appreciate Iranian film production, I think it’s necessary to understand the political and social context in Iran—and to understand that, we have to understand Khomeini, the architect of the 1979 Iranian Revolution, the author of the event Michel Foucault called “not a political movement but a revolt against the existing political order of the whole world: ‘the most modern form of revolt—and the maddest.’” But if we want to understand Khomeini, we have to understand Mulla Sadra, a 17th century Persian

philosopher. To understand Mulla Sadra, we have to dig through the writings of Avicenna, Ibn al-Arabi, and Suhrawardi. In short, the moral, political, and spiritual struggles conveyed by Iranian cinema continues a living tradition that goes back centuries. It’s not the crude caricature depicted by the American media. I am writing about Iranian cinema to share my excitement of a new discovery—a discovery that opens a new channel towards understanding, an understanding that is a necessity for peace, a peace that is a necessity for meaningful relationship, and relationships that are a necessity for meaningful lives. I think we are living in a moment of history where it is crucial for us to understand Iran, especially because of a looming possibility of a war that will likely impact the lives of people around the globe. There is no better way to understand Iran than to travel through its cinema.

LIBERTAS, V o l . 1 7 , N o . 1

L W O Y

LIBERTAS PROMOTES AN EVEN LESS

GERMANE VERSION OF REGULAR YOWL

LIBERTAS

PISS TERRORISM

The Libertas Bear on Twitter

@LiBearTas 7

LIBERTAS, Vol. 17, No. 1

“Of course, crushing your soul as readers assumes that you were reading us in the first place,” said Libertas Editor, Bob Bailey. “Which assumes we were writing for you to read, which is obviously false.” “It also assumes that people still read,” he added. “Kind of like most of the rappers you know, we’re not really into you guys, i.e. haters” said Bailey. “At the end of the day, this is our platform to talk about myself.” “I have no idea what he’s talking about,” said Davidsonian Editor, Matthew Scotts. “The Yowl was the only page I read in The Davidsonian, and now it will be the only page I will read in Libertas.”

“I’m afraid we’ll have no chance of curing your husband until we find out why he changed into a banana.”

F I R E AT F

15th Party Member Dies, New Fire Code Says “I Told You So”

ast Saturday a fire broke out in one of the Armfield apartments, leaving fourteen party-goers unscathed but tragically killing the fifteenth, Richard Luck. “Richard and another guy were playing this drinking game where you light a household object on fire and chug for as long as it bur ns,” said one witness to the scene, “and I guess it just got out of hand.” Apparently this game, a favorite amongst Davidson students, culminated in Richard setting fire to a pile of gasoline-soaked rags stored in a side closet, after which the blaze began to spread. “I thought all fifteen of us were going to get out, but then we had to wait for one girl to Instag ram ‘the really artsy flames,’

and somebody else stopped to sing along with the end of ‘Wagon Wheel.’ You know how it is,” said host, Rachel Dawom. “Long story short, Richard was just about to step outside when this wall of fire engulfed him.” The fire baffled experts, who claim that the presence of a fifteenth person seems to have somehow pushed it from a small, relatively harmless bur n into an unrelenting sea of flames. Such a mystical circumstance was apparently foreseen by the CCRL, who recently ruled that only fourteen students can be inside an apartment at a time. “I knew I never should have gotten that fifteenth friend,” lamented Dawom, “what damning pride I had, to defy Davidson’s rules for my social circle. Bl an ca V i dal-O rg a

n a stirring address last week, the leader of the Campus Defense Force announced a daring War on Piss: “We find ourselves in a frightening new era of unrelenting and heinous urination, the likes of which is unprecedented in our time. Natty Light, Long Bathroom Lines, and the Male Anatomy have formed an axis of incontinence which has changed what was once a trickle into a steady flow of anti-Wildcat sentiment. This atmosphere of fanatical vulgarity stands as a direct threat to the peace and stability of Davidson, and today I am announcing a new campaign against the forces of evil which are unleashed every night onto the innocent air-conditioners of Armfield.” The announcement comes after agents uncovered a massive store of urine-creating chemicals at a local Shell station, and a video of masked combatants practicing their technique on urinals in a remote region of campus surfaced online. “These young fanatics are under the sway of a destructive and corrupted ideology – natural, biological instinct,” explained CDF Special Agent Roker. “Therefore, a successful strategy must not only eradicate the urinators, but also convince the local populace to reject their tainted ideals. We are engaged in a battle for the people’s hearts and bladders.” “Normally I’m all for trickle down effects, but this is flat out wrong” added Roker. Reports issued by the CDF point to a shadowy figure known as Goddamn Common Sense coordinating the pissing efforts in the region, but attempts to track down this threat have so far failed. “We believe Mr. Common Sense is hiding somewhere in the maze of dim caverns known in the local dialect as, and I’m sorry if I butcher this, F,” said Agent Roker. “It’s his natural element, and we believe finding him with conventional military means is impossible.” Upon further questioning, Agent Roker could neither confirm nor deny the use of unmanned drones in the ongoing manhunt.

s if it were germane to begin with, Davidson’s satire sheet The Yowl managed to bungle things more by casting lots with Libertas. In a press conference Monday, Libertas announced its intention to “crush the souls of readers” with a new version of Yowl satire “built from enormous words, arcane literary references, and stiflingly reflexive self-commentary.” Libertas, the long-winded Davidson monthly run by a coterie of retroussé bibliophiles, is only the most recent organization to make this promise—joining other publications including The Davidsonian, BOMB Magazine, and other publications you’ve never heard of.

I should have just left Richard as one of those acquaintances you nod at in Chambers. It’s like the good book says, ‘Thou shalt not love more than fourteen of your neighbors, of if thou shalst, thou shalst party in the elevator.’ I ignored the Committee’s infinite wisdom, and now Richard has paid the tragic price.” “I’d like to point out that none of this would have happened if you would have had the party in the elevator,” said CCRL Commander Usain Abednego. “They have a 20 person limit, and for good reason—it’s safe. Nothing could possibly catch fire in a completely metal elevator.” The fire was considered serious enough for the police to take a few minutes off from their sworn duty of skulking behind F to catch “piss terrorists,” but while they had no trouble aidding the first fourteen students, the fifteenth was beyond help. Luck’s close friends and family will be holding a small service for those who knew him best in one of the New Dorm’s elevators, which can safely hold up to twenty-one people.

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#relevant m i ch a e l ’s

MUSIC

MUSIC PICKS

HIGHER GROUND TNGHT

Producers/Electronic Artists/DJs Hudson Mowhawke and Lunice teamed up to create some of the most electric songs of the year on their self-titled EP. When listening to their production, I can’t help but to see specific stories unfold in the songs. With the track “Goooo,” I imagine two groups warring in Chinatown with fireworks. With “Higher Ground,” I see Godzilla going to fucking town on Tokyo. You would also enjoy: Express Yourself ft. Nicky Da B by Diplo, Jumanji by Azealia Banks

ABOUT TO DIE Dirty Projectors

Never since every Passion Pit song ever released have I heard a depressing song sound so damn catchy. When the band lets out the chorus, their synergy becomes so apparent. The initially jarring bongos mold together with urgency of David Longstreth’s realizing he is “about to die.” The high pitched accompanying voice of Amber Coffman lightens to mood greatly, making a chorus that repeats “die” constantly seem less threatening.These bright vocals outside of Longstreth make sense because unlike his character, who is finally realizing that on his death bed that he has accomplished nothing, the listener is able to recognize that they still have to potential to do something with their life before their death. You would also enjoy: Take a Walk by Passion Pit, I’ll Be Alright by Passion Pit, Carried Away by Passion Pit Like the xx, Jessie Ware uses minimalism to the fullest in “No to Love.” The song builds from a single question: “Who says no to love?” and as she repeats the phrase each time, the listener becomes forced to deepen her answer. The murky production by Co-producer/Singer of The Invisible Dave Okumu adds a mysterious tone with a hip-hop flavor to the song through deepened vocal effects and a thumping drum beat. Okumu raps over the track as well and gives his own response to this question.

NO TO LOVE

Jessie Ware

You would also enjoy: Love Song -1 by The Internet, Swerve... The Reeping of All That Is Worthwhile (Noir Not Withstanding) by Shabazz Palaces

BETWEEN FRIENDS ft. Earl Sweatshirt & Captain Murphy

Flying Lotus

Flying Lotus’s offering to the 2012 Adult Swim Singles Program displays that he is equally able as a rap producer as he is with his independent electronic work. Earl Sweatshirt and Captain Murphy (Tyler, the Creator?, Flying Lotus rapping?, Both?) act as spirits speaking in verses. Their erratic movement causes you to lose track of who is talking at what time and at some points you are convinced they are combining to form a new voice entirely. Abruptly, they stop talking, look at you directly, and possess your body. Your mind blasts into space and everything makes sense. You would also enjoy: The Ritual by Captain Murphy, Ashtray Wasp by Burial

SHARING IS CARING

Will S t ra t f o rd

The Case for Illegal Downloading

s a young independent musician, I can say that making money is not nearly as important as making my music available. Therefore free online downloading is an exciting opportunity to share my music to new ears. When I first heard the charged dialogue on the issue of file sharing, I felt somewhat insulted as a musician. I was disturbed by how the dialogue tended to reduce a work of art to a consumer commodity by imposing a monetary value as the measure of its worth. When commercialization culture intrudes upon the art world, the more sensitive minds wince at the discrepancy in these conflated values. Certainly the aesthetic and the economic share some common ground. Of course I appreciate financial compensation for my work, not just because I’m making money, but because that purchase signifies the value my music holds to the buyer. However, downloading music signifies a value judgment as well. Money is not the only measure of worth. More vital energies like time and attention denote a value cash can’t. Experience precedes judgment. With visual art, the

viewer does not pay for the experience of looking at a work of art in a gallery. Only after spending time assessing the piece can he decide if he wants to buy it. Likewise, I get much of my music for free, some downloaded, some shared by friends, and I know that if I like a band enough I will eventually pay to see them live, purchase the vinyl, or pay for the next album online. One of the most overlooked matters in this dialogue is the collective cultural value that has accumulated through the free exchange of music. Those who don’t recognize the musical renaissance that we are currently in are the same ones who condemn file sharing. I would argue that music and film are currently the most vital forms of art. What do they have in common? Legal debates galore. But while the corporate music industry diminishes, music flourishes more than ever. I join the largest movement of independent musicians the world has ever seen. Who says that music is suffering? It is simply returning to the people, a rare triumph of the individual over the bureaucracy. Artists continue to make music despite the industry

crisis. Dogmatic critics of file sharing fail to see that the best musicians of our generation and the following ones wouldn’t exist without the unprecedented accessibility of music that we enjoy in the twenty-first century. Contemporary musicians rely on the availability of influence to create inspired music themselves. We can say that iTunes makes it easy to purchase all our songs for 99 cents each, but many of us young people don’t have that kind of money. What we do have is a determined resolve to expose our ears to as much music as we can. And I mean a lot, thousands and thousands of songs. The more the merrier. Who else is going to scratch the surface if we don’t? I hear talk about “ethical duty” on the issue. Well what about the ethical duty we have as serious patrons of the arts to expand our sensibilities beyond the size of our wallets? Let’s anticipate the historians and celebrate living in a society that permits such a flowering exchange of art.

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LIBERTAS

RE VI EW S

ANGLES & EXPANSIONS The Fall Studio Faculty Exhibition C l a i r e I t tn e r

f your career at Davidson has ever bent towards that corner of campus – is it even part of campus? – across Main Street, you know that the exhibition space at Davidson is not large. Neither is the art department, which, despite the continued echoey hush of the VAC atrium, has recently undergone a change amounting to a minor explosion. If the addition of three new studio professors – all, I might add, under the age of 40 – within a year seems lopsided, it brings with it the potential for a future mushrooming of artistic production at Davidson. Work from the three artists, on display now in the Van Every/Smith Galleries in the Belk Visual Arts Center, gives a concentrated glimpse of what shape we might expect this growth to take. The shift into digital media constitutes, perhaps, the greatest of the recent changes to the department. Undoubtedly the series of video installations by Darren Floyd, new professor of film and digital art, asserts its presence most audibly, despite its relative placement of recess within the gallery. A single large-scale projection entitled “I Live In a Dream, and By Dream I Mean Delusion” commands attention immediately: Floyd’s head looms over us, sighing out an amalgam of obviously private, strangely amplified thoughts. The weird angle of the shot – allowed, evidently, by the unique positioning of the iPad camera – intensifies the uncomfortable sensation of overhearing someone else’s thoughts. It is, indeed, the neck crick of selfconsciousness that seems to fascinate Floyd and permeate his work. His own likeness stares from all angles of the room – insistent, obnoxious, even, refusing to budge from the center of the

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frame. The only escape from the constant presence of the self, Floyd seems to say, is through an acceptance of this very constancy. His piece “Melancholy Birthday,” which employs a kind of video stenciling, invites us, against our will, to approach a particularly blearyeyed iteration of his face. Only at close range does his likeness dissolve into a second layer of video, tenderly semihidden, and we can almost see: a cup of coffee, a girl’s face, a murmured conversation. A similar interest in perspective finds expression in the work of Tyler Starr, professor of drawing and printmaking—although his paintings have the effect rather of drawing you out than doubling you back on yourself. “Lover’s Leap—Uptown (Muscatine, Iowa)”, the masthead of the exhibit, walks the line between narrative and pure landscape: an aerial view of a town, painted (we assume) from the perspective of the one about to leap – yet curiously devoid of emotion. We receive this image, second-hand, like a post-card – distanced from it by a spattering of red spots and by the very type of imagination it prompts.

Tyler Starr Lover’s Leap (Uptown) ink, spray paint, Japanese papers 36” x 51.25” 2012

Finally, then, we reach the room of Hagit Barkai, where participation, first exacted and then demanded, seems less voluntary. Floor-length, semi-translucent curtains spackled with orange fish divide the space into thirds – but, impossible as it is at any point to ignore the womb-world in the room, we are forced to view the work as a cohesive whole. The monographs that line the walls on either side of the curtains, in fact, anticipate the vertiginous experience of standing within them. Lines are heavy here, black, both descriptive and expressive – by turns defining space and puncturing it, inviting us into a familiar room and then turning it on its head. The monographs’ size prevents our disorientation from being overwhelming – but this is rectified upon penetration of the curtains. Four paintings of equal size and shape and position seem, at first, to extend the space of the room – but the perspective in each is off slightly, so that they erode the very ground we, as viewers, stand on. We would fall into the empty canvas at the bottom of the painting were it not for the crisscrossing gazes from figures in each painting, holding us in place. If, until this year, you believed the Art department to be small, or its location out-of-the-way, your beliefs are still justified. The work of the new studio professors, however, is expanding the space of the VAC in three very different ways. The creative potential implied by the exhibit (as well as the unexhibited but equally exciting work of new Art Historian Samantha Noel) could, in the future, redefine the intellectual topography of this (after-all) rather modest plot of heaven called Davidson.

bitterness

Every tear I’ve shed over you, In vain, I have kept in a mason jar. When I feel bitter over youI sip it slowly. And rewind conversations Which remind me why We aren’t together today. I laugh And lick the salt from the corner of my cracked lips.

DAVIDSON BEVERAGE COMPANY

I smashed that jar against my own reflection yesterday. Now mind youI’m not broken-

That’s simply my reflection and Harbored Bay sorrows. They’re brittle, Not bitter. But I kept all those mangled and jagged pieces. And tied them to my eye lashes with rope Woven from every time

K e lse y W i l s o n

I’ve second guessed myself Or even Yourself.

with reporting by Cakey Worthington

he bar area is open and well-lit, with a mixture of Davidson photos and beeraphernalia that skirts around kitsch into comfortable hospitality. The company dachshund chewing on a cozy underfoot probably helps. After a stroll through the specialty and seasonal brews (my beer-snob guest expert is particularly delighted to find a wide selection of pumpkin ales), we order a flight on tap– four local, two out-of-state–at the thoroughly reasonable price of $10, then take a seat on the couch for an afternoon of people-watching and beerducation. With the sampler we receive a menu poetically describing each of the brews. The similarity in procedure to a more-familiar wine tasting I find reassuring, except that I have none of the vocabulary for it. (Malt complexity?) We finish the Carver sweet potato lager first. For several minutes we brainstorm as many beermanteaus as possible. Beersperience. Beersploration. Beerscapade. The word begins to lose all meaning, and I am forced to begin using words like lager and ale and IPA. Coincidentally, I now sound as though I know what I’m talking about. I enjoy equally the light, citrusy hefeweizen – subtly but not cloyingly flavored with banana – and the richly dark Lazy Bird brown ale. My guest beerxpert tells me this is likely because I’m both new to specialty beers and a coffee-lover. The woman in the neighboring armchair is a Pilates instructor. Her husband is relieved to see he isn’t the only one who keeps a beer notebook (I suppose my notebook is a beer

notebook now); she thinks beer notebooks are silly. The Belgian wheat has a “lingering mouthfeel,” whatever that means. I suspect my guest expert is putting me on. A few people pop in to pick up something from the shelves or mix a six-pack; some claim a seat, pet the dog, and stay a while. Several students bring their lunch. Queen is playing on the radio, but I don’t recognize the country song that comes after. The IPA contains 19 (19!) varieties of hop. Some of them have names like Challenger and Magnum, but one is inexplicably called Nugget. It’s not half as bitter as we expect from a brew so hoppy. There is no way to combine the words “beer” and “lesson.” Beer lesson concluded, we pick up a honey-basil pale ale and a stout to bring home. Those labels which are also available at the grocery are comparatively a little pricier, but the more extensive selection and social “third space” free of workload associations make up the difference, as does the accessibility of Charlotte breweries within walking distance. The pleasant chatter and college football on the television maintain a taproom feel, while the airy spaciousness and natural light provide a bit of upscale modernity. We return to campus with our haul secured and wallets lightened, having seen not a single student hunched over laptop or textbook the entire restful afternoon.

When the sun hits them just rightIt’s a dream catcher And when I go to sleep It reminds meHow to let those same dreams go.

Ci d ney H o l l i d a y

The Davidson Beverage Company is located at 442 South Main St., Suite 100, and online at www.davidsonbeverage.com. LIBERTAS, V o l . 1 7 , N o . 1

PlayingChicken Da v i d s o n ’ s G ay-Straight Allian ce Spea ks Out LIBERTAS: When you hear the word “Chick-Fil-A,” what immediately comes to mind? Timmy Batista, GSA Vice President: Immediately? Delicious chicken nuggets. Jamie Durling, GSA President: Honestly, I think of chicken. That said, it is very difficult to divorce the owner’s very public actions from the company. But you asked me for my first impression...

“As a member of a diverse student body and community, I want everyone to pick freely : go to Chick-Fil-A or don’t ” timmy batista

LIBERTAS: What do you think of Davidson’s decision to boycott Chick-Fil-A? Is this something we should reconsider now that Chick-Fil-A’s WinShape Foundation has agreed to direct funding away from anti-gay organizations? JD: People feel strongly on both sides of the issue. From a practical perspective, I think Davidson should pick the side that better represents the student body. Of course we need to be consistent with the policies and values of the school, but the policies are so open to diverse interpretation on this issue that student opinion is the best determinant. TB: As a member of a diverse student body and community, I want everyone to pick freely: go to Chick-Fil-A or don’t. I believe legislating whether or not Chick-Fil-A should be banned is tantamount to the Republican-sponsored Amendment 1 which passed here in May. I don’t want to infringe on the freedoms of others so I won’t join a movement that attempts to 11

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demonize students who eat at Chick-Fil-A. That being said, I’m certainly glad that Chick-Fil-A is no longer using funds to support anti-gay organizations and I’m glad that it seems the issue has been, mostly, resolved. LIBERTAS: As early as the first week of school, students began to express annoyance with the Chick-Fil-A debate and Davidson’s role in creating controversy. How can we press through that frustration to keep making progress for LBGTs? JD: As a heterosexual male, I feel only the indirect effects of these issues—only indirect frustration. It’s fundamentally different for someone in the LGBT community who suffers from the anti-marriage equality. I personally may feel burned out about the issue, but I also feel for the members of a discriminated community. At this point, keeping the issue alive is important to me because it is important for other people. TB: It’s hard to organize a group of strongly independent minds to conform to one idea. No one wants to be a blind follower. I think if we did more “Talk Backs” or interactive meetings we might find a renewal of interest. LIBERTAS: If decisions like banning Chick-Fil-A threaten to polarize our student body on whatever grounds, then can the LGBT community go anywhere to make progress without the risk of this threat? JD: There are still hate crimes and, in the context of Davidson, hateful language committed against the LGBT community every day. I think organizations like GSA can work with Christian students, organizations, etc. in finding common Christian values toward tolerance, respect and love for all humans. TB: I’m not sure we can make progress without the threat and I’m not sure we should focus on parity measures to ensure student cohesion either. Cohesion is important but I think it’s more important to have discussions that might anger some students. This analogy isn’t perfect but didn’t these same discussions happen across colleges and universities back in the Civil Rights Movement? The LGBT community is constantly threatened one way or the other and we must realize that no one gains ground without fighting onwards and sometimes uphill. LIBERTAS: How do you recommend addressing the faith community on fundamental disagreements?

JD: I would distinguish between fundamental disagreements and disagreeing fundamentalists. I believe that all non-fundamentalists, even if they have fundamental differences, can find common ground and compromise through dialogue. But I don’t think that fundamentalists want dialogue, and so I don’t think it’s possible to engage them. TB: There are certainly some in the faith community that strongly disagree with the LGBTQIA world and lifestyle. However, there are many more who agree with our fight for equal rights. I believe that open discussions and meetings are important for two sides that have historically been resentful and vitriolic toward one other. The only way to heal wounds is through understanding with an open mind. LIBERTAS: Is there an appropriate place for ChickFil-A to express its religious and political viewpoint? TB: This is coming from a realist: I sure as hell don’t agree with the company’s views on homosexuality. The owner does, however, have the right to state his own opinions. If we didn’t allow dissenting opinions, we would rarely progress. I don’t believe in censoring Chick-Fil-A, but we should realize that freedom of speech does not mean you won’t be challenged. LIBERTAS: Now that Mr. Cathy has stopped supporting Focus on the Family and redirected the money to his church, should students be able to eat Chick-Fil-A without incurring judgment? JD: We’ve reached a point where it’s hard to disassociate the company and the owner. Customers shouldn’t be prevented from purchasing chicken, but that doesn’t mean that they should be protected from judgment. The kind of judgment at work here is a force for positive change.

“Demographically speaking, America is still a Christian nation, so the biggest mistake we can make is to demonize religion” jamie durling TB: As I said before, I don’t think any students should be incurring judgment for food that they eat. Period. The restaurant, however, still clearly carries a negative connotation with it that won’t disappear for some time. I wouldn’t be surprised if some people still have their reservations about the restaurant but I certainly think it’s helpful to realize that the actions of one man at the head of his company do not reflect the views of all Chick-FIlA employees – I have a loud and proud gay friend who works at a Chick-Fil-A in Florida and he certainly supports gay marriage. LIBERTAS: What’s the biggest mistake friends of the LGBT community can make in response to this issue? JD: Demographically speaking, America is still a Christian nation, so the biggest mistake we can make is to demonize religion. Conversely, we can help things by appealing to the Christian community—speaking reasonably to religious leaders, engaging them in dialogue without allowing passion to take over. We make the most progress when we persuade Christians to become allies, even if only in a limited or narrowly defined sense. TB: I believe the biggest mistake is to do nothing or to hype it up as an unimportant issue. It’s not the most important issue in the world but it’s certainly something that affects those who identify as LGBTQIA. This is yet another chapter in our on-going struggle in which our ultimate goal is simply to make sexual identity a nonissue.

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TAS last word

EAT MORE !