Volume II
Founding Editors: Nicole Arocho Kirsten Samanich Ellie Suttmeier Samantha Wallace
“I believe in the might of design, the mystery of color, the redemption of all things by Beauty everlasting.� -George Bernard Shaw
Cover and back cover art by Nicole Samanich
Dear Readers: Perhaps there has never been an epoch more suited to be an example of Edward Lorenz’s Butterfly Effect than our own. In an increasingly globalized world, our lives have become hyper-entangled with those both close by and across oceans, and yet we have not quite learned to navigate these new connections in meaningful and lasting ways. Our actions impact the lives of seven billion people daily. For the many mistakes, both large and small, that we each make, we must seek forgiveness from our global neighbors. The time and place in which we create is, looking out through a certain window, a dark one. However, it is also a hopeful one. Metanoia believes that art making, in community with others, can be the redemption we all seek. Through collective efforts of creativity across genre and form, within a physical space or over the expansive virtual place of the Internet, we can tie together the loose ends and become more compassionate, more imaginative, more connected people. For our sophomore issue, we called out artists and writers to think of redemption, of the many ways it can apply personally and globally. Represented in these pages is a diverse interpretation of this theme; we feel this represents the wonderful range of the human experience. For some, redemption has been found; for others, it is still being sought out. Cheers, The Editors
Table of Contents Writing: Untitled / Justim Billing / 4 Abigail Kedsey: Or: How I Didn’t Fuck Up My Life [excerpt] / Carly Doyle / 6 To My Body / Sarah J. Singer / 10 Tame / Kyle Allen / 12 Vividly Alive / Amber Donofrio and Caleb Miller / 14 i dined with redemption / Cris Cucerzan / 16 A Personal Apocalypse, in a Minor Key [excerpt] / Benjamin Gallagher / 18 Transubstantiaton / Jillian Kaplan / 22 My Brother / Katharyn Howd Machan / 24 My Nose Makes a Smaller Face / Evan Sommers / 26 Untitled / Justin Billing / 28 Lilith / Katharyn Howd Machan / 30
Photography/Art: Abstraction / Nicole Samanich / 3 Purple / Ryan Keller / 5 Spiral / Nicole Samanich / 6 Virgin Mary / Nicole Samanich / 9 Nurse / Ryan Keller / 10 Beyond the Frame / Nathan Krauss / 13 Flow / Matthew Feminella / 14 Self Portrait: Listening / Matthew Feminella / 16 Scapula / Antonio Arocho / 20 Reaching For the Sky / Nathan Krauss / 22 Snow Woman / Hope Carter / 25 Shadow Guards / Voltaire Astrauckas / 27 Color Man / Ryan Keller / 28 Swan / Nathan Krauss / 30
REDEMPTION
Nicole Samanich 3
Untitled Justin Billing before we leave for the city, whisked away by lights and labor, lets take a trip to the ocean, craft our affections in the motion of waves let us lie under fishbowl skies, speaking nothing but truths as the world spins around us, under us; to avoid the fall, we, too, are spinning dizzy, giddy, finally seeing clear stars reflected by the arcs of our eyes i breathe grass, sand and your sweet hair, sea air no worries here, just you, the moon and i at the waterline tiny crustaceans prance a rhythm in the aqueous ebb and flow the moon has her way of singing the Earth to sleep; her gentle fingers are the tides spinning along the dunes to the shore we roll past the strange hermits through salty detritus into welcoming waters, seeing sunset gleam golden as a wave howls above ties to land forgotten, in this moment, we are
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Ryan Keller
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Abigail Kedsey: Or: How I Didn’t Fuck Up My Life [excerpt] Carly Doyle
When I was twelve I walked into my living room at the exact moment my sister stepped off a chair. The rope snapped up around her chin like headgear. She broke three of her teeth when her jaw hit the edge of my mother’s antique trunk. “Are you alright?” My lips were blue and sticky around a splintered popsicle stick. Pieces of my hair were stuck to my neck. My thighs touched in humid moisture under my pajama shorts. She looked silly down there on the rug, curled around the end of the trunk like a rag doll. The curtain blew over the chair, still upright in the middle of the room. It didn’t belong there. It did not match. Mother would say something if she were here. My sister spat blood at me in response.
“Abby?” I looked up from my lap. I couldn’t see who was speaking. It could be my mother. It could be anyone. The light clicked on. “Abigail, why on earth are you sitting in the dark?” My mother always said things like this. Why on earth. Like everything that everyone did was excessively absurd. I blinked at her like a chameleon. “Reading.”
She was still stooped over the lampshade, her hand a spidery shadow through the fabric. Her face became pinched and uncomfortable. She spoke softly, even though I was the only person there. Or maybe I wasn’t. “Abby. Abby, it’s dark in here.” I looked about, the yellow bulb making everything look like scotch tape and glue. “No it isn’t.” My mother straightened her spine. I could hear every notch click into place, like a puppet. My eyes were dry from not allowing myself to blink. Nicole Samanich
“Your father said he had to bring you home from school today.” “He picked me up. He didn’t bring me home.” “Abigail stop it.” “I was cold.” She left me sitting on the couch and disappeared into the kitchen, sighing. I heard her heavy winter coat on a chair. It made a fabric noise. Zip. “You were cold.” She appeared again in the living room, with less layers on, running her knobby hands through her hair. I didn’t
understand why she was telling me what I had just told her. I didn’t say anything. “Abiga-Abby. You can’t leave school sick because you were cold.” She sat down in the chair across the carpet from me. I stared at her black loafers. “I didn’t leave sick. I left because I was cold.” My mother put her face in her hands for a moment. She did it so fast I wasn’t really sure it happened at all. She went upstairs and shut a door. I heard her talking to my father. I knew it was him because her voice wasn’t nice anymore. I looked down at my lap to finish my literature assignment. It was upside down. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t read it earlier. The next week I was allowed to see my sister in the hospital. It had been four years since I had to sit in the dentist’s office, waiting for her to have teeth again. She hadn’t become any more pleasant over years in treatment and cookie cutter wings of hospital wards. “Sup kid?” Evelyn leaned over the table on her forearms and looked up at me through straight black bangs. “Hi, Eve.” I twisted my hands in my lap. “Mom let you come alone?” “Dad, too.” She laughed a smoker’s bark. Tipping back in her chair, she threw her head back to look at the ceiling. I could see the bandages on her pale wrists. “Like dad has a say in shit.” She ground her teeth for a moment while I stared at her. She made the tension disappear because she didn’t exist to make it in the first place. She wavered somewhere out of reality for me. Between life and death was too cliche. “Don’t fuck up your life, Abby.” “Oh-Okay.” I leaned back a little. Her words were sharp. She let the legs of her chair slam down on the tile and stared into my face like she was trying to find something. “Don’t be this.”
She drank a bottle of bleach the next day.
“I’m so sorry Marilyn.” “Such a beautiful girl.” “If there is anything I can do-” I pressed my stocking feet into the plush maroon car pet of the funeral home. The building’s first floor was broken into two rooms and a central hallway divided everything in half. One room had my sister’s casket. The other had me. It was dark, the only light coming from the gap in the doorway. The mourners were talking to my mother in the hallway. She was crying. I could hear her sniffling. Tearless. I picked up a red and white mint off the tray next to me.
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To My Body Sarah J. Singer I’ve never apologized for the things I’ve put you through shots and bowls and joints and joints cracking with the weight of books of boxes of human bones
R y a n K e l l e r I’ve never apologized for the roughness or the bruises or the questing fingers that cast about like scuttling spiders where they don’t belong I’ve never given you gentler things soft hands, soft words, soft lips eyes tongue You’ve been scraped by callouses torn up by slander, by teeth
You’ve been slipped poison slipped out of clothes slipped into and out of and into again I’ve let you be taken and used and used up till there’s no place for me till there’s no me left But I’m sorry and I’m trying I’m trying to give you softer hands and loving words sweet tongue and lips kind eyes And you’ll be loved
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Tame Kyle Allen Pass people in wayward wanderings And feel you too do walk the same Laugh as rain falls upon all hair Mop up the face for each day. Complain of people who bother To detail success Suck up, drop the conversation too fast – What a mouth gets crafted! Hell, most freeze over before spewing sound, Long for others to shut their gums But still can’t flap the same. We try to be everyone with everyone, Look above at little and muddle in dirt puddles We must refuse to ponder, abandon our calm meander And clean a fresh heart to beat as one. We bang drums and rumble with pain, A tamed hunger, space beyond the sky – Clouds breaking as clock hands tick by Itching inside with a question: when it ends, do we begin? Pass minutes, rehash plays made Take on hackneyed games when all is lost Settle down: it is not acceptance, Rather maintenance of the already great. Time is here to take, not find. Waiting is not marked with care – Us alive to our needs And nothing more. Laugh at people in their misplaced anger Rummage in under-bed boxes, storage Archive of the past, mnemonic test – Refuse to remiss the present.
N a t h a n K r a u s s
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Vividly Alive Amber Donofrio and Caleb Miller
He waited at the window, lights dimmed to the scent of potted soil and damp, attic decay. The grasses (In a space and out of time I give way) are still green, he thought, marks encrusted on his worn jeans, as the sprinklers hummed outside, water spraying in semi-circular waves, (to robber look-alikes who mimic our faces) cut off from completion with the changing of cycles—mechanic repetition. The glass was smudged, and he resisted the urge to scratch it further, his fingers (they once saw on a television.) tucked into denim pockets. His hair was flattened on his head, and he could almost taste the ozone, the yearning, which was slowly (They are those people, as much as I) slipping from his mind. He listened to the dog eat his dinner behind him, to the clatter of nails on wood and quiet lapping of water (for our forms collapse from these bodies’ weights,). But apart from that—nothing but his breathing, the pumping of his heart (dragging and unbearable to present) beneath muscle and bone. There were no fireworks, not that he’d expected any—just rainclouds that never seemed (even to ourselves in this world’s expanse.) to go away, which hid amongst themselves, concealing nothing but their attempts, failingly, to hide. (Inside you are different, vivid, alive.)
Matthew Feminella
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i dined with redemption Cris Cucerzan i had the veal redemption had me we ate inbetween brackets while i digested the little pecuniary gears of a forgift. i spent a good amount in that chair, conversing with the eyebagless hospitality underneath one dangle of a bulb casting cutlery shadows on the table cloth. we talked about sins. redemption had nothing to say so i kept eating my veal fork in mouth and thought about what i had missed under the canopies of moments. there was a curled hair on the cloth pencilling a trace of time, and that’s when i knew I knew about our momentary exchanges over the table. i got the check and left a tip to dangle in the rectangles of my decision.
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Matthew Feminella
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A Personal Apocalypse, in a Minor Key [excerpt] Benjamin Gallagher His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe that keeps pilling ruin upon ruin and hurls it in front of his feet. - Walter Benjamin
In 2000, there was an aura of apocalypse. News reports became portents, newspaper articles the prophetic glimpses of John the Revelator. There was Y2K, but that was not the apocalypse that seemed to loom over my family, not the harbinger of long Friday night car rides back from the library. My father would turn off NPR when he heard stories about Him, shaking his head. I’d keep my head pressed against the window listening to the sound of the highway and air rushing past, anything to escape the silence of our car. These are some of my first political memories and the first political question that I asked my father was, “What’s so bad about Bush?” He didn’t respond immediately. Instead he turned the heat down just a bit. I remember it being colder in Pennsylvania then it ever was, but that October and November felt colder still. Eventually he spoke. “He’s dangerous. He’s looking for a fight.” To me, in the following eight years, this statement has seemed prophetic, though, of course, it was nothing of the sort. My father’s opinion is roughly the same for just about ever single republican candidate who has run for any position ever. I can’t really blame him; after all, it’s more or less my own current conclusion. I abandoned fairness years ago, because it is hard to be a zealot if you see shades of grey, and it’s hard to await an apocalypse without some harbinger. This is unfair of course. I am being overly partisan again. I know that intellectually. But intellectually, I also know that there aren’t monsters under my bed, but that doesn’t stop me from thinking it, late at night, when I can’t sleep.
I remember September 11th only vaguely. At the time, we were still living in Pennsylvania, my father spending long stretches of time on the road between there and Massachusetts, while my mother had began working more or less full time. So it was just my brothers and me that day. My parents didn’t rush home. No one at my school decided that it was an important enough to talk to us about, despite United 93 going down in the state, despite the attacks in New York. I was in my brother’s room with him and his friend when they began to talk about it. At first, I didn’t believe them. I thought it was some kind of joke, and let out a strange little laugh. I’ve never told anyone that. Everyone else had such an immediate reaction, so many others were directly affected, and my own momentary disbelief seemed to take away from it. I was embarrassed about that, mortified. If I wasn’t already sure of my status as a failed human being, this moment would have sealed the deal. If it will make you feel any better, my brother told me to shut the fuck up. That he was serious. I shut down. My brother’s carpet was blue, and I often imagined it as the sea, when my father would read us Treasure Island, or sometimes night when I imagined the bunk drifting off as I did. Now, the sea seemed to enveloping me, slowly rising until it covered me, until I began to drown under shame and fear. I don’t remember much else about that day. My family always spends Thanksgiving in New York. My father’s cousin owns a brownstone in Brooklyn, where we always gathered since my great-uncle Marvin died, and my great-aunt Sigrid moved from a suburb back to the city. Of their suburbs of New York, I have only vague memories, mainly of a wooden swivel chair in an office, where Marvin would listen to Orioles games, and a thick wool rug in the living room. That rug reminded as a child of the dog that lived next door to us, an Australian sheep dog that was under the impression that we were his flock. In the brownstone nothing reminded me of that dog, though I’d always spend my nights there in mortal terror of the cat that prowled the basement where we slept. 19 I liked the dinners, though. I sat at the children’s
table, the lot of us lumped together between the potatoes and the windows. In 2001, there were only five of us at that end, though the conditions would get increasingly cramped as we gained second cousins and the odd influx of family friends waxed and waned from year to year. At these dinners, I learned the knack of construction in my words. My father always told me that I wore my heart on my sleeve, so I endeavored to cultivate a style that minimized my actual emotions that lacked any rawness, any connection to my emotions. And this artifice of language was useful at the dinner table, especially around my grandmother, a woman who always reminded me of nothing so much as the Trunchbull from Matilda. Lest you think this is hyperbole, nicknames she has given various students include midget and dummy, and when we were children she threatened to hang us out of her apartment window by the ankles. It’s not that any of us jump on weakness in the ranks, but it does help to pass the time. I usually would keep my mouth shut, though, except to pile on to someone else’s misfortune. After dinner, my brothers and I would play cards more often than not, usually an oddly aggressive form of Hearts with my dad’s other cousin. “Fuck.” It’s how he punctuates his sentences with the word. He cussed us out whenever we’d steal a trick out from under him. He’d eventually throw his cards down in frustration and storm off, leaving our game short a player, a vacancy that we rarely were able to fill. Otherwise, I’d spend the time listening to whatever the local public radio station was, the speaker pressed to my ear, curled into a ball and awaiting the hissing of that damn cat. I awaited apocalypse even in New York, trembling in a sleeping bag. My brothers are at the pool. I’m in the hotel room. My parents are out, doing… something. I don’t exactly know what but it involves our moving up here, to Massachusetts. I left my brothers because it’s time for my favorite TV show, except it hadn’t quite come on when I arrived. My legs were swung over the top of the sofa, my head pressing against the floor, and I watched with calculated disinterest the decidedly violent cartoon that adults called CNN. In fact the cartoon I was about to watch was a more
realistic portrayal of warfare then the coverage on CNN or any other major network. It’s called Gundam, and I think perhaps, a tangent is now in order. Gundam is a franchise show, with several hundred episodes total strung out over thirty years and many, many series. Though, like most Japanese shows, it had only recently made its way to the states. At the time, Toonami was still showing two of the series, the very nineties Gundam Wing and the very old Mobile Suit Gundam I was a fan of the former and left indifferent and confused by the latter. At the time, something in Gundam Wing spoke to me, and I now know what. It was angst-ridden, stupid, violent, and filled with fun robot action. It was also about a corrupt government and teenagers committing terrorist actions against said government. It was black and white morality, if for no other reason than that it failed to make any of the villains a shade of grey, something that original series was well known for. Back then, as I said, I liked Gundam Wing, but upon a recent re-watch of both I found my position entirely flipped. I now despise Gundam Wing. The characters are whiny, their actions reprehensible, while the villains are no better and frequently worse. Mobile Suit Gundam, though, had grown immeasurably in my estimation, as it offers an impressive and morally ambiguous situation, in addition to a complex and well-released view of a war. But it makes an odd amount of sense to me that the former was popular right at the beginning of the Bush era, if only because it seemed more real to us: Terrorism, paranoia, oppression, without any subtlety or tact, but with giant robots.
Antonio Arocho
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fvnle
Transubstantiation Jillian Kaplan A confused child thinks of vampires and fantasy cannibals gnashing evil brown teeth. That’s what she used to picture in the wooden pews where Mother made her sit each Sunday. Now she thinks of energy swirling above her palms in whispered, invisible cycles. We are heat embodied in flesh.
Heat is atoms and molecules possessed.
That’s how she makes sense of it. A calorie is 4.1840 joules. If Jesus’s body went back to the soil, and the soil grew wheat, he is in the cracker. When she bites into the cracker, she believes she’s biting into Jesus and every bundle of swarming nerves and particles that felt the clay-baked soil now stuck to the bottom of her sandals. When she drinks the blood of her ancestors in the small cup of wine she ingests him and the whole human race, and her almond eyes smile brown-rooted roses because she knows someday she’ll be soil too, her heart a low drumline of perpetual serenity captured in the lick of collective crumbs.
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Nathan Krauss
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My Brother Kathary Howd Machan My brother lives in a box of cigars. Each day every day he lifts the lid to peek at the world and hopes the world won’t notice. Bristles grow on his face and throat. He smells, fears soap. He never throws his loose hairs away but carefully keeps them, dirty and dark, in the teeth of a green plastic comb. Long ago he spent years committing incest. I survived but we never mention it. He’s thirty-five now and still lives with our mother. My favorite joke when I visit is to talk of the time I stabbed his thigh with a fork and sent him screeching around the table for ruining my first perfect crayoned picture. We pretend to laugh and the scar does not go away. Migraine headaches take me back to the fork, to the fort he built under cool pines where he wouldn’t let me visit unless I would...and I did. Now he does his best to repel. He rots his teeth, sucks his cigars, growls and belches and grows fat. Each night every night he grows a little smaller inside. One morning my mother, weeping, may find he’s flickered out at last, a small gray heap in an ashtray. I’ll visit, leave the jokes behind, bring instead a perfect crayoned picture to wrap around his coffin. 24
Hope Carter
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My Nose Makes a Smaller Face Evan Sommers My nose makes a smaller face, in my face. It’s like the forerunning tip of my brain and mind and soul and spirit. It’s this pointy precursor to my ghost, I think—I’m not entirely sure of any of this, of course. My eyes are in my beak, blinking in alternate shadow, and light when I squawk or speak, and shadow, and so on. Long ago, I had to kneel in the desert, among all these rivers thinner than the width of a finger, and pray. I prayed not to be scarred, but I was. The rivers remain, roped around me. You ask, what does it mean to have your eyes in your mouth? I answer, to be unable to see while silent, and while I answer, I see you, and you don’t look like someone worth answering. You ask, so? I open my mouth to look at you, again, and that’s when I realize you’re too ugly to hear anything else I’ve got to say. I close my mouth. You’re gone. I don’t remember quite the way you looked. You ask me something else. I grow tired, here, in the darkness. I’ve often wondered how the sky must have looked, before it was shattered into all those tiny, blue pieces, glittering out there. If I could rebuild it, I would. I depart myself in this kind of asterism; the points of my shoulders pinion out, away from me, my knees and ankles, too. I encircle, and return in the blink of an instant, or less. I scatter, like light, and resolve again, into my own fourpointed being. Alone, I am the godless, in search of miracles. For these, I’ll sing my love, and even more. I miss the sea-times. I long for the ocean, and yet I cannot cry. Even a tear would be too much. These curses are with whom I carouse. And the candles, in the cave above the desert. This is my home, now, blemished as it is. I was a raised in a cave like this one, above the ocean. I remember the way the sea-birds cried. I remember the way the wind would taunt me. I remember tears and seaspray and laughter, sometimes, raucous laughter. It’s a constant reminder, my father always said. And you will never know cataclysms like I had to; you will never know another, for there will be no more, he’d say. From hero
to liar, he would fall, at the whim of the one god, Chaos, or so it seemed. Now, when my heart grows cold, the sky makes a winter of the world, and when I grow enraged, the tempests howl and the distance begins to tremble. It is rare I feel the spring pawing at my entrails, or the summer blurring in my darkness for something less dark—or at least, for the scent of it. I remember how the sea would lap at the base of the cliffs, loudest in the morning. I remember the glow of night, and the sea whispering in the dark. I remember the cool, salted ocean air and all it brought, and the moonlight.
Voltaire Astrauckas
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Ryan Keller
Untitled Justin Billing The stranger takes a deep drag from a cigarette that spits nothing like wisdom, standing at the intersection of Main and Maple, gazing at the pile of rubble that used to be Hannah-Williams He longs for the days when he would rock on the spring-ride triceratops. New science says: Triceratops never existed; A paleontological pipe dream and misplaced bones. Sticking out of the rubble: a green horn the end of a broken spring
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Lilith Katharyn Howd Machan I’ve been places you can never name. Don’t even try to imagine the phosphorescent diamond lights that carry swamps to Heaven. God? I’ve got his number: olives in a cocktail glass, swans
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obsessed at sunset. Oh, give me sighs of all the men who want my body secretly, dreams deep as peridot, nursery walls afire. Liar, all those who call me Lamia (John Keats, the dear, be damned), for I am all that every woman yearns for, freedom at the price of pain: birth
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beyond all generations, pure as art in flame.
"Getting started, keeping going, getting started again - in art and in life, it seems to me this is the essential rhythm not only of achievement but of survival." -Seamus Heaney
For complete versions of the two excerpted fiction stories published here, and for more information of our contributors, please visit http://metanoiaexperience.tumblr.com/
peach out!
Contributors Sarah Singer
A Senior double major in Writing and Philosophy & Religious Studies at Ithaca College. She acknowledges the absurdity of this description, and also the absurdity of life in general, which is perhaps why she writes. She loves Middle English poetry, Sherlock Holmes, sci-fi/fantasy, and anything Korean.
Voltaire Astrauckas
A freshman Writing major at Ithaca College. “There are several obsessions in my art, and even, perhaps, a compulsiveness. I hope to continue growing as an artist. Perfection is a myth, yet we must still strive for it.”
Carlene “Carly” Doyle
A junior Writing major at Ithaca College with a History minor. From northern New Jersey, Carly enjoys flying on airplanes, speeding and asparagus. Her creative writing includes two published short stories.
Jillian Kaplan
A senior Writing major and Anthropology minor. After college she hopes to use her anthropology knowledge by doing service-work abroad and then later turning her experiences into an awesome piece of writing. Jillian loves to write poetry and is also currently a staff writer for Accent, the arts & culture section of The Ithacan. She is an avid tea-lover and a very snappy dresser.
Nicole Samanich
A sophomore in the Illustration Department at the Rhode Island School of Design. Most of her work is either painting, drawing or a combination of both.
Cristian “Cris” Cucerzan
Pursues a Bachelor of Arts (Honours) in English in the University of Auckland. Cris was born in Romania, and is fluent in Romanian, English and French. “I’m not certain where the tinges of my writing come from, but playing with words fascinates me.”
Katharyn Howd Machan
The author of 30 published collections, her poems have appeared in numerous magazines, anthologies, and textbooks, including “The Bedford Introduction to Literature and Sound and Sense.” She is a professor in the Department of Writing at Ithaca College in central New York State. In 2012 she edited “Adrienne Rich: A Tribute Anthology” (Split Oak Press).
Benjamin Gallagher
A Writing major at Ithaca College from Massachusetts. He likes cats, but does not own one. When asked of the Spartan’s famous laconic response to the Athenians, he said, “Too Lengthy” not seeming to notice his own was far longer.
Amber Donofrio and Caleb Miller
Both juniors at Ithaca College, their interests include poetry and philosophy—particularly the intersection of the two. While Caleb is a German major with a Writing minor, Amber majors in Writing with minors in Art and Art History. They both enjoy experimenting with genre and form and seeing what outcome will result.
Antonio Arocho
A nineteen year old artist from Puerto Rico, studying Industrial Design in The School of Arts of Puerto Rico in Old San Juan. His passions include music, art, poetry and life itself.
Kyle Allen
A Writing major at Ithaca College from Massachusetts. He writes and records music with the bands Generous Melon Tango and Friday Night Sweatpants. He also believes in ghosts.
Ryan Keller
A film student at Full Sail University and a photography enthusiast. “I experiment with lighting techniques and subject matters, trying to evoke different emotions from an audience.” For more information, please visit theinfectionofryankeller.wordpress.com.
Nathan Krauss
A sophomore in the BFA film and photography program at Ithaca College. While he mostly concentrates his efforts in the photographic aspect of motion pictures, he is just as enthusiastic about still photography and always enjoys capturing the world on film.
Hope Carter
A junior Art Education major at Ithaca College.
Matthew Feminella
A senior Cinema and Photography major with a Cinema Production concentration at Ithaca College. “I’m inspired by the natural beauty that engulfs all of us. Photography is like freezing the mind and taking the time to evaluate that single moment and find the meaning in it; I guess that’s why it intrigues me.”