ART & SCOPE Fall 2017
Art A Student-Association funded club that is dedicated to the promotion of education and involvement in the creative arts. We are proudly in charge of publishing the bi-annual magazine that we present to you now as Art & Scope.
&
Scope We’ll Always Have Each Other Aliana Manteria
Paige Welch President
David Anderson Vice President
Chelsea Beavers Treasurer
Julia Langro Secretary
Marissa Hogan Public Relations
Michelle Behr Public Relations Layout Editor
Kelsey Block Copy Editor
Lauren Milana Copy Editor
Janaya Josephs
Amber Mercado Copy Editor
Gabe Membreno Copy Editor
Sydney Strano
Emma Henderson
Alanna Ballard Copy Editor
Jillian Moczara
Michelle Barbero
Hannah Lonergan
Copy Editor
Fall 2017 Members
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 1
Table of Contents 4.
I You Them Us
4. Julian - Jasmine Lavelle
15.
Purple - Katie Garrity Untitled - Kieran Mangels
16.
Hazel - Marissa Hogan
17.
Garden Gate - Caitlin Eccher The Specialist - Marissa Hogan
18.
Looking - Sam Filkins Her - Marissa Hogan
19.
Her - Marissa Hogan Her - Marissa Hogan
20.
MTV - Sara LaPell
21.
Now What America? - Paige Welch popmonroe - Megan Holzwarth
22.
Flora 1 - Sydney Strano Bloom - Alana Ribaudo
23.
Flora 2 - Sydney Strano
5. Cast of Characters - Paige Welch 6. like the smoke, you linger - Janaya Josephs i’m someone you might love - Janaya Josephs royalty - Janaya Josephs thief & lover - Janaya Joseph bittersweet - Janaya Josephs 7. Breath - Briela Tollisen Lioness - Briela Tollisen Knot - Briela Tollisen 8. Blue Monday - Catherine Felton Untitled - Kieran Mangels 9. Bohemian Rhapsody - Sara LaPell 10. Bridge-gapped - Michael Ludlum 11. After College - Chumin Wu
24. Disease - Jasmine Lavelle Cyclic - Michael Ludlum 25. Mummies - Denny Burhan Untitled - Jasmine Lavelle 26.
Untitled - Rachel Bevacqua
27.
Ari Poem - Jillian Moczara
13. Take your time, hurry up - Richard Page
28.
Waiting for the Storm to Pass - Ashley Warner
14. Honey - Jasmine Lavelle
29.
Untitled - Megan Jansen Crying Isn’t Bad for You - Aliana Manteria
12. Joey Paulson- Jillian Moczara Eli Tomac | Unadilla MX - Anthony Carcaramo
2
30.
Animals Nature Architecture Home Music
47. I Guess it Depends on Your Perspective - Megan Jansen 48. βάρκα - Laiken Whittredge Untitled - Meghan Brady 49. 9/18/17 - Lillian La Plante 50. “stone” - Gabe Membreno
31. Abandoned - Gabe Vargas
51. Falls - Kieran Mangels Untitled - Juliet Norelli
32. Little Grey House - Hannah Lonergan
52. “of a bluebird” - Gabe Membreno
33. Little Grey House - Hannah Lonergan (Cont.)
53. Polar Bears - Ashley Warner Untitled - Dina Atwa Untitled - Dina Atwa
34. Harold’s House - Marissa Hogan 35. Untitled - Kathryn Fernandez City Stretch - Denny Burhan Pulse On - Kelsey Block 36. Amor Fati - Katie Garrity Irresponsibility - Katie Garrity 37. Ambiguity - Katie Garrity Choice - Katie Garrity 38. Future Kitchen - Jasmine Lavelle
54. πόλη - Laiken Whittredge 55. ροδάκινο - Laiken Whittredge ροκ εν ρολ - Laiken Whittredge 56. Headboards - Kelsey Block Tick Tock - Matthew Coville 57. Denim - Julia Langro Untitled - Jennifer Testa
39. French Toast Recipes - Aliana Manteria
58. Bookshelves - Paige Welch Untitled - Meghan Brady
40. Land - Sara LaPell My Friend: - Andrea Grebinger
59. Nyhavn, Denmark - Amber Mercado
41. Space Consciousness - Jillian Moczara Moving Sky - Gabe Vargas 42. Light and Dark - Rafael Reyes Imagery - Paige Welch 43. Lunar Light - Paige Welch Untitled - Kieran Mangels 44. Did You Remember to Fact Check Today? - Megan Jansen
60. “Ode to My Striped Sweater” - Gabe Membreno 61. Duality - Amelia Lee Untitled - Briela Tollisen 62. Mushrooms of Oneonta - Michelle Behr Dependent - Konstantina Salales Watching - Ashley Warner 63. Should’ve - Alexis Becker Turtle - Kiera Monaghan
45. It’s an Avocado! - Kelsey Block Little Guy - Cynthia Lambertson
64. Untitled - Juliet Norelli Haiku Six - Samanatha Filkins I see seashells - Emily Bauerle
46. Barring Those Who Claim to Never Be Content with Being Content - Michael Ludlum
65. Flow - Ashley Warner From Above - Gabe Vargas
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 3
I You Them Us 4
Julian Jasmine Lavelle
Cast of Characters How to play relationships: By not living them. Only dreaming of them from a “safe distance”. Remember (after you’ve already been hurt) that there is no such thing as safety, especially when it comes to people. So it just becomes distance. Form a committed relationship with the empty space. How to play love: Having a lot of love to give is not a bad thing. Love with all your heart. Continue even when it is not returned. Pour depth after depth of your multi-faceted need into another person. It will be worth it when they accept it and pour it back into you. How to play happiness: Don’t play, only see the word as a poetic symbol. Symbols are intangible. Write poetry about it, watch movies, have other people create art, but never feel it. What is supposed to inspire you when you’re living it? Be afraid you’ll lose something instead. How to play yourself: Don’t recognize yourself in the mirror. Become as estranged from yourself as possible. Do not fall in love with who you are. Be disappointed. That is the only way to be you, at least what you can remember. How to play emotions: Play them all to the point of superfluity. Play them all together at once. Make them a whirlwind. Get sucked into their black hole. (Refer back to previous section. Playing yourself can only be done after you play emotions and vice virsa) How to play change: Change the good things, keep the bad things, lose control over the difference. Be afraid, very afraid that the future is empty because you will be different in it. Ask questions with no answers. How to play family: Feel guilty about how ungrateful you are. Love them with all that you are, knowing that you are not a lot. Know that it is enough when they love you with all that they are. How to play forgiveness: Easy, you have to forgive yourself. Everyone else has already been pardoned. How to play happiness (reprise): You live it. It take a long time but you do it. You have to. Look at all that you have. Paige Welch
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 5
like the smoke, you linger Janaya Josephs
i’m someone you might love Janaya Josephs
royalty Janaya Josephs thief & lover Janaya Josephs
bittersweet Janaya Josephs
6
Lionness Briela Tollisen
Breath Briela Tollisen
Knot Briela Tollisen
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 7
Blue Monday Catherine Felton
Untitled Kieran Mangels
8
Bohemian Rhapsody Sara LaPell
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 9
After College Chumin Wu
10
Bridge-gapped Bleeding-heart narcissist bleeding for itself, An enigmatic mind wrapped in an ego Suffocating shrink-wrap binge-drinking brain damage; Self-educated college drop-out hindsight. Prisoner breaking into non-existent pain, Deep-seeded ivy tension self-defense shrugging Shoulders deflecting heavy self-reflection, Bisected line half-spun completes a circle; Split-brain mirror membrane echo chamber. Rail-thin limbs zip-tied by pigs to the track, Hijacked facial expression stuck in anger or thought Fighting myself tomorrow still-born but breathing; Umbilical ball-and-socket ties rope like hands, Self-sabotage chain-link funnel birth canal. Pretending audience to drown one heckler, Unheard harangue from ghostly blood-soaked rib flare Forcing self-loathing caged beneath narrow walkways; Heel-heavy cleats plucking biting bone doormats, Resetting discord hangover trampling thin thoughts. Splits down the middle one-sided self-image. Michael Ludlum
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 11
Joey Paulson I exist in fragments. Scenes from a story of a little girl who lived down the lane. When I think of my spot, The space I take up I find it so small. So ordinary. I find myself so meaningless. 25 years is too long to search for a backstory I know I will never find. Something not created can never be lost. Will you write me into existence? Give me more than name, give me more than 10 seconds of screen time in this little girl’s life? Give me heart, give me bones which can snap, give me blood which can bleed, give me love which can fade? Transform me from ghost on your wall, Pinned tangible, Make me out to be person. Kiss my lips formed of static, Breath more than television frequencies into my collapsed lungs I have not seen enough to breath. You can write me into life, Give me a story to tell. I know they will not mind. I have been forgotten by all but you. Please do not leave me behind. Once I learn to walk I know I will move fast. I know we can move fast. I want to exist in more than a mind, a screen, I think I could be a good person. I think I want to be.
12
Eli Tomac | Unadilla MX Anthony Carcaramo
Take your time, hurry up Richard Page
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 13
Honey Jasmine Lavelle
14
Purple purple is bruises and cold air in your face and ghostly noises in your ears and sickness twisting through your veins it’s a dry aching in your chest and sore muscles no matter how much ibuprofen you take purple is memories of death purple is sadness in every fiber of your being purple is empty haunting nightmares, danger, pain a lot of pain purple is tired separated by a glass wall always watching, never truly there purple is hurting and aching and throbbing and cringing purple is fearing a man’s touch and taking six showers in two days but still feeling dirty feeling ruined purple is wanting to hurt because you hurt demanding and contagious and addictive purple is over
Untitled Kieran Mangels
Katie Garrity
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 15
Hazel Marissa Hogan
The Specialist Marissa Hogan
16
Garden Gate The first time I felt an arm around my waist And a hand on my hip I can’t remember the exact place Or even who I was with It was a big event A family party I was ten and I was being introduced to a group of adults. I don’t remember much of it But I do remember my spine shooting Straight up With shock and discomfort A feeling of that’s not suppose to be there The sensation of my shoulders whirling back It was the first time I felt like I had to be taller Like it was suppose to be okay Comfortable even though I wasn’t The next time was when I was 13 years old Valentine’s Day Rocks in my sneakers And you put your arm there for a picture It felt warm and comforting but Still surprising as the First firefly in June Then when I kissed you on your cheek You said you wanted nothing more And I was fine with that because How much can more be? My hip bones got bigger They push against my skin now They became handles To people who came and went A way to be introduced A way to be claimed Or a way to just be held close With no other alternative meaning behind it Someone just wanted me near them Pulled in closer by hands on both hips It feels normal and almost comforting now I’m growing up I thought Fuzzy vision and shaky palms Biting tongues and cleaning tubs were new sensations but
The hand on my hip became a reminder that I was still in the shallow end Hundreds of sweaty bodies Using my elbows to swim through Reaching for the metal grate and The second I feel the metal rush through my palm You put your hand on my hip Pull yourself through and look at me so proud This time was different than the rest It was hot and touching was The last Thing on my mind But the second your hand landed I was put at ease In the middle of a sea of chaos Damp lips reach my cheek Then exhale You were my re-do I’m afraid of them now Feeling fingers wrap around them And dig in When my face hit the granite countertop Feeling my whole body give up Dreaming into darkness to pretend I wasn’t there The water just streamed The only thing I felt Was the sharp edges of fingernails pressing Into my hipbones A hand on my hip was such an amazing Sense of comfort and love Now it’s just a feeling of fear And a reminder of the box I’m forced into I used to melt into a lovers grip But now My spine shoots Straight up With shock and discomfort A feeling of that’s not suppose to be there The sensation of my shoulders whirling back Caitlin Eccher
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 17
Looking I always looked for love in the strangest places, Like in strangers’ beds, Like in how easy it is to love someone When you can barely remember their name, Like in the way they looked at me, When they were trying so hard to see someone else, Like in the way they held me, When they were holding onto the thought that maybe I’d start to love them back. I always looked for love in the strangest places But I never found it there. I found it in green eyes and freckled face, In a smile that says welcome home and a voice that says you’re safe here, In a hand that holds my head up high when I’m too tired to do that on my own. I always looked for love in the strangest places, And that’s why I found it when I finally stopped looking. Sam Filkins
18
Her Marissa Hogan
Her Marissa Hogan
Her Marissa Hogan
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 19
MTV Sara LaPell
20
What Now America? “America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing.” America, I’ve given you nothing, and yet you’ve taken. I voted in a democracy but ended up with a fascist Disguised by the 21st century. Dictators only exist in history. America, why do you keep proving me wrong? America, why do you bring the mud of wars home with you, On the bottoms of china-made boots without using the welcome mat? America, the footprints you tracked through the kitchen Have led to an excuse: Another reason to stop a family in an airport. You told me to be afraid of what was not me. So I have trapped myself inside. Me and fellows draped in Red, White, and Blue have closed our minds to give into fear. America, who will be the next terrorist? What color will you paint their skin? You’ll keep that satellite streams open to plaster an image of a man, The next person we’re supposed aim our hate towards. Like those weapons stockpiled Deadly secrets launched as soon as you press the button. I’m not sorry for leaving patriotism behind the last time I heard a child was shot by a man in blue or just a man with a gun you handed to him. America, who do you give your badges to? America, I’m queer as fuck and not afraid. But I should be, right? Normativity contradicting diversity contradicting humanity contradicting Everything but you You and what you prop up us to stand for. Paige Welch
popmonroe Megan Holzwarth
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 21
Flora 1 Sydney Strano
Bloom My DNA grows flowers Blood of my blood Heart of my heart Put me in the Earth and let me bloom Bury me deep when I die But allow me to bloom Let something beautiful come from my life Make everything have beauty My DNA grows flowers My DNA grows flowers Alana Ribaudo
22
Flora 2 Sydney Strano
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 23
Disease Jasmine Lavelle
Cyclic Ouroboros desire hidden under where lust lies still, force-fed self-excrement from hunger only itself can fill. Restless sleeping serpent still dreaming about dreamless sleep, waiting in line to wait for time only the deathless reap. Offhand masturbation locks jaws aching grateful release, gnawing mouthful of teeth swallows spine bent by rueful caprice. Selfsameness and shameless to spin a tongue around a lie, and taste the taste of sweet from open sores behind the eye. Michael Ludlum
24
Mummies Right before I enter my parents’ home, I leave her at the door For a few days A few weeks Promising I will get back to her To keep me sane, she gives me a piece of herself Emerald green-painted toenails under Nike socks and Puma sneakers She says this will keep you grounded. “Assalamualaikum” As I greet my father, I keep my eyes on his feet, Wondering if he’s got any secret under his nails too When we make eye contact He clocks the mummies in my eyes And I fear they will unravel with him Into his same eyes when he left his fortunes in a town across the ocean Only to find his son syncopating with Luna; There’s no alignment between here and Jakarta’s time zones, Just two confused wounds camouflaged in linen—we pretend and call this: happy In the kitchen, my mother cooks rendang and nasi goreng And for a brief moment, I forget that outside this house, we ourselves are consumed in Americanism She wipes off the sweat from her forehead and whispers to me that my father has trouble sleeping at night It is clear to me that his mind is fixated in a town across the ocean But Surabaya’s traffic is a mummy with no space to unravel Yet my sisters diffuse between still cars, banging tambourines, singing lullabies in the streets for the women like us who will never get a chance to sing a song besides their mourning anthem If they’re lucky, they will collect enough spare change to purchase a meal Or a name If they’re very lucky, they will wake up the next day to start over. I remember these moments of being six My father never rolled down his windows To this day I try to unravel if he discouraged the women from coming Or averted me from leaving; the closest I will get to sisterhood But when you live with denial, you consume their tendencies And like him, I often dismiss her Sometimes, he helps—this is how we bond. Denny Burhan
Untitled Jasmine Lavelle
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 25
Untitled Rachel Bevacqua
26
Ari Poem When you see ghosts of past boyfriend living in your partner, even he does not know he is your patchwork horror. When he is made of broken glass, shows you how to tiptoe around every edge. Tells you that you two are still feeling each other out, when you cut yourself on his sides, everyone always has, he does not know how to soften himself. When hearing of your pain “bums” him out, so you learn to relocate your trauma to the places he will not touch. He will tell you he loves the way you look when you sleep, he cannot help but kiss your open, vulnerable mouth and you will brush your teeth 5 times that morning, wonder how long he’s done it. His hands will masquerade as claws one night, unknowingly, and you will flee safe in your vehicle from your ghosts and he will not be mad. He will talk of going to Israel next June and you will say you are not thinking long term because these fights keep bringing memories of high school and your body is not built to be sharp constantly. You will pull out blades for the first time in 3 years and he will say he should watch you closer and you think there is no way to feel smaller than an ant under a microscope. He will tell you that you are brilliant, unique and that you look like his last partner in one breath, feminine people with short hair all look the same. Tell you he hates your nice, too encompassing to battle his spite, but he is fearful of the bite you hide behind your gums for when you argue. Imply being soft is a virtue only allowed to skin and because you are kind and laugh and smile too much he will try to walk on you and you will let him. He will tell you that you curve in the right place, you will tell him he flat in the wrongs ones, like his voice. He will ask you if you think anorexia is beautiful and you will see yourself in his words and you will not answer. He will tell you to compartmentalize your life, organize and reduce stress and you will realize there is no space for him. When you leave he will ask if he should wait for you and you will say no. Jillian Moczara
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 27
Waiting for the Storm to Pass Ashley Warner
28
Untitled Megan Jansen
Crying Isn’t Bad for You Tonight my 11 year-old cousin asked me, “Will you cry when you have to leave our house today?” “I’m not leaving yet! Let’s enjoy our time together while we have it.” “I know, but will you cry when you leave?” I cry when I bottle up my emotions to the point where something as small as dropping something on the floor tips me over the edge. I cry when I’m angry and frustrated and feel like there isn’t a clear solution in my view. I cry when I accidentally stub my toe on the chair in my bedroom, or when I miss people. But I don’t miss people very often. Later that night as I pulled out of the driveway, I realized that saying goodbye takes more out of me than I realized. Time does not stop the clock to let you tie your shoe or to think too long or to take too many risky chances. I rolled the windows down as I waved goodbye and allowed my “I love you” to reverberate on the night streets. With each thud of the car’s movement, I felt like I was being pulled into a lonely territory that did not allow me to have company. I looked out the window and I immediately wept: quietly, violently, the stars blurring together into a confusing constellation. I didn’t expect to change my answer, but I suppose it’s the right thing to do now: “I’ll cry when I leave, my cousin, and I miss you already.” Aliana Manteria
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 29
Animals Nature Architecture Home Music 30
Abandoned Gabe Vargas
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 31
Little Grey House We grew up together, on the same street. You lived in that little grey house on the corner of the street, right in front of the old mailbox that tended to scrape your car door if you parked too close to it. Childhood friends is what we would refer to each other as, and you always seemed to look at me like I was just the girl who lived on the same block as you. It seemed like it was destiny when we were seated next to each other on the first day of middle school. My innocence was pure, and my curiousness of the future was sparkling, you were the boy who lived in the little grey house on the corner of my street. I would always notice you riding your bike when the sun would set on the asphalt of our town. But I was just the girl who you never seemed to notice. It could’ve been your middle school ego which kept you from seeing me, which was so big that not even your little sister could have any of your time. I would always hear her cry from my window when you told her to go away. But she only wanted to go to the park, to go on the swings for an hour or two with her older brother whom she looked up to. You never noticed when anyone made efforts to include you, or make you smile. You didn’t care when we had to do presentations, and your partner would ask the teacher to let them work alone because you didn’t bother putting in any effort. I never stopped to ask myself why my mind was always on you, or why I was always so interested in your careless attitudes, or why you seemed so full of yourself. You only seemed to care about what your friends cared about, and what baseball teams they enjoyed watching. I know you really didn’t like watching it, our parents would talk about how much you complained about being on the baseball team. You only joined because of them. Was it peer pressure? Were you trying to distract yourself from something? Was it something more than you bothered to show to everyone? I never asked you.
32
At the end of 8th grade, when we were starting to grow up, I was invited to your graduation party. The only one I was invited to out of the many that were thrown from our class. You had your friends sign their names on your baseball bat, the one you would throw into the street when you were so frustrated with the sport. I sat in your backyard with my parents and your parents. The first time I had ever been in your backyard, right behind your little grey house. Your little grey house was full of conversation, not just with the party, but with the memories that were filled with it. Pictures of your family, you with your little sister. Pictures from uninteresting events, birthday parties, school picture days. Pictures of relatives, pets who had passed away, or pictures of dance recitals. I’m sure you were forced to go, but you ended up enjoying seeing your little sister so happy. Why did that change? You didn’t talk to me until I was about to leave to walk home. You didn’t acknowledge my presence until all your friends left. You would not see them for almost 2 years since they were going to different high schools, ones with better sports teams. “Thanks for coming.” You said. I stood outside your little grey house, with the planter boxes in the front filled with bright flowers. You didn’t look me in the eye, like you were unsure of why I even showed up. I didn’t question it, nor did I question the fact that you didn’t realize that I went with family. At the end of summer, I didn’t see you at all. It was almost like you were stuck in your house. You were at the orientation for the first day of high school. You seemed cold, and I could feel your distress fill the auditorium. Were you stressed? Nervous? Carefully taking in every moment of this monumental experience because you will never have your first day of high school ever again? Or was it more?
We began talking more intensely during our sophomore year. We had the same english class, and I found out that you had a love for Poe. I had never known something about you other than what I overheard from our parent’s phone calls. You seemed to be finding a place that wasn’t sculpted by others, although your eyes grew more tired, it seemed like time was moving faster for you than anyone else. We got close by the end of the year, I would motivate you to study, but it seemed like you were falling behind. You became wearier and it felt like you were longing for a vacation, even though we had just gotten back from a two week break from school. I thought you were putting too much pressure onto yourself. You were trying to plan your future at an early grade. You had big ideas, and so many goals. We began to form memories, ones placed inside of your little grey house in picture frames that hung on the wall. I was just the girl who sat next to you on the first day of middle school. What were the odds that we’d ever become friends? Was it a part of your plan? Nobody plans that. You wanted to go to a college on the west coast, I wanted to stay close to home. It was okay, we were going in different ways. Getting closer to the end, you were on edge. It could have been college, it could have been something with family, or it could have been final examinations. It could have been me. It didn’t have to be you. Out of all the people on this earth, why did it have to be you. You got sick two weeks before graduation. Two weeks before the end of that chapter of our lives. You were in and out of the hospital. You missed your final exam in English, although I knew you would have loved it, everyone said you were lucky that you didn’t have to take it.
Was it me? Did I do this to you? Did you know that there was something about me that would cause you to feel like this? It couldn’t have been me. How could I have done this to you? Cancer isn’t contagious like that. I didn’t have anything wrong with me. Although I don’t know why I didn’t ask myself what could’ve been wrong with you. I was just so happy with the way things were going. I never asked myself, or asked you what was going on inside your head, inside your little grey house. You didn’t have a graduation party. Nor was I invited to any. High school ended. It all seemed to go by so quickly, just like how time was going so fast for you. You got worse three weeks after graduation. It shouldn’t have hurt this much. I hope you didn’t hurt too much. I know it hurt you more when you saw your little sister in the hospital. She was so happy to get to bring you flowers that she had plucked from the back of the hospital parking lot. You saw dandelions, but she saw something more. But you loved them anyway. None of this should have happened. I shouldn’t be reading this to a crowd of your friends and family. I shouldn’t be the one to tell people how much you loved them, they know already. But you always believed that I was an alright writer. I shouldn’t be reading anything here, not for you. Four days before you left, you wrote me a letter the best you could. It was scratchy and hesitant because you were exhausted after so long. (continued)
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 33
Why did it have to be me? Out of all the streets, avenues, and roads you could’ve lived on, it was mine. Why did you have to live in that little grey house? Why did you go so long without telling me? Did you know this whole time? Did anyone else know? We were going in different directions; my road was local. Your road was a highway, it was diverging. Some roads keep going. Some roads merge together. Yours came to a dead end. I read it every night, the letter you wrote to me. I didn’t know the boy who lived on the little grey house on the corner of my street could write like you did. It was only three words. It was no fine piece of literature, but it was yours. Thanks for coming. Hannah Lonergan
Harold’s House Marissa Hogan
34
Untitled Kathryn Fernandez
City Stretch I’ve named the gaps between my stretchmarks Holland and Jakarta Pulled apart Once whole You can tell they used to be one That deep down, the soil still belonged to each other At the most bottom Under the nameless and shallow Denny Burhan
Pulse On Kelsey Block
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 35
Amor Fati Katie Garrity
Irresponsibility Katie Garrity
36
Ambiguity Katie Garrity
Choice Katie Garrity
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 37
Future Kitchen Jasmine Lavelle
38
French Toast Recipes French toast does not require many ingredients, but it does require a lot of care. First you will need: 1. Eggs The yolks as yellow as the afternoon sun The whites as bright as the clouds that hug the horizon They glide across the bowl like they were born to dance The whisk is merely the ballet coach. Once the eggs are ready, you will need: 2. Bread An Italian household’s glue. When you cut the loaf, the pieces look like little houses The grooves at the top a roof The crust a fence It floats into the egg contents Soaking in its rays Absorbing its dance Crispy as it warms in the pan. Lastly, once the French toast is ready, you will most likely want to top it off with some: 3. Syrup Sweet yet full of consequences I hold the bottle in the air like it’s my trophy My victory As I turn it sideways the syrup falls Creating a rippling puddle Making itself comfortable as it collides with the French toast My fork wades through it as it overflows onto the plate. I can’t help but think that this is more than just breakfast: it’s a work of art. Enjoy your meal! Aliana Manteria
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 39
My Friend: Dearest Demon, It’s time we part. I will miss you deeply, whether you believe me or not. You fed me laughter, strength and games boldness, energy but incredible pain Dearest Demon It’s time we part. Bring your anger I need it not; I will find more passion in Heaven keep your Hell with all its pleasurable sin From there- I remain forbidden. Dearest Demon It’s time we part You must lay dormant Inside Hell’s lot. Dearest Demon It’s time we part… Andrea Grebinger
40
Land Sara LaPell
Space Consciousness Don’t forget that this is forever, we may always be atoms for the cosmos, but our significance grows with each funneled breath. You and I will die reincarnate in front of stars mirrors for our own blasted fiery potential. Don’t lose me as you skip on boulders, separation pulls our rubber bands too tight. How will we love when your lips are reaching from horsehead nebulas and I am stretching my fingers past beetleguise. If God is real, he keeps his toes buried in sands and his head floating through Milky Ways that are not our own. He seeks us as we motion move across the universe, we are no mere exception to His physics, we shredded the rulebook with fingers as hot as exploding stars burning meaning until all is subjective except for us. If loving you meant giving gravity a push, I would dive off into unoccupied space inhabited by floating objects
Moving Sky Gabe Vargas
reading protests handwritten against tethered-ness. I only feel the pull of you. Jillian Moczara
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 41
Imagery I want to paint the night The weather clouds Bright blue sun. I want things to be between Too light and too dark. White walls to an ochre Off balance a bit to make me feel Better about myself. I am not white I am cream I am not fog I am a dream. There is that flower growing And I see it and wonder how It continued to live before I painted the sky. I wonder how soil itself can give life When me with my lungs, bones, muscles, organs Can barely stay alive. Nothing keeps me away from being out there Rooting a position in the soil Not these white walls The night sky, Heat waves in summer. Not trapped, only stagnant. Take one step And I’ll BE OUT THERE. One step One Paige Welch
42
Light and Dark Rafael Reyes
Lunar Light The moon is full tonight. It glints in thick midnight skies Coaxing salted waves to ebb in And out And in Again. If human beings are 98% water Maybe lunar songs turn people inside out. Does it lead us to blur the sky and shoreline The borders of us e x p a n d i n g Contracting Expanding like lungs after a diver was holding their breath? A crater rotating Grayscale Needed a goddess to make sense of it. But it’s there, All of it I feel it’s magnetic pull. The moon is full tonight
Untitled Kieran Mangels
So is us So are we Paige Welch
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 43
Did You Remember to Fact Check Today? Megan Jansen
44
Little Guy Cynthia Lambertson
It’s an Avocado! Kelsey Block
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 45
Barring Those Who Claim to Never Be Content with Being Content Firstly, you’re evidently not content. Second, I will not follow you as you dismantle your childhood home to craft a boat that may take on water when you ford the river. Or leave you stranded at sea, washed up on an island with only enough wood to starve or start over. Or as you pry each panel, find them gnawed by hidden termites first, leaving you less than what you had before you decided enough was not enough. An all-or-nothing gamble in the face of a pile of chips too high for you to look over. Though morbidly I agree: This drive is self-destructive. A cross-country venture that ends with metal pancakes and grilled bricks only two miles from home. A tire rolling lands and stops regardless if it pops or cuts the air. It, like your stomach, is too small— it cannot hold your mind or muscles. if it could, it would all be gone in hours. Stop picking at scabs that already scarred, That blood fed you. The next itch will come under the skin as a splinter disguised as confounding calmness Or a blind push to anywhere that resembles anything that made me (want to stay in the first place). Michael Ludlum
46
I Guess it Depends on Your Perspective Megan Jansen
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 47
Untitled
Meghan Brady
βάρκα
Laiken Whittredge
48
9/18/17 I) i’ve always made it so easy to be taken advantage of i try so hard to make everyone happy that i end up stifling myself in the process and because of that it’s hard to find anything about myself to love, because when you’re always trying to find the good in others it turns even more of a critical eye on you i have so many times been manipulated or talked down to or blamed for things that weren’t even my fault that any time something bad happens i automatically cower and submit because in a way, it’s easier to run away and leave the blame on yourself than confront the demons your abusers have left and i do get caught up in my own head a lot i go to some dark places i’ve been very broken recently and almost gave up on seeing anything good in myself but i’m starting to realize that the clouds aren’t always going to be hanging over me and the people who try to keep summoning them are the ones that need to be removed, not me i’ve always been floating in choppy seas, yes but guess what? i am not a shipwreck it has taken me so long to realize that i am allowed to feel like something other than crumbling wood and salt water in my fissures but i am not a shipwreck i am the fucking Titanic before it sank i am nothing you have ever seen before; i am unfurling sails and vibrant color and tough exterior and capable of holding so many precious things inside my heart i am the wind picking up speed and ropes thwacking against the deck and a compass pointing toward acceptance, the only true north i’ve ever looked toward so you can throw storms at me rip an iceberg through my frame watch in satisfaction as my sails disappear into frigid waters and think you’ve sunk me for good but i’ll be underwater and still intact i’ll become a home for reclusive fish and other outcasts who still need a place to hide, who aren’t quite ready to face their predators head on i will be their protector so you can break my body, yes but you will never truly break my heart it was a good effort on your part, i will admit; i got pretty low but you failed in your mission i’m still standing, and i no longer need your validation to feel worthy i am not a shipwreck i am a lighthouse, forever guiding those who were lost like me Lillian La Plante
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 49
“stone”
lived, right? or wanted to do right or wanted to write but did and is buried with it all so what’s he whining about now? no life or no death is there no death if made memorial a revisited monument someone felt for a minute kind of memory almost stretched far enough onto someone else’s timeline to touch or touched on or was I just was trying to live right is this fitting? I hope I did Gabe Membreno
Untitled Juliet Norelli
50
Falls
Kieran Mangels
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 51
“of a bluebird” I have never actually seen you or let you out your wings were never clipped I could never actually keep you but know I need to see you I have too much skin to show; nails, teeth so nobody thinks of me in flight when my uncovered arms are spread a building of a man squeezes them until they too tire of being in air I know you don’t like it indoors I know there’s no way to cage spring but know I talked flowers I swore I was one or was I the season? standing and bright ready to soar but I know it ends in fall everything that wants to leave arrives somewhere I have always kept you inside the writer well into his whiskey yelled at you to stay in there I’m sure you’re somewhere if you’re in there do you want to be seen? weeping are you afraid that your crying will be mistaken for song again? twitter with me I don’t do it often I know not to be indoors I know my skin can be seen that it is always seen in color I am sorry you always appear blue but know that when you are worn you are heard chirping song of a season that doesn’t end yours Gabe Membreno
52
Untitled Joseph Iglesias
Polar Bears
Ashley Warner
Untitled Dina Atwa
Untitled Dina Atwa
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 53
πόλη
Laiken Whittredge
54
ροδάκινο
Laiken Whittredge
ροκ εν ρολ
Laiken Whittredge
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 55
Headboards Neither of us have headboards, so I will be one for the both of us. I am the headboard of the bed that supports both your back and mine. I am soft if you want me to be, but I can be hard, too, if you take away the pillow between us. Adjust my comfort level for your liking; I was built for you. I remember when you told me you needed space. Maybe I was lifting you up a little too much or holding you a little too close or hugging you a little too tight or loving you a little too hard. I’m sorry. That’s all I know. I gave you space, but you no longer wanted it. Maybe you realized that the most comfortable space is the space between our noses when we sleep at night. Maybe you realized that the most comfortable place is the place where you can lean. You can always lean on me. You can trust that I will not falter. Even if you let me down, I will remain still. I know what you did and I still love you. From time to time, I may shake, but I will never break. I am the headboard of the bed and I am the strongest thing I know. Kelsey Block
56
Tick Tock Matthew Coville
Denim Julia Langro
Untitled Jennifer Testa
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 57
Bookshelves My mother reads books about architecture. She likes to learn about structures, Human nests that sprawl across the earth. She likes the way we grow, How we fit into space. My mother reads books, true stories, A girl growing into her skin. Passing the volumes on the bedside table; Does it remind her of me? My mother reads books about how to care for yourself. She marks pages with yellow post its frayed at the end. She’ll speak them back to me at the dinner table I’ll nod but never listen, I will never listen. Because I read books about sadness, About death. I like words that stab me deep in the heart. There is something fiction about feeling, It never tells the whole truth but it makes you think that it does. My mother reads books about life. I wonder how we got to thinking Such opposite things. Paige Welch
Untitled Meghan Brady
58
Nyhavn, Denmark Amber Mercado
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 59
“Ode to My Striped Sweater” O! Grand wool wrapped loosely around my thinning torso. Your blue & offwhite stripes are wide rings decorating me. It is October and I slide through you unable to see if you comfort me or blanket all that which I wish to be hidden. Apparently, in this weather, bodies are to be covered by garments tagged large leading to our union—a thrift shop treasure. You keep me warm and I’m scared I’m confusing that with safe. I have been wearing you O! aged sweater all scraggle no flash. I found you so precious until I tried to rid you of your dirt, wash some of that fuzziness away, brighten all your color you never wanted to shine. Sorry, a shame I am to have talked only of death when surrounded by your gentle touch. I always placed another piece of thread beneath you. When I watched you shrink back into your soft, I thought to give you new purpose. Allow you to always be in contact with better company. I will not feel you. You live worn in elsewhere. Gabe Membreno
60
Duality Amelia Lee
Untitled Briela Tollisen
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 61
Mushrooms of Oneonta Michelle Behr
Dependent I need you how violets and sunflowers Need the sun – in full Like arid weather aching for a drop of rain Like the moon needs the sun to shine How being depends on oxygen to breathe Its frightening to know how much Each person Each piece of the world Relies on one another Konstantina Salales
Watching Ashley Warner
62
Should’ve Alexis Becker
Turtle Kiera Monaghan
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 63
Untitled Juliet Norelli
Haiku Six The first time we kissed, I did not feel any sparks, I felt peace instead. Samanatha Filkins
I see seashells Emily Bauerle
64
A Special Thanks to... Barry Haney and the SUNY Oneonta Print Shop for always doing such exceptional work! Kathy Spitzhoff, for being our wonderful Advisor! Members of Art & Scope for being incredibly talented! Oh, and YOU! for all your support!
Flow Ashley Warner
From Above Gabe Vargas
Art & Scope Fall 2017 | 65
Love our issue? Want to be a part of Art & Scope? Join our on campus club Email us at : artandscope@oneonta.edu Like us at: facebook.com/artandscope Follow us at: instagram.com/artandscope