“embodiments”
Editors
Zoe Fieldman & Julia Smith
Managing Editor Editorial Directors
Lila Goldstein Julia Smith & Callie Wohlgemuth
Arts Editor Writing Editors Layout Editors
Callie Wohlgemuth Kate Turner & Maren McKenna Kate Turner & Callie Wohlgemuth
Social Media Director
Ayu Suryawan
Events Coordinator
Juliette Harrison
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Note from the Editors..... Thank you for picking up the first issue of Open Call Magazine! We are a student-run art and literary magazine based out of Mount Holyoke College in South Hadley, Massachussetts. We would like to acknowledge the land that we inhabit and on which this magazine was produced. Mount Holyoke College stands on stolen Nonotuck land bordered by neighboring indigenous nations, including the Nipmuc and the Wampanoag to the East, the Mohegan and Pequot to the South, the Mohican to the West, and the Abenaki to the North. Our aim is to collectivize and distribute the voices and creations of a diverse and progressive community – helping to curate and share the work of young, local artists, and cultivate a thriving Five College arts community. We mean specifically to uplift and promote the voices of POC and QTPOC in the Five College community, but any and all submissions are welcome. The theme of our first issue is “embodiments.� We chose it because it reflects what Open Call aims to represent: a celebration of different bodies and the intricacies that come with having a physical form. We hope you join us in our celebration! OC
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Special thanks to... Jim and Nancy Thompson Laura and Geoff Turner David T. Kalodner Gale Fieldman Lynn Butkovsky and Clarisse Hart Eric Fieldman Marie Bresnahan
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Table of Contents
16-17
2 3 4 5 6-7
Medusa Francesca Winterbottom
observing Julia Smith
XVVII – Bad Poem #1 Casey Roepke
18
Nudes Sent and Unsent Dewa Ayu craigslist missed connections Anna Nikolić
Don’t Slip Gabby Raymond Untitled Leah Blackin
19 20-21
Argus1 Nina Larbi
Personality Crisis Maia Lehrman
Poem by: Dnyaneshwari Haware Photos by: Leah Blackin
8-9
22
nude figure studies 1 & 2 Mags Grabber animal, cherry Maren McKenna
23 24-27
laundry Camila A. Blanco
10-11
How a Kitchen Loves Althea Art by: Myla Brilliant
12 13 14
15
Fable Anna Nikolić Art by: Anonymous
Transcendence Julia Smith and Callie Wohlgemuth
28
Tidal Pool Francesca Winterbottom Caterpillar Beach Lila Goldstein Here Is A Poem I Wrote For You Lydia Henning Art by: Lucy James-Olson The Masseter Lainie LaRonde Art by: Ella Giordano vii
any day now Izzy Kalodner Art by: Reese Hirota
30-32
Artist statements
Medusa Francesca Winterbottom 2
XVIII — Bad Poem #1
XVII — Bad Poem #1
I wanted to title this “an ode to bad poetry” but then you would think I was trying too hard Have you ever gone to the grocery store for just one item? A bad poem is what you write when you have an exam you should be taking. I’m typing this up from the margins of my physics notebook, where I wrote this for the first time, and I can’t read what I wrote next to ∮ E • dA except I think that it was probably some un-stellar wordplay ~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~ you always have to have some sort of weird line break `~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~` The snow is as smooth as cream cheese, and that was my example sentence when I first learned similes I opened an old document from 2014 to see what was in it: “Two ants find each other in a long dark hallway.” I often plagiarize my past self. God, do I love being glitteringly pretentious (a phrase I borrowed from a finsta caption, another form of bad art) Bad poetry makes you go ?????????? Casey Roepke 3
Don’t Slip The bell rang three times A light drizzle caught me wholly unsurprised The caution sign is in the orange, yellow tree The floor’s wet Don’t slip My pants only fit if I unbutton them You returned all my clothes And your shoes went home The floors cold Don’t slip I showered until my hair fell out Trimmed my pubes so I might feel something Washed the back of my knees with intention But the pants are still too tight The floor isn’t clean Don’t slip Everyday the woman with brown hair and a flirtatious finger stares up at me with doey eyes and I want to take her home But I can’t My room’s too clean with chaos And I know she won’t thrive So I walk by I turned off all the lights in the bathroom So I could haunt it faithfully I buried my pubes under the orange, yellow tree Spread the ashes of my ill fated pants I no longer need And brought the caution sign inside Don’t slip Gabby Raymond 4
Untitled Leah Blackin
5
Personality Crisis
6
Photos: Maia Lehrman Model and creative direction: Laila Fieldman Makeup: Laila Fieldman 7
animal animal simple as imagining forming marbles, to green, i make worlds, electric sparrows, under-nesses, spring the earth blood, myself, my full and haze, time a plastic a purple or break. upstairs an earth fire of bones, i of things mauve, i of fires, i glinting, mineral, tense, spell trees for myself into homes string heavy down shining-berries, find earth weight, drip worldwonder to gooey-pink my earth, my earth, me breathing color into light dragging soft all granite, gather nuthatches and tail tadpoles, make sweet soil to seed-rocks, pluck feathers, pepper grasses out of plastic. image myself spring and future binoculars for the marbles of it morning’s soft overfill shines like nest already, light like fishbowl and i’m the window: to watch, and leak
Poems by Maren McKenna 8
cherry
cherry
my feet hurt inside my shoes in minneapolis olivia says i look just like a cherry on a spoon with my hair up like it is i thaw to sugar syrup soursweet the salt dust chalking brown leather lillie says we look happy against the dust couch dust fireplace snow pillowed sour cream and pickled onions on my shirt my soles brining on the highway and all the way through boystown which is us sometimes maddy napkins us cloud scramble and orange slice softsalt on the air mattress when teagan tells me they’re moving to athens my toes frost crystal into rock quartz tang it is december and the deer are licking the road in wisconsin
nude figure studies 1 & 2 Mags Grabber 9
How A Kitchen Loves
The clock above the mantle counts away time, Slowly, steadily; a heartbeat’s repetitive “tick, tick.” It rests over a picture of my mother as a young girl, next to mason jars, dried herbs, a broken paisley patterned teapot home to three yellow flowers… I would latch onto her sunny apron as she cooked, turning to cup My hands in hers, whispering, “it is to our beaming kitchen that the goddess was sent.” She would lift the lid off the pot on the stove to stir, freeing the scent Of steaming potato stew and thyme To circulate the yellow walls, finding their way into the tea cup Clutched between my fingers. The seconds ticked On through the air, thick with incense and flour. Despite the familiarity, each crackle of smoke was jarring. The world’s most precious treasures were stored in a fortress of canning jars, Stacked against each other, miles high, until they were sent Tumbling downwards to be endowed upon neighbors, wrapped in tawny ribbons with flowers. I thought it was a shame to lose so much of our wealth, but each time I voiced this, my mother would shake her head, a miniscule tic, Tell me that I would understand when she was no longer here, and hand me a cup. Art by: Myla Brilliant
10
I miss when she could still hold me, cupping My heart and resting it in a lidless jar. In the kitchen, my heart’s tick Is as loud as the clock’s. I long for her message to be sent With the goddess, but it seems that time Will not allow it. Yellow only remains on the walls and within the flowers. The breadboard is lined with flour. I have a handful of dough cupped In my palms. The surface of the dough is dotted with oil and thyme. Smoke from the stove drifts out the front door, left slightly ajar. Today, I am filled with warmth, sent To me with every clock’s tick. The memory of her is buried inside me like a tick. She seeps through my fingers into the working flour, Soars through the hot air, filling the kitchen with cheerful scent. She is no longer here to hold my hands, but I can cup My own clasped fingers with her love, still held in mason jars And clocks and yellow paint. A mother’s love is resistant to time. She is no longer here, but I can feel her heartbeat in the ticking time Of the clock above the mantle. I drink tea from paisley patterned tea cups And send jars of jam to my neighbors, tied with tawny ribbon and a flower. Poem by: Althea
11
Tidal Pool Francesca Winterbottom
12
Caterpillar Beach Sometimes it’s hard to imagine the world As an oyster your dad forces you to Swallow in the middle of a Restaurant on your family vacation, tears in your eyes. When you don’t even know what an oyster is, really, But he says that if you don’t eat it You’ll never be brave or strong enough To wriggle your tiny little body over dunes That are centimeters high (To the tall ones; to you they are mountains) And only the beginning of your vast and dry Crawl to a fruitless survival. You watch the tide roll in and out Over hundreds of small things like you, And curl yourself over And wonder where your family has gone, And who is or was swept away first, And who will be saved By nature or the beachcombers.
Lila Goldstein 13
Here Is A Poem I Wrote For You and here is a quiet Tuesday kiss with coffee-cold-air on my lips, and here is a new morning where things will be better, or if not better then at least different. Here is a cloud from a scraped november sky, and here is the crumpled edge of your pillowcase, and here are all the secret places where I think of you. Here is painting called “Untitled,” and here are the questions I haven’t thought to ask yet, and here is a cup of tea with honey spooned in, let me hold you in my arms. Here is my body rising up into a blind Atlantic morning, and here are the thoughts I’ve read in books and turned into my own, and here is a small worm rescued from the wet grit pavement and placed carefully in the grass. Here is a poem I wrote for you, and here are scraps of poems you’ve written for me, and here is a marsh of cattails by the side of the road that sway under a still midday sun.
Lydia Henning
Lucy James-Olson 14
The Masseter
Here’s the thing about biting: everything yields. The fresh flesh of an apple, velvet inside of your cheeks just waiting to be ripped. Remember as a kid, telling friends that fingers are like carrots, with just one crunch bone and vein would give way like a mid-afternoon snack. In private I still poise my teeth over the smallest finger. Consider the jaw— strongest muscle in the body, quiet in power it never asked for. I imagine sharp pressure down crack&splinter blood pouring over my tongue and for a minute it’s real. I never have it in me, though. I yield instead, bite my tongue with a force of two hundred pounds which here is a metaphor but somewhere behind my tongue is the possibility of bone and that is no metaphor at all. Lainie LaRonde
15
Ella Giordano
observing
16
Photos: Julia Smith Models: Leen Rhazi and Charlotte Cai Creative direction: Julia Smith, Callie Wohlgemuth, and Zoe Fieldman 17
Nudes Sent and Unsent Dewa Ayu
craigslist missed connections
she pressed the smoke through her teethcracks and it shuddered thick like play-doh through a strainer fell thick on the air and slugged over to the longest end of my face; The Sniffer. I inhaled. then it was that i knew that if was just any smaller i’d be in danger of tipping over and into and down into her pupils. already i was in the know; how it’d feel; like the static electricity from a plastic tube slide raking down your back and pulling your hair in every up and your babysitter is at the bottom of the slide and she says “you made it, now you’re through” like a crisis counselor only that she’s allowed to hug you. once it was i lost a mitten and i had no use of the other. i felt bad for the mitten and i felt bad for myself for feeling bad for the mitten but mostly i didn’t want the mitten to mutiny me with bitten pity so i had no choice but to lose that mitten as well. i shuddered. how difficult it was to not turn away. (someone once said to me; you’re difficult you know that?) from the asphalt looking up the tube there was your face, briefest. i wish i said: i want to share one mitten with you. Anna Nikolić 18
Argus1 Nina Larbi 19
So at the end of the day, sit me down and explain again in uncomplicated phrases and simple sentences how you killed a man once, but that man was you and now you’re different. And how after reading a couple of books you forget past participle but certain things just feel right and some feel wrong. You feel like the time I skipped school and made myself sick with the thought of having a future with myself. A little too much salt for my taste. Dyaneshwari Haware
20
Photos: Leah Blackin Model: Leah Blackin
21
Fable
i seena small cat throw itself against a brick wall over and over i seena small cat crouch its skull against the ground i thought this to be a natural reaction to pleasure i crouched over you while you slept i placed you in my dreams, i placed you in my dreams i wanted to taste that crooked tooth which successfully turned me inside out to you, which successfully drew the small cat from within me to throw itself
myself
against you
you the wall me my skull
the cat's skull;
cute as well as
gruesomely shrunken
i read a story once (it was a fable) the little boy touched the nettle gently, and so it stung him, the little boy cried to his mother and She said Son, you deserved to be stung; any neck worth touching in love deserves to be wrung. next time you see thy nettle grasp it with all your fist; and against thine grip it will not resist. and so the little thing did and Mother was right, and i learned it was kind to be firm and cruel to be light. i seen you in a dream, yes; i woke up and found myself catlike and bloodied curled around a brick wall
Anna Nikolić
22
laundry
I folded my laundry in the spacetime vaccum of the basement. In the vapor and scent of clothes, Full of dirt and ash and tears—now clean. And in the wrinkles of a shirt I found peace. Wedged in between the real and the dream-state. In the pockets of my jeans I found 5 dollars. I cleaned every Friday wherein 3:00 P.M. was the infinite hour. Socks covered in the glitter and hair, Socks I’ll now need to wash and fold. And when emptying the dustpan I found impermanence. Must have gotten broomed in with the now and not forever. In cleaning the mirrors I found the bridge of my eyebrows. I spoke to the Orishas on Sundays, when my body became celestialest. Up in candle smoke and prayers for love, Ashes that now live amongst my clothes. Camila Blanco 23
TRANSCENDENCE 24
25
Photos and creative direction: Julia Smith and Callie Wohlgemuth Models: Theo Rodas, Emily RolesFotso, KJ LeGrand, Feng
26
27
Any Day Now
any day now I will be eating chocolate by the seashore on a brilliantly white chair on my balcony overlooking that blue expanse. I will not be wearing sunglasses but shorts and a white top and my feet will be bare. any day now I will turn to my door to find my lover and we will go to bed encompassed by unraveling tenderness and we will feed each other and engage in intimate rituals of our own making. my breasts will be smaller. my smile will be truer. any day now I will open the paper to find just good news and a revival of the spirit we have never obtained (to be utterly new! to be unwritten upon!) and I will walk out along the black sand glistening. I will be always alone and always accompanied. I will live inside my own head and outside of it. I will eat pomegranate seeds and brush my teeth to the sound of birds. I will kiss with my whole heart, I will lie down and count my blessings knowing they are innumerable. any day now I will walk up and down a spiral staircase with a plant on each step, I will see cats in the sun and dogs in the yard and lawns replaced by gardens. any day now! any day I will utter dear darling sweetheart love baby I will speak it all into being I will make my words my living and my body my heart I will enfold it all inside me and let it all go and endlessly eat right out of the pan with the fork my lover gave me engraved with our names. any day now. I am listening for it and it is coming. any day! Izzy Kalodner
Reese Hirota 28
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Artist Statements Francesca Winterbottom
Mount Holyoke College Francesca Winterbottom is a sophomore at Mount Holyoke College and an English and Studio Art double major. She enjoys printmaking as a medium, as well as installation art and digital art.
Casey Roepke
Mount Holyoke College
Leah Blackin
East Brunswick, New Jersey, currently attending Pratt Institute These photographs are part of a larger series all taken using a large format camera. The nature of shooting on a large format camera significantly affected my photographic process, allowing me to slow down and think through and plan each shot. My photography is strongly influenced by surrealist style.
Gabby Raymond
Former 1837 gremlin / Bristol, Connecticut
Laila Fieldman
Brooklyn, New York Laila Fieldman is a NYC based artist who manifests her art in a variety of mediums. She is currently studying at Millennium Brooklyn High School. Laila is especially interested in dance and choeography, however she expresses herself through many different outlets. These can range from fashion, photography, pottery, and visual art. Laila often uses her art to explore and bring to light social justice issues, gender and sexuality, as well as personal conflicts.
Mags Grabber
West Hartford, Connecticut
Maren McKenna
Mount Holyoke College Mount Holyoke Contestant, 2020 Glascock Poetry Contest Maren McKenna is a student and poet from Southern Maine. They are a Senior studying Anthropology and Environmental Studies at Mount 30
Holyoke, and are passionate about food justice, birds, independent radio, sustainable agriculture, and color coordination. Maren’s poetry often discusses queerness, family, and world-making.
Althea
Mount Holyoke College
Myla Brilliant
Western Massachusetts / Delaware
Lila Goldstein
Mount Holyoke College Lila constantly finds herself tangled up in nature, childhood, and small rituals. While writing “Caterpillar Beach,” she was particularly fixated on coming-of-age experiences and rites of passage that pop up in unexpected forms.
Lydia Henning
Currently, Spain Lydia Henning ’21 romanticizes her New England childhood and none of her jeans quite reach her ankles. Lately she’s been eating lots of clementines and visiting cathedrals.
Lucy James-Olson
Western Massachusetts
Laine LaRonde
Mount Holyoke College Honorable Mention, 2020 Glascock Poetry Contest
Ella Giordano
Northampton, Massachusetts
Dewa Ayu
Mount Holyoke College This is a reclaim of the viewing pleasure of my beautiful body, sometimes sent away under an obligation.
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Anna Nikolić
New York City, New York Anna is a poet from New York City, currently attending the lovely and sunny SUNY New Paltz. She likes climbing trees and sleeping.
Nina Larbi
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Dyaneshwari Haware India
Camila A. Blanco Miami, Florida
Izzy Kalodner
South Orange, New Jersey Izzy has always written with half an eye for optimism and half an eye for the understandable absence of it. Usually a poem will draw her in due to one or two lines, and she endeavors to write her own poetry the same way. As a dancer, she’s eternally interested in the intrinsic movement of a piece of writing — whatever that may mean to hear at the instant of reading/writing.
Reese Hirota
Long Beach, California Reese was born screaming and crying, which she has remained doing to this very day.
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Contact Mail: opencallmag@gmail.com Instagram: @opencallmag Facebook: @opencallmag Venmo: @opencallmag Now accepting submissions for our next issue. Theme: PERFORMANCE