VOL. 142
CROSSROADS
LETTER FROM THE EDITORS From Displacement, to Flourish, to Crossroads. These three publications have spanned the uncertainty we all have grappled with as our world twisted and turned. Coming out from our homes, dawning masks in our classrooms and work environments, we all found ourselves at a crossroad. An intersection between our remote lives and our hustling, in-person livelihood that once seemed completely normal. It challenged us to think, but more importantly, it incited us to change. Prism went through a lot of changes, as you can see as you hold your copy of volume 142. Each decision was made with intention, keeping our artists and readers in mind as we strove to create something exciting and new. Displacement, Flourish, and every Prism edition in the past brought us to this moment. The student artists, who year after year inspire me with their creativity and bravery, pushed Prism to be what it is today. This publication is a gift to the students at Oregon State University. We hope it pushes you to create with a new medium, write something new, and most importantly—we hope it encourages you to share your work. Whether that’s by sharing it with friends, family, roommates, classmates, strangers at an open mic, or submitting your work to the next Prism publication. No matter what crossroads you encounter, keep telling your stories. Thank you to everyone who has believed in me throughout the course of this year as I went from assistant editor to editor-in-chief of Prism. Tosca, thank you for creating with me. I feel so honored to have worked with you. Thank you, Steven Sandberg, for always having the best advice. To all of our volunteers, we couldn’t have done this without you. Alan, thank you for making our vision possible. I’m also so thankful for everyone at Orange Media Network for your constant support.
NATALIE HARRIS Editor-in-Chief
VOLUME CXLII
I am unbelievably lucky to have held the Assistant Editor position throughout the creation of this edition of Prism. I feel honored for having the privilege to work alongside our amazing Editorin-Chief Natalie Harris and for the ability to make connections with our incredible group of volunteers and phenomenal creative team and mentors. To say that this year’s edition of Prism has undergone transformations would be an understatement. With our wonderful creative lead, Alan Nguyen, Prism has crafted an entirely new evolution of our art and literary magazine. Since the beginning of the design process, Natalie and I haven’t stopped saying, “I’m so excited for this new edition,” and “Isn’t the new edition beautiful?” Our pride for this magazine has only grown stronger as we’ve come closer to the release date. With this being our first year back in-person, it became more important than ever to create a headturning design for Prism. We have all experienced the fear and uncertainty surrounding our future in the face of Covid-19, and Natalie and I were inspired to design a version of Prism that highlights the hope and transformation that keeps us moving forward. Thank you so much to Natalie Harris, the OMN creative team, Steven Sandberg, the talented artists included in this journal, and our volunteers for making this a fantastic year at Prism. Thank you to all of our readers, as well, and I hope you are as amazed and excited about this edition as I am.
TOSCA RUOTOLO Assistant Editor
MASTERMIND
Sumi ink and common octopus specimen by Lily Giordano
3
MEET THE STAFF
NATALIE HARRIS Editor-in-Chief
TOSCA RUOTOLO Assistant Editor
ALAN NGUYEN Creative Lead
REVIEW COMMITTEE
OUR MISSION
Carly Werdel Christine Castles Cooper Theodore Darcy Pound Gabriel Reitzes Kimberly Oshiro Leah Kahn Maricruz Trenado-Frias Molly Piszczek Stephanie Riley Taylor Wells
Prism is dedicated to the self-expression and creativity of Oregon State University students. Any student, regardless of major, may submit visual, literary, and multimedia art pieces to the journal via our website. Submissions are always evaluated by a review committee comprised of student volunteers and the Prism editorial team. One print edition is released each academic year with the intent of sharing the creativity and values of OSU students. In addition, Prism runs a blog and the “Beyond the Page” podcast. Both feature more student work, as well as explorations into the artistic climate of our community and world. Visit our website for more! prism.orangemedianetwork.com
FONTS USED JOSEFIN SANS SEMIBOLD
Baskervville Regular Baskervvile Italic Avenir Roman
COVER ARTWORK BY April James
TABLE OF CONTENTS 3 MASTERMIND Lily Giordano
18 SIGN OF HOPE Makenna Brooks
8 SPLITTING TREE Jaelen Hsu
19 HOLY HOLLER Finn Johnson
9 I SAW A TREE I COULD NOT CLIMB Leah Kahn
20 CONTROL OVER ME McKenzie Klecker
10 BECOMING SORCERORS: COMPENDIUM Eli Dodd & Isiah Rodriguez 11 MINE Brandt Bridges 12 SONNET FOR A SHITHEAD Olivia Eiler 13 THE KING HAS A FUNNY FACE Tosca Ruotolo 14 AT HOME (MAIN ROOM) & AT HOME (BATHROOM ONE & TWO) Lee Niemi 16 WALL IN THE DARK Zane Russell
21 TELEPHONE GIRLS Kaylee Wallace 22 HOMESTEAD I Anita Spaeth 23 SPRING WALTZ IN C MAJOR Sydney Marker 24 FLOWERS FOR THE GENERAL PUBLIC Mia Tognoli 24 NIGHT BLOOM Gabriel Reitzes 26 ONEIROI Zane Yinger 27 I FEEL YOU Aubrey Smith
28 SONGS FOR SOMEONE Grace Knutsen 30 MOVING ON Carly Werdel 31 ALL IN MY HEAD Bobby DiMarco 32 LEXAPRO Gabriel Reitzes 32 AT HOME ALONE Ridwana Rahman 34 AXEYARD CAMUS Sam Groetsch 35 ANIMUS Kyle Thompson 36 MELTING Sheyanne Loose 37 DESTRUCTION OF CATEGORY 4 Stella Dizon Sablan 38 IN AND SPENCER FIND A COOL LAKE Ian Hermanson
39 AFTER THE GORGE FIRE Amelia Ayers
58 POOR WAYFARING STRANGER Madeline Gibbs
40 BETH’S HARVEST McKenzie Heryford
50 GOOD THINGS, JUNK AND BARN CATS: A LOVE STORY IN FIVE HUNDRED AND FIFTY SIX WORDS Ai Ana Richmond
42 ACID Kimberly Oshiro
51 LOGGED OUT Jamie Heim
60 THE MARK OF A MAN Marshall Saltz
43 LIBERATION Ashton Bisner
52 FAE GUARDIAN Vianne Sarber
61 WILL Ian Hermanson
44 THE QUEST FOR A NATIVE LANGUAGE Christine Castles
53 ROTO Casey Ward
62 I MISS YOU Samuel Misa
54 A FAMILY PORTRAIT Kimberly Gardner
62 AVERY PARK AT NIGHT Eli Smart
46 THE LINE-UP Matthew McKenna
54 STAIRWAY TO A CAREER Nicole Potekev
64 THE STORM ON JUPITER Abheer Singh
48 CORPUS Kyle Thompson
56 KNICK KNACK Ardea Eichner
49 SEWING BONES Emmalee Roberts
57 TEN GIFTS (THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING) Carly Werdel
65 RAMBLINGS TO ENSUE CHANGE Mackenzie M. Hebner
45 ICELAND Melanie Gutzmann
57 HUSH, OR WE ALL COPE DIFFERENTLY Christopher McCracken
59 AWESTRUCK Donovon Horst
66 SYMPTOMS OF AUTISM Karree Lee 67 BECOMING Christine Castles
67 ITHINKITHINKTOOMUCH Kimberly Oshiro 68 ON THE WALL Brandon Stephenson
78 MARIUS Emma Brockway
89 SOLITUDE Juliette Saccente
79 MY OLD MAN Jack Isenhart
90 - PROVOST I’VE STOPPED TRYING TO MAKE CELERY TASTE GOOD Aanaa Felema
69 IYKYK Aria Back
80 WEAVINGS OF EXPECTATIONS Kayla Noll-Bader
70 THE GOOD BOY Abigail Card
81 GREEN Molly Piszczek
92 - 97 ATIST STATEMENTS
71 UPSIDE DOWN Dakota Mason
82 JUDE Stella Dizon Sablan
98 SUMMER 20 Diana Christofersen
72 BLEEDING RAILROAD Abheer Singh
83 PEACEFUL • RALLY Nicole Potekev
74 REPLACED WITH SHADOWS Ashton Bisner
84 I’M THE ONLY PERSON AROUND TO COMFORT ME Laurel Brinson-Larrabee
75 MONSTER MOUTH Ari Knight 76 ECCENTRIC Krisona Wen 77 ALICE Mia Tognoli
86 DISDAIN Melanie Gutzmann 87 AUTUMN L.L. Main 88 LIFE, IN HALF Ryaan Akmal
91 - PROVOST LOST AND FOUND Jane Coneybeer
SPLITTING TREE Marker and pen by Jaelen Hsu
I SAW A TREE I COULD NOT CLIMB Poem by Leah Kahn
I saw a tree I could not climb. The rain was cold, The moss was slime. My shoes were wet, The bark was ice, Try as I might, I could not climb. I gazed up at the sturdy boughs That stretched against the sluggish clouds. Boughs where I could sit and gaze And watch the eons fade away. Boughs where I could close my eyes And sleep until the stars arrive, And climbing up by moonbeam’s light Kiss the golden stars goodnight. My soul cries out in great despair. It is not fair! It is not fair! That during winter’s cold twilight, I cannot kiss the stars goodnight. I place my hand upon the tree And stroke its rich bark lovingly. I will climb you when your boughs turn green, When winter’s twilight fades to spring. Then I will sleep in your embrace Nestled softly in nature’s grace.
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BECOMING SORCERORS: COMPENDIUM Collage and poetry by Eli Dodd and Isaiah Rodriguez
MINE
Poem by Brandt Bridges a rain droplet sits on the tip of your upper lip and holds the light of a night that has died. (and you let) more rain fall into your open mouth and with it memories of a place and a time you can no longer call “mine” (and your tears seem to be just a part of the weather)
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SONNET FOR A SHITHEAD Poem by Olivia Eiler
Shall I compare thee to a bitch, you whore? When in the light of any man or maid, Thou looks instruct them to make shut their door And older dames so shocked in graves be laid. For in the look you plainly cast aside Spring’s roses wilt as winter’s wind in fall. They turn their faces down in hope to die For sunshine’s far from any wherewithal. For English Glosture met with barks of dogs, Thou art met sim’larly with cries of babes. Relief from reflection found in the fog, And likewise spring and summer in the shade. What last I say is truly requisite, That all of this to mean the opposite.
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THE KING HAS A FUNNY FACE Ink on paper by Tosca Ruotolo
AT HOME (MAIN ROOM, BATHROOM ONE & TWO) Photography by Lee Niemi
WALL IN THE DARK Prose by Zane Russell
(Excerpt from “The Garden of Glass.”) Steadily, shuffling onwards step by step, I meandered across the blasted expanse of abyss and glass. In constant pursuit of my sister’s remote giggling, ever closer I crept towards the sound. As I sauntered over, I finally came to a rest behind it, gazing upwards. There I saw my sister, and what was behind her... it oozed apprehension... I just knew it was wrong. A flawless wall of white, near glowing material, the bounds of which reached far beyond sight in every encompassed direction. I realized the shadows were no longer visible, the wall preventing their approach, turning them away to some degree. Forgoing provocation Jane stepped forward, stretching her palm outwards towards the expanse. “Jane, stop!” ... I tried to stop her. I really did, throwing myself forward, clawing towards any part of her I could tear away, save in some sense. She just wouldn’t listen; too young, too unknowing, and perhaps too far gone to properly comprehend reason. I knew if she reached that wall, something, everything... would be... But I was too late... and the wall split. From her point of contact, a bisecting crevice spread vertically away in either direction. What was revealed within the surface of white matter, bulging outwards amidst abhorrent perception, was an eye. Although I don’t recall this too well, I am fairly certain it was an eye; the eye if you must. And as its iris transfixed upon us, aspectual slashes contracting outwards over its liquidus surface, I froze. Its gaze was like a brilliant star, searing through my frail shell of existence, burning against my core and deepest being. I wanted to scream, wanted to run and pound my head against the floor until that feeling; that awful insidious and gnawing feeling; that feeling of dark deeply chained secrets, to which not even to you were aware, bared for all; was shattered with me. Yet, I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even think as the eye transfixed upon me and me alone.
16
All I could do was gaze onwards, unblinking, towards my sister’s back, her hand still resting upon the heart. She slowly turned towards me then, face steadily visible. She was crying; twin rivulets of tears dying her rosy cheeks as I stared at the familiar face. Her eyes were a miasm of confliction. Both wandering and focused, uncaring and dead, filled with the highest degree of understanding and terror, beyond my comprehension. As Jane stared towards me unblinking, her quivering lips hesitantly parted, and she muttered but a single word. “M-Mary...?” she had stuttered, succeeded by an oppressive silence. Then, she was gone.
scan to read the full story
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SIGN OF HOPE
Photography by MaKenna Brooks
HOLY HOLLER Poem by Finn Johnson
southern gospel revival summer hats with magnolias in the brim se sashay through their service shoeless on sharp blades of grass I say to you the closest I have ever been to god is when I fell through the rafters of a church ha ha holy water holy holler-ing hole southern comfort me and help me to remember I am not unworthy of salvation I guess I owe jesus a new ceiling I owe jesus nothing full of contradicktions I am sick of pretending I know the way to heaven You say heaven is in my queer lover’s arms I am already there I think holding hands despite the stares laden with holy hostility Bless Their Hearts baptize me baby drown me in your horny water let it wash over me in waves bring me closer to godliness whisper a sweet southern baptist prayer in my ear the irony in love thy neighbor is that people never actually love their neighbor unless it’s gonna serve them in the day of reckoning
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CONTROL OVER ME Acrylic by McKenzie Klecker
TELEPHONE GIRLS Poem by Kaylee Wallace
I am in love with my telephone. I hold it in my hand as I read this, hoping dreadfully that whomever this poem is about will not suddenly text me, And i jump, just a little, as her ringtone i picked out chimes, and i know the exact moment she texts me and i will know exactly what to say and how exactly long to wait and exactly what emojis to use I move the phone away from my waiting hand. We spend hours in blissful half-talking. Texts, implying sound, implying laughs, implying whispers. Implying anything short of a confession. Was i in love with the person, or a telephone? The person or the one that I had constructed? That stupid, stupid telephone. When the confession arrives, it is received. Like static. Half understanding, confusion, and doubt. “idk if i like you 2”
She’d ask how my day was going, but she didn’t love me. She’d tell me how her’s was going, but she didn’t love me. I didn’t care. I couldn’t care. She didn’t love me. I had fallen in love with the thing in my hand, and it didn’t love me back. Her ringtone is still buried in my mind. That stupid, stupid telephone.
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HOMESTEAD I
Paper and ink by Anita Spaeth
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SPRING WALTZ IN C MAJOR Music by Sydney Marker
Waltz
Sydney Marker = 80
3 4 4 4 4 4 43
= 112
8
17
28
poco rit.
15
8
8
Rubato = 75
25
poco rit.8
= 74
= 72
= 70
6
6
8
= 68
6
7
6
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FLOWERS FOR THE GENERAL PUBLIC Poem by Mia Tognoli
I’d like to lie down and melt Into a field of daisies. Earthen fingers, Earthen toes. Let the grass stain my skin Until I blend in green, Let my hair become a meadow Of wild poppies. If I lack importance now, I’d like to contribute To those of a later time, To those of my next life. When I die, Bury me beneath wild cherry trees.
Photography by Gabriel Reitzes
NIGHT BLOOM
ONEIROI
Poem by Zane Yinger I feel Sleep tapping on my window. His wanting eyes watch me want sprouts. From his seminal poplar branch he drips misty drops on my forehead, and a silver trickle wells in my ears. Leaking out in pools on my pillow. Down the length of my waiting skin the stream slides; planting seeds in lethe kisses. My body quivers then blooms under his touch. Roses open in my eyes and forget-me-nots pop in the wavering spirals of my fingers and toes. The forest in my chest overflows and from my face bursts a wild tangle of limbs. The bounds of my body break beyond the perception of my self. And in the after, my dreams, like the clouds, hang and churn in the air above me; their tendrils and branches shaking and reaching.
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I FEEL YOU
Marker by Aubrey Smith
SONGS FOR SOMEONE Poem by Grace Knutsen
Side A All I want is To... Stand beside you But you leave me just out of reach I just wanted to get back to where you are There’s no such thing as what might have been But sometimes all I think about is I can lose myself Close my eyes and slip away You I can’t live without Is there any just cause For feeling like this? I want to hear one song without Thinking of you. I played chance Still haven’t found a lifetime’s romance The price was far too low All I Want Is You, Lightning Fields, Who’s Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses, My Own Soul’s Warning, Red Ragtop, Heat Waves, Red Hill Mining Town, More Than A Feeling, (I Just) Died In Your Arms, Me & My Dog, Chance, Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For
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Side B I’ve told a million lies I’m throwing caution Now I tell a single truth There’s you in everything I do. After the flood If I had to choose you or the sun I’d be one nocturnal I can’t help the way I’m feeling Soul love This love won’t let me go In your eyes In the maze of your imagination The resolution for all the fruitless searches. What I don’t have I don’t need it now I Bet My Life, Caution, Your Love, Angel of Harlem, Beautiful Day, Cupid’s Chokehold / Breakfast In America, In Your Eyes
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MOVING ON Poem by Carly Werdel
I did not throw your toothbrush out The spare one left in the cup beside mine — the spare one left behind — I did not throw it out. For months it kept sharing my cup as kip Until one night, whether by accident Or fate, it fell into the open can. I did not retrieve it (did not soil my hand) And that — just that — is enough.
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ALL IN MY HEAD Photography by Bobby DiMarco
LEXAPRO
Poem by Gabriel Reitzes Oh, roadkill, You and your non-consensual eye-contact Maintained until your eyeballs are picked out from the sockets, Like prize avocados by old women in grocery stores. I stare too long, like the dead rat in the street, And melt each day into concrete Until I no longer resemble myself, But my eyes are still attached to the face, So at least I’ve got that going for me. Oh how you sit, In contemplation or contempt, Frozen drops at the tips of grass blades and moustache hairs, Shaking in the wind. Exhaustion, the anti-emotionHaving nothing to say on the matter, Putting the puzzle back in the box to make space on the kitchen table. It’s funny to check the weather And find that it matches the underside of my scalp. Oh roadkill, Do you ever wonder how we got here? Me, with my pants, You, with your rotting pile of entrails. What a time to still exist. It wasn’t planned, you knowMy fingernails just keep on growing. Maybe if I had been you, you could be me, And we’d both make a bit more sense. Alas, procrastinating, I missed my exit.
AT HOME ALONE Photography by Ridwana Rahman
AXEYARD CAMUS Haiku by Sam Groetsch A falling axe-head Joy in the repeated swings
ANIMUS
Digitally manipulated photo by Kyle Thompson
Transcends the absurd
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MELTING
Prose by Sheyanne Loose
I never thought I could walk around the North Pole without a jacket. Each step I took met with hard-packed earth, still damp from the recently melted snow. Grass pushed defiantly up and out of the earth, eager to touch the air above. In places, small pools had formed from where snow had once piled up in excess. There were no living creatures. Corpses dotted the landscape. Once, they may have held plenty of insulating meat, fat, and fur, but all that had destroyed their chances of survival as the heat grew and the cold lessened. They’d been picked apart by those who relied less upon the normally freezing temperatures, but even those scavengers succumbed to the unforgiving warmth. I could still feel the despair that had consumed them as they perished. The further I walked, the hotter the sun beat down from above. Sweat began to bead on my forehead. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, parched beyond belief. The small pools that had formed seemed to dry up as I approached them, hoping for some relief. My shirt clung to my skin as the remaining moisture within me slowly leaked out and evaporated. Eventually, I collapsed. I had become one of those poor creatures I’d pitied. I could no longer move, and the sun relentlessly continued on. It felt as though I was melting into the landscape. One of the clumps of grass that had tried so desperately to push through to the surface browned and crumbled next to me. I was the last human left alive; no one could withstand Mother Nature’s will to destroy the arrogant species that thought they could use the Earth without consequence. Yet here I was, destined to join every other creature who had died before me.
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DESTRUCTION OF CATEGORY 4 Acrylic by Stella Dizon Sablan
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IAN AND SPENCER FIND A COOL LAKE Acrylic and oil by Ian Hermanson
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AFTER THE GORGE FIRE Poem by Amelia Ayers
birch ashes under boot seeing sugar water, dusty Valentine’s treat! or coke, but not for me: I’m watching my mood I wish I couldn’t be here oak onyx cat scratches on sky over desolation, only recently unavailable for my Coleman tent vision quest embered cherry stills wanes, flexes; in asphyxed kindling I see dick and phallic IPA bottles tapped over Clackamas graves I wish I could David down a last fir with char acorns; really fully empty the sky and the soil, fetish the nothing; but grieving flames lick my neck, pain spilling blood through my lips
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BETH’S HARVEST
Photography by McKenzie Heryford
ACID
Ballpoint pen by Kimberly Oshiro
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LIBERATION
Photography by Ashton Bisner
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THE QUEST FOR A NATIVE LANGUAGE Poem by Christine Castles
Where are my
I reach into a b o t t o m l e s s bag grasping at water.
words
I wonder.
When others speak they speak with purpose. But me, there
is
no
purpose
only meaning.
Use your words. But I never have my words until I have my words and then they are all mine and I want to spill them across the world let people drown in them let them be in awe of my intellect, admire me and my skill with language. And then. They disappear. Now I speak no native tongue. My skin a soundproof room. I could be a star. Instead I am the void between.
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Digital art by Melanie Gutzmann
ICELAND
THE LINE-UP
Photography by Matthew McKenna
CORPUS
Digital art by Kyle Thompson
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SEWING BONES Poem by Emmalee Roberts
I’ve been stiching my bones back to together If you were curious. It’s not as messy as you’d think, Methodically sewing joints. It burns The thread I mean Like running does your lungs In a cleansing kind of way But i’ve almost got a whole skeleton now Just a few more stitches To be unsteady again
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GOOD THINGS, JUNK AND BARN CATS: A LOVE STORY IN FIVE HUNDRED AND FIFTY SIX WORDS Prose by Ai Ana Richmond
I met him under unconventional circumstances, of course-- fighting wildfires across the West Coast over the summer of 2020. Here I was, with bloody, soot-streaked knuckles, pressing my life and my heart into this boy’s hands before even knowing his name. We were friends first, as every good romance story starts. It wasn’t right, the timing was off, the myriad reasons Hollywood construes to draw out the plot. We’d spend long, brutal days together. I’d fall asleep on his shoulder on the drive home. The fire season ends. We go back to university. The months bleed by in a flurry of exams and studies and anxiety heightened by a pandemic and a boy I could not seem to stop loving. It was four A.M. in December when I fall asleep in his bed and drag him down with me. I just wanted to sleep on him like I had every day over the summer-- warm, innocent, without implication. The tension between us felt like the splitting skin of a too-ripe peach. I was tired: of waiting, of wanting, of silences that stretch out long and taut. We nestle into his twin bed. I rest my head on his chest. He smooths my hair, asking me how I’m doing and handling school and the general stress that comes with these things. He kisses me, too-- misses, kisses my cheekbone. I laugh. Kiss him properly for the first time in the flat grey light of the early morning. These feelings I had repressed for so long bloom into green and copper-gold. And now. This morning, I woke to rainfall and his arms tightening around me. A kiss pressed into the dip where my collarbone meets my shoulder. My things are mixed with his, now-- laundry and scattered books. My tea sits on his shelf. My art is framed on the windowsill. A polaroid is in my phone case: we’re bleeding and blurry in movement, but our cheeks are pressed together and he is smiling wide, wide, wide. We talk of getting married next spring. We talk of children, of careers and mother in laws and cities. He whispers he loves me, voice thick with sleep.
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I came home today. Touched his face, because it still amazes me that I can. He smells like rain and home. I kiss him, soft and sticky-sweet, in the hollow of his neck. Tug his sweater over my damp hair, pour tea from the kettle he started for me. Our entire life is stretched before us-- vibrant and ribbon-thin in the breeze. Like all good things, junk, and barn cats, love goes unnoticed: slipping through the backdoor, settling down, making itself at home. Quiet until you set the mail down on the kitchen counter and find it slipped in between the bills and coupon books. I was no exception. There were no fireworks, no grand gestures. I had let him in, not realising until a little too late that he’d spent months rearranging the rooms of my heart and mind to make a place to stay: shaking the dust, throwing open windows. That was over a year ago, now. I can’t remember the colours of the walls or the layout of these rooms before him, and I can’t imagine what will come after. I can’t say I mind terribly, either.
LOGGED OUT
Photography by Jamie Heim
FAE GUARDIAN Polymer clay by Vianne Sarber
52
ROTO
Video by Casey Ward
scan to watch the video
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A FAMILY PORTRAIT Poem by Kimberly Gardner
Believe it or not, I am the tour guide on this fantastical journey through this section of the Freaks of Nature. No, let me take the collection of eyes so they don’t follow you. I have it on the best authority that they do indeed follow every move. As the calliope plays, my husband hands out cotton candy. Convinced the sugar will improve the dispositions of the monkeys that are our circus. As one daughter flies high, the other flits about. A butterfly sweet and social. Here is my son the wooly mammoth, stoic and silent.
STAIRWAY TO A CAREER Photography by Nicole Potekev
The thunder egg son rolls along, until he meets a machine of equal force. The littles run the gift shop handing out plushies to all. Cherubic faces full of trust. The Joker hides among the plushies, her nails growing gnarly and long. Today we will cut them and all will be right with our world. No more will we be a side show at the museum. The monkeys swing into place, the eyeballs gather to watch, but the Joker is flying high again. We cry until we laugh, go back to our positions dragging our “do not touch” ropes with us.
KNICK KNACK
Ink and watercolor by Ardea Eichner
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TEN GIFTS (THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING) Poem by Carly Werdel
One hundred bowls of over-salted soup that I loved once I tried Two years of your life, lived by my side Three (or almost three) mixtapes - songs you knew I would like Four heart-shaped chestnuts, found on four different hikes 5 a.m. cuddles, gentle lips Half a dozen late-night WinCo trips Seven thousand wholesome moments - now sacred memories Eight friends you introduced - now just acquaintancies Nine poems we shared, ‘cus I knew you were listening And your parting words to me: thank you for everything.
HUSH, OR WE ALL COPE DIFFERENTLY Poem by Christopher McCracken
A tender voice echoes out of her roommate’s speaker — something fondly remembered, Grandpa, childhood. She draws the memories closer. Alone, dazed, she sprawls over the couch: she considers herself. There comes a familiar deadening. She can’t feel: her feet. her gums. the constant oblong tug of regret at her neck. Her gaze finds the kitchen; she does not do the dishes. Her blanket glows warm hues. Home’s sunset is painted in the waning candlelight. A hush settles over her like the lapse between words of prayer. The music plays on; in another time, there is a man who loves you very much.
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POOR WAYFARING STRANGER Music by Madeline Gibbs
4
F Hn. 1
F Hn. 2
F Hn. 3
F Hn. 4
F Hn. 5
F Hn. 6
F Hn. 1
F Hn. 2
F Hn. 3
F Hn. 4
F Hn. 5
F Hn. 6
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AWESTRUCK
Charcoal and colored pencils by Donovon Horst
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THE MARK OF A MAN Poem by Marshall Saltz
What is it that makes me a man? Is it the day after my first surgery, the metal taste in my mouth, the itchiness on my face like moth wings, then dreary bandages and silver-tipped scars... I have decided it is not the chromosomes, One of which I am lacking, another of which I have too many. X and Y, like two subway signs, but I have two southbound trains on separate tracks. I try to trick myself into denying my DNA. I imagine riding that train, the one I do not have a ticket for, passing all stops, like when they ask my name. What is it that makes me a man? Is it what it took to go outside when hiding my chest was not an option, when I am not where or what I want to be? I know it is not that I could be accepted into a group of bikers and fraternity bros, only for them to be uncomfortable. No, what makes me a Man is what it took to get this far. The mark of a man is in his mind, the willpower to hold his chest even when he cannot hold himself. Being a man is the chemistry that denies being bathed in hormone soup-as much as estrogen tried to eat at the structure of my brain, as much as I was conditioned again and again, I found my place, and built my own path. 60
WILL
Acrylic by Ian Hermanson
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I MISS YOU Poem by Samuel Misa
Dear sister, Never mattered to me though who it was that made you, I love you. I still miss you. Isn’t it supposed to be God that makes us all? Doesn’t he love us all? Why did he take you before I could even be in your arms? Now the only images I have of you are the photos on the walls And the tears in my mothers eyes. I really miss you I cannot lie, I don’t even know the sound of your voice And I know it was never your choice, To be born in that broken home To not be available for me to call you on the phone Six months pregnant and you were already gone It won’t be too long until we will meet again. It’s been nineteen years now since you held our momma’s hand, Since you gave me my name, Now I am almost nineteen, eleven years older than you’ve ever been, And yet here I am, Talking to you like you been through the same things I’ve been through I guess it’s because I don’t want to think the opposite, That your story’s ended, After all I feel your presence whenever I feel alone, Big sister, I want you home. You know how much it hurts me to know all that you and I missed? Never get to see you walk down the aisle Never got to sit down and talk to you a while, About whatever problems I have had, I can only talk about these things we can never have,
Because of that shitty dad you had. Every time I think about that poor excuse for a man, I gotta ask why god? Why was this your plan? Oh don’t you know that there’s nothing I wouldn’t give? One day, one hour, one minute, one moment I can never have it. Used to be that we would thank God for taking care of her up there, Now I’m trying to find a reason to believe in him, because he wasn’t there, When she took that fall. They say the lord moves in mysterious ways, So how come he couldn’t cause the belt to break? How come he didn’t do anything when his own creation was crying, Because her father didn’t love her back? I worry sometimes too, That I got something to do with her pain, Maybe if I wasn’t around, maybe she could be. The perfect child is what I was destined to be, Maybe jealous of me, I can’t change the way things were meant to be, So now I sit here thinking about how lovely it’ll be, To see the missing part of my family. In the meantime I’ll make you proud, To you I make this vow, I’ll never forget you, And I miss you, Angie.
AVERY PARK AT NIGHT
Photography by Eli Smart
THE STORM ON JUPITER Digital art by Abheer Singh
RAMBLINGS TO ENSUE CHANGE Prose by Mackenzie M. Hebner
What if you genuinely just wanted to get to know someone better? Not in a sense of sexual drive but simply to explore and expand upon humanity and all it has to offer? Has one ever considered such abstract thoughts? To ask for a number simply to know, not to do...to imply a question to learn, not insinuate...to speak a compliment to encourage, not to pillage? Have such thoughts ever been taken into account? But then I guess not, because we tend to think with one mindset, and it is not that of sensibility. It often takes great lengths to convince a person to redirect the motivations of their mind. Why is it that we learn from experience and that those who have been through trauma observe the world through different eyes? See? Yes, this exactly. We tend to think with our desires, our wants, our sensation drives, not our potential to embody sensible minds. We want what we want, when we want it, how we want it, solely because we want it. For absolutely no other reason but that we believe the world should collapse at our fingertips and if it refuses to do so, well then life “is not fair” and we have been deprived of our natural born rights as human beings in a first world country in the 21st century. But what a perfect segue that brings up to my next topic of discussion—entitlement. By golly if something were to bother me most it would be our sense of entitlement. We believe we are entitled happiness, pleasure, love, money, luxury, the lot, and when we don’t receive it we blame the world, blame our lack of luck, blame everyone around us, and when we do experience it, it’s never enough. We think the fact that we were born should purchase us what we deem is a fair hand in life, but with what reasoning? What backing? You claim your existence entitles you to the world, but what effort did you put in to exist? What elbow grease did you exert to be born? It’s a hard pill to swallow but you are entitled to nothing. Everything you have is a gift, but we don’t see the world through those eyes because it means we have to work. It means we can’t just waste away and expect good things. It means “good things come to those who wait.” It means an endless list of things, none of which is our natural born entitlement. The world is not your stage, you are the pieces of wood that have the opportunity to be crafted into such a fine display of talent and success and fulfillment, but opportunity remains such until acted upon, something like Newton’s law, where he so famously states that “an object in motion stays in motion until acted upon by an outside force,” except this object is opportunity and it remains static and void of true purpose until acted upon. So, what do you think? Have I shifted your perspective? Unfortunately not, because even if you’ve managed to make it this far without throwing this page—my truest observations—against the wall beside you in pure outrage and refusal to accept that you are selfish, these words will still undoubtedly be forgotten in anywhere from ten minutes to ten days. I will wage that one in every ten million people are actually humble enough to take such words into account, to read a passage that challenges them and consider its validity in a deeper context. And if that phrase alone inspired you to think further, you are no one in ten million because it was only the drive to be special or unique that prompted your intrigue. Better walk away now, I don’t have time for people like that; I’m trying to make a difference here.
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SYMPTOMS OF AUTISM Ink and acrylic by Karree Lee
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BECOMING
Poem by Christine Castles I became not because I was but because they thought
ITHINKITHINKTOOMUCH Digital art by Kimberly Oshiro
ON THE WALL
Photography and digital art by Brandon Stephenson
IYKYK
Poem by Aria Back Are you, indeed, one of us? Do you shed your skin once a month In order to feel for once or begin anew. Do you cut your heart out and give it to others? How long did it take you to wake up? Do you raise your eyebrows at the big cats? Watering your crops, fertilizing your stocks Clocking in, clocking out, clocking in Never stop talking, resume-building, No more speaking up or standing out. Where are your addictions, Your friends that are drifters and bad apples; Like them, you hid your bruises in the wardrobe. Is your blood stable to walk upon, Or do you feel more kinship to the cobras? Do you have interests or are they obsessions? Do you understand, you empath? Or are you trying to interpret facial expressions Like a language that burnt in Alexandria?
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THE GOOD BOY Poem by Abigail Card
Wind In another life I had fur the color of clouds and wheat, swirling together. I danced with the wind in clunky, leaping bounds. My tongue never fit in my mouth, especially in sleep, when it would loll out before me like the ramp to a spaceship. I lived on laughter, and licked away tears that soaked through my fur and into my soul. Three wild children once ran circles around me, pausing between breaths to press fat cheeks against my hanging jowls. And when they tired, they lay against my body unafraid of my dragonesque snores. We shared bacon on Saturdays and bedtime stories under the blankets by flashlight. Rain Clouds marred my vision, sweeping in the night. My nose faltered, treats falling to the floor to be swept up, uneaten. Arthritis crippled my graceless leaps into stuttering shuffles. The end began with an abundance of tiny cheeseburgers, placed inside my aching maw. One by one they held me so close, our hearts coalesced as my humans whispered in my deaf ears the tales of our youthful past, professing their love on trembling lips. My head so heavy, I could not lift it from the fluffy blue rug. And the stillness consumed me. Fire Flames transformed my bones to ashes, like the hot Earth I used to nap upon in the afternoon. But, I was not ready for stillness, wrapped in mahogany. I wanted to run through clover again, to fly through the air and into the mud. To feel the river soak me. Or relish one more kiss upon my wrinkled forehead. On the mantle I lay, dust kept from wind. Alone. Where arms once smothered me with love, my wooden house shrouded me in darkness, a reminder of a life no longer mine. Until one of my tiny humans heard my whispered musings. Earth Freed from the confines of my wooden urn I fly through the air. Not on sturdy legs, but with the pollen on the wings of bees and in the belly of a bird. In the air I see a new world not hardened by aching joints and ragged breaths. Now, I am almost alive again. I catch a raindrop, or it catches me, melting me into the earth. I am the mud puddles I once splashed in, when my children were small. I am dirt. Lovely, nourishing dirt, growing up through the very blueberry bushes I secretly nibbled. Then, I was only alive. But now, uninhibited by the confines of fur and four big paws, I am the sunshine I once soaked in and the cool pond I once lapped up with a too big tongue. The wind doesn’t ruffle my fur, but I am the wind, and now I ruffle the hair upon my children’s heads. I am not a Good Boy anymore, but I am not gone from the Earth, I am the Earth.
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UPSIDE DOWN
Linocut and intaglio ink by Dakota Mason
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BLEEDING RAILROAD Digital art by Abheer Singh
REPLACE WITH SHADOWS Photography by Ashton Bisner
MONSTER MOUTH Sculpture by Ari Knight
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ECCENTRIC
Paint pens and paint by Krisona Wen
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ALICE
Music by Mia Tognoli
don’t look in my mind I guarantee you won’t like what you find been awake so long I’m dreaming on my feet let me show you what it’s like on the dark side of the street emotional fully in control grab my hand I’ll take you down the rabbits hole I’ll cry a river and drown you in my tears my third eyes open I see all your fears sometimes it feels like I’m alone you know how I get when I’m left on my own a ticking bomb I’m quick to explode look me in the eyes, It’ll chill you straight to the bone
scan to listen
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MARIUS
Pencil by Emma Brockway
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MY OLD MAN Poem by Jack Isenhart
When you got sick for the first time I cried all night. I didn’t know if I would ever see you again and I never told you that I love you. When you got sick the second time it was worse than the first. I promised myself that if you made it to the morning, I would find you and I would tell you that I love you. Today, I was driving on the freeway when I got a call. You asked me if I had made it home safe. I told you I was on the interstate, that I would Text you when I made it home. And you said ok. Then I said ok. Then you said I’ll talk to you later. And I said ok. Then you said ok. And then I said bye. And then you said bye. I started crying on the freeway like a child. My steering wheel was coated in snot and The windshield was too fogged up to see. So I parked on the side of the road and I called you. You must’ve been asleep by then. The call went to voicemail. hey dad... I made it home. talk to you later.
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WEAVINGS OF EXPECTATIONS Prose by Kayla Noll-Bader
My mother would braid my hair, careful to hide the baby hairs that would stream across my face. She would compare having children as a life sentence lugging around baggage. I could feel my grandmother’s and great-grandmother’s bony fingers through her youthful ones. I wondered if her mother and grandmother would braid her hair this tight and if they ever allowed her the relief of letting it down. Everyone had complimented my virgin hair, the hair that is brown in the cold but radiantly gold in the heat. I could sense the expectations being weaved into my scalp so tightly that it would pull my face taut and leave me with headaches. The day that the weather brought in the warmth, my friends and I ran through orchards that contained row after row of fruitful possibilities. We ran until our cheeks flushed as deep as the apples that hung above us. The air that wisped past us as we ran tangled its own fingers through my hair, loosening my tightly knotted hair. At last, it was time to return home for supper, where my mother saw my unruly hair and clammy face. I expected her to scold me, but instead, I saw a glisten in her eye, and a soft smile spread across her face. She sat me down at the table, and while I devoured the meal she prepared, I told her about all of my adventures that day. I felt her fingers pull out the tie that held the braids together, letting my frizzy hair swoosh onto my back. I felt her tug on my hair as she reached to grab a brush and begin brushing the snags from my hair, careful to not pull too hard, as I shoveled more supper into my mouth.
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Photography by Molly Piszczek
GREEN
JUDE
Prints by Stella Dizon Sablan
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Photography by Nicole Potekev
PEACEFUL • RALLY
I’M THE ONLY PERSON AROUND TO COMFORT ME Photography by Laurel Brinson-Larrabee
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DISDAIN
Digital art by Melanie Gutzmann
AUTUMN
Poem by L.L. Main
Her hair, falling leaves The death of summer in her eyes Voice like the evening rain
And you fools Are in love with spring
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LIFE, IN HALF Poem by Ryaan Akmal
The decay was inevitable, of course it was But we had time before, death—ever present, ever augured So we rattled our cages, seeking some just cause To cultivate this light, to take more than was offered To blow soft on glowing embers, dimming our precious light Before flaring brilliant in protest, to that ever encroaching night Then we held a contentment, vaster than one could destroy A pulsing energy we possessed, a swelling, rushing force of change Nothing could be, we thought, dreaming to stamp out such joy As to return our radiance, yet again leaving all dark and strange Yet the decay continued seeping, even this luminous metamorphosis This incandescent bliss of ours, could not escape the pull of the abyss When half this lilting life of a story is left, only one power remains And while we had our time of hope, every age flourishes till it wanes in Half The decay was inevitable, of course it was But we had time before, death—ever present, ever augured So we rattled our cages, seeking some just cause To cultivate this light, to take more than was offered To blow soft on glowing embers, dimming our precious light Before flaring brilliant in protest, to that ever encroaching night Then we held a contentment, vaster than one could destroy a swelling, rushing force of change dreaming to stamp out such joy As to return our radiance, yet again leaving all dark and strange Yet the decay continued seeping, even this luminous metamorphosis This incandescent bliss of ours, could not escape the pull of the abyss When half this lilting life of a story is left, only one power remains And while we had our time of hope, every age flourishes till it wanes
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SOLITUDE
Acrylic by Juliette Saccente
2022 Provost’s Literary Prize - Poetry Winner
I’VE STOPPED TRYING TO MAKE CELERY TASTE GOOD Poem (excerpt) by Aanaa Felema 1. I hear it in a pop song for the first time as a child— a vegetable is a vegetable and also a dead weight. I see it for myself when I’m slightly older. Vegetable. What a horrible shape to form your mouth into and call a body, I think to myself, because I am no older than ten years of age. It will be a long while before I begin to consider: Venation, Taproot, Seeds, yet to be sown. Proof of life and new ground, immunity to the ever-present fires. Proof of pedigree. Presently, My parents look worried and busy through the narrow rectangle window. So I wonder about the etymology of the word ‘hospital’ while sitting in the waiting room. And though I can’t spell ‘etymology’ yet, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Google will get me where I need to go. I’ve been here enough times to know how to spell out ‘hospital’ But still, I think. What a horrible shape.
scan to read the full poem
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2022 Provost’s Literary Prize - Prose Winner
LOST AND FOUND Prose (excerpt) by Jane Coneybeer
December LOST CAT Two years old. Orange. Loud purr. Please CALL if you see her and HELP us bring Sunshine home!
$750.00 Reward For Safe Return Of Lost Chihuahua BELONGS TO MY GRANDPARENTS. SHE GOT LOOSE AND THEY ARE DEVASTATED. GOES BY MRS. WORMWOOD. PLEASE CALL OR TXT IF YOU SEE HER AND WE WILL COME RIGHT AWAY. SHE IS AFRAID WITHOUT HER FAMILY. CAREFUL IF YOU APPROACH SHE MIGHT RUN AWAY. PLEASE JUST CALL.
In the thin-misted morning, you stare into the maudlin yellow eyes of Sunshine the Cat, her face pasted to the row of mailboxes at the top of the hill. Missing since January 15th, you read, and think of the coyotes you heard yipping in the woods that border the neighborhood not two nights ago. Maybe later, when he comes back from work, you’ll tell him about the missing cat, ask him what he thinks. Maybe it’ll fill the silence when you visit his family for the holidays. You pull out your phone to see if she’s been found, if this flyer is blissfully outdated, and instead find yourself immersed in a river of lost things, a tide of all that you can and cannot hold. You wonder at lost cat after lost cat after lost cat, at vanished rings with precious stones – how precious are they really, if they slip off so easily? – and rewards for missing dogs, dropped phones, disappeared wallets. How had you never found this desperate online world of lost and found before? How could you have been so confined by something as physical as a flyer? You turn away from Sunshine the Cat, pull up your hood, keep walking.
scan to read the full poem
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ARTIST STATEMENTS ABHEER SINGH (pg. 64, 72)
ARDEA EICHNER (pg. 56)
My art is a form of personal escapism. I seek to create unique textures which can be interpreted in a 2D medium. I’m often a spectator to my own artistic process as I grant myself the freedom to simply react. My digital artworks are parameter free reactions to my inward emotions and the outward world.
Knick Knack was part of a period of time where I was just having a lot of fun experimenting with ink, watercolor and expressive brush strokes. It started as simply a ton of colored shapes, and then I made scenes out of them. The scenes don’t really mean anything in particular to me, so they’re open to interpretation! I just think it’s a fun little thing.
ABIGAIL CARD (pg. 70)
ARI KNIGHT (pg. 75)
Abigail Card’s poems often explore grief and the intersections of life and death and imagine hope in the face of both. Card began writing poetry in her thirties as she processed the trauma of loss from her childhood and found magic in the healing rhythm of words laid bare on white space. Playing with prose and grammar helped her to shape painful memories into something beautiful. She believes a poem is an act of love, woven with imagery, to push out words that would otherwise hide in one’s chest.
This piece was made in high school, originally as a plant pot. I quickly discovered that no plant would want to live in there, so instead he holds random objects for me and follows me whenever I move.
ARIA BACK (pg. 69)
My poetry is informed by my identities as a queer and disabled person, which are the labels I’m comfortable saying in public. It is also informed by my identities that make other people uncomfortable - as someone who is poor, previously homeless, and the victim of severe child abuse from a young age. I love reading poetry because I can understand what it’s like to feel the way another person does, or consider things from their perspective. It’s a tool to understand diverse experiences. My poetry asks you to consider my experiences and to invite your own in for a conversation.
AI ANA RICHMOND (pg. 50)
On a whim in 2020 I applied to be a wildland firefighter. I spent the summer in half a dozen states fighting fires on a crew with nineteen men. It was here I met my partner. This is the story of how that happened: less gore and glory, but a sweet, unspoken sort of softness that crept up on me when I least expected it. It felt like the sort of story that ought to be understated, not chock-full of large romantic gestures and the heroism of firefighting. To me, the most important part of writing is to write honestly.
ASHTON BISNER (pg. 43, 74)
A lot of my personal artwork is inspired by the concepts of life and death. I find these two extremes to be incredibly interesting, especially with how they can affect people throughout their lives such as the birth of a child or the death of a relative. Creating artwork that revolves around these ideas is a way that I cope in my own life and express intense emotions that otherwise couldn’t be expressed with words.
AMELIA AYERS (pg. 39)
My poetry works are meant to capture individual moments and tear said moments apart through memory. With poetry I would like to irrationally represent what it is to be in a mind at any given time, oftentimes a reflection of my own experience but equally as often something and someone entirely different.
AUBREY SMITH (pg. 27)
My art is inspired by the world around me and the internal world within me. I use strong colors and imagery to convey things that are on my mind in a way that is visually stimulating. I feature women in my work because women are the strongest devices of conveying emotion. I make art in order to express myself and show a bit of my soul to the people around me.
ANITA SPAETH (pg. 22)
Anita Spaeth’s interdisciplinary creative process incorporates research, poetry, print, and book arts, with a primary focus on her writing. Through poetry, Anita is currently exploring themes of the everyday, ecology, contemporary land-use politics, environmental degradation, and the metaphysical uncertainty of living in the Anthropocene. Anita uses almost exclusively recycled, handmade, and found materials, placing high regard on notions of accessibility and sustainability in their practice due to the glaring inequalities perpetuated by the arts-industry.
BOBBY DIMARCO (pg. 31)
I’ve been working on a photo series for my internship where I am highlighting marginalized voices within music and music production. I plan to expand this series, but I wanted to share my work thus far. Women make up 5% of audio engineers yet have been crucial
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in foundational practices, education, and studio spaces we see today involving music production.
DIANA CHRISTOFERSEN (pg. 98)
BRANDON STEPHENSON (pg. 68)
DONOVON HORST (pg. 59)
BRANDT BRIDGES (pg. 11)
ELI DODD & ISIAH RODRIGUEZ (pg. 10)
The why: hoping to make something nice.
I believe my artistic style to be very unique. My artwork features vibrant colors and stylized characters, which fits my creative and positive personality. I make art because it allows me to visualize my feelings and emotions. I always strive to make something I’m proud enough to call mine.
I create this art about emotions and feelings. I find it easier to express myself visually through art. It’s also really fun to exaggerate these human emotions and make them weird and funky and intense. My art usually exaggerates and puts opposites together; I like that juxtaposition.
As life is coming back to life, I have been reminded of how great it is to want. In these writings, I attempt to reflect a relationship with not only the quiet moments but those nights of dancing, too.
This work was created as a collaboration between Eli and Isaiah. We both wrote the poetry and made the art in a back-and-forth process. We started noticing predictive structures in the ways we handle destiny in our culture, and how this ‘destiny’ is usually made as part of the formation of the self-concept through language. It’s possible not to think this way, but that would require time travel or a nonconformist attitude that is 100% transcendent and 100% realist. We wanted the graphics to represent Soviet Constructivist ideas through an all-American collage.
CARLY WERDEL (pg. 30, 57)
My poems are about my breakup, and I think they sort of speak for themselves.
CASEY WARD (pg. 53)
Anything in daily life can ultimately end up inspiring me, but most of my pieces start out as class projects and then spiral into much more. It really helps me to start with specific parameters to work within, and then expand the scope of my project from there. It’s difficult for me to just pick an idea out of thin air and work it, given how many different mediums there are to express even just one specific thought.
ELI SMART (pg. 62)
Nighttime photography is incredibly rewarding. It allows you to choose to represent a scene in a wide variety of ways. You can portray a scene accurate to the human eye, or manipulate light in ways that create otherworldly scenes.
CHRISTINE CASTLES (pg. 44, 67)
EMMA BROCKWAY (pg. 78)
In some ways these pieces came from a similar part of my life. Ultimately, my art comes from my experience and I can only hope that my catharsis is aesthetic enough that someone may find enjoyment or something to ponder.
As an artist, I am drawn towards black and white pencil, painting, and digital drawing. I love using texture and sketchy lines instead of using traditionally clean linework. I take a lot of inspiration from music, whether it’s lyrically or the emotions tied to the song. Almost every piece I create has a specific song attached to it. I also take inspiration from those who are or were in my life and the energy they brought to it.
CHRISTOPHER MCCRACKEN (pg. 57)
I write about the distance between the inner self and the external. I’m especially interested in the process of traveling that distance and connecting to others, the divine, the environment, and memory.
EMMALEE ROBERTS (pg. 49)
I honestly just write to write. My head can get really loud, so I use writing as something to get everything out of my head. My poems are basically the rawest form of all of my thoughts on stuff I just can’t get off of. I take pride in it all being as raw as possible because I enjoy the concept of knowing someone so intimately yet not at all.
DAKOTA MASON (pg. 71)
This piece was created through a linocut printmaking process, in which I carved each color block separately and essentially used them as stamps. My grandmother has been a professional printmaker for over 30 years and taught me everything I know. I love exploring my relationship with my pets, specifically my silver-lab Luna, through my work.
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JAELEN HSU (pg. 8)
FINN JOHNSON (pg. 19)
I don’t like to have too much control over what happens on the page. Most often, and often most enjoyably, I let what I draw grow on its own, like a plant, or mold, or a kid. It’s exciting for myself as the artist, too, because in the end I could be looking at something totally unfamiliar despite being the artist. I never know what a drawing will look like until it’s done. Sometimes I have a general idea to start and I do my best to morph the flow of the whole thing into something that shares a likeness.
This poem is about growing up queer in the Southern United States, in a highly religious community, and walking between the worlds of religion and queerness. My first love was reckoning with their place in the church and as a queer person. As a person who had already renounced religion and was facing community backlash from it, I was learning to heal myself with humor and irony.
GABRIEL REITZES (pg. 24, 32)
I tend to get stuck very easily on certain thoughts and feelings, so a lot of my writing happens when something is taking up way too much space in my head. With photography, I really like things that feel kinetic and imperfect, partially just because I lack the craft to take a “good” photo. So my goal is to make really compelling “bad” photos. If you’re comfortable doing things incorrectly, it opens a lot of doors for what you’ll let yourself make.
JAMIE HEIM (pg. 51)
Having concentrated mainly on birds and nature, my aim now is to focus on everyday sights documenting life as we see it today. Just as the photos of Robert Franklin and Henri Cartier-Bresson are now looked at in a historical perspective, so too will photos of today be viewed in 50 years and beyond. While documenting life on the streets, I’m on the lookout for opportunities to capture the ordinary and freeze that momentary scene of visionary enchantment.
GRACE KNUTSEN (pg. 28)
I find myself constantly coming back to songs as a love language and form of self-expression. I approached “Songs for Someone” as a found poem from the songs that are on constant repeat on my playlist, including tracks from some of my favorite albums: The Joshua Tree, The Crossing, and Imploding the Mirage. Inspired by a traditional album, “Songs for Someone” has two “sides”, each of which address different forms of love. Side A approaches longing and Side B approaches fulfillment.
JULIETTE SACCENTE (pg. 89)
A bird flies alone around the overcast skies of Cannon Beach. This location plays a significant role in my heart. This piece encapsulates the feelings I connect with whenever I am in a peaceful solitude.
KARREE LEE (pg. 66)
Lee’s work is based on her everyday life; things that are in her home, living with her brother who has autism, and taboo topics. These are ultimately things that make up her identity. She utilizes art as her outlet in order to tell her story to others and to talk about things she considers important/interesting.
IAN HERMANSON (pg. 38, 61)
I am a competitive and self critical painter. My main goal is to create art that will elicit an emotional response in each viewer unique to their own self. I want my art to force a viewer to pause and think, but I know I have a long way to go. Over time I have been forcing myself to gradually loosen up and embrace confident creativity, while constantly journaling my thoughts about life, my own painting, and art in general.
KAYLA NOLL-BADER (pg. 80)
My work is based on my real experiences. The telling of my experiences is a way to express how I am constantly being pressured to do better but always feeling like I am being pulled back at the same time. My writings show my grieving process and road to acceptance of what I cannot control in my life.
JACK ISENHART (pg. 79)
Writing has been something I’ve almost always enjoyed, but I never pursued it seriously until this past year. I’ve had some great professors here at Oregon State who have helped show me just how fulfilling it feels to pursue topics important to me. In my poems, I try to approach topics that are uncomfortable for me because I know these experiences could help me understand how I feel. Hopefully they resonate with people who have felt that same way at some time.
KAYLEE WALLACE (pg. 21)
I make art for myself to cope with whatever else is going on in my life. It’s the one thing I’m trying hard not to monetize too much! I make it for me so that I can process all my emotions in the healthiest way I can.
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KIMBERLY GARDNER (pg. 54)
and something is always lost in that process. Poetry is the art of trying to minimize that loss, therefore the ultimate poem is one that perfectly captures a moment, feeling, place, person, or any other experience. That perfection, like all perfection, is impossible to reach, but there is beauty in the process of trying anyway.
I enjoy being creative in many forms and believe creativity is only bound by how far the imagination can go. Writing, for me, is both a cathartic experience and a way for me to express my wonder, appreciation, and frustrations with the world. I suppose as a self described book dragon, it was only natural my love for written words would transition to learning to put my own onto paper.
LEAH KAHN (pg. 9)
I write poetry to find myself, God, and my way through this world. Often I write poetry in a series of sketches. I’ll write one or two poems around the idea I want to say before perfectly capturing it in a third or fourth poem. But sometimes the perfect poem comes on the first try. Sometimes I think the words to my poems are being fed to me by some muse on high. May I ever obtain her favor.
KIMBERLY OSHIRO (pg. 42, 67)
In my pieces here, I experimented with intricate details and colors, while keeping my love for lineart present. Pieces featuring characters and their emotions are what I like to do the most, and my goal is to immerse people into their stories. I aim to continue studying technical skills to strengthen the narratives in my art and give the viewer a memorable experience.
LEE NIEMI (pg. 14)
My work is informed by memory, mental illness, and how these qualities of myself are impacted by living my life as a trans person. I find that my work is often introspective, and I make it for myself more than anyone else. I also have issues with memory, and a lot of my work serves a purpose by recording my world at a specific point in time. It allows me to communicate and catalog my experiences, then share them with an audience. I hope to make those with similar experiences to me feel seen.
KRISONA WEN (pg. 76)
My personal art consists of using bright, vibrant colors and using different hues to create form and values. This piece required me to use paint markers on top of sketchbook paper and an understanding of lighting and how shadows would rest on the body in a 2D space. I initially sketch my drawing digitally and then print and transfer the drawing onto another piece of paper and then use paint pens and paint to color over my sketch.
LILY GIORDANO (pg. 3)
KYLE THOMPSON (pg. 35, 48)
This work is from a class I attended for three days at the Hatfield Marine Science Center where I learned from professional artist Dwight Hwang about how to print fish in the traditional Japanese Gyotaku style.
While I enjoy studying all mediums of art, the work I do is mostly digital. My artistic path began with photography when I was in high school. Recently I have been interested in the digital manipulation of photos to create more surreal and expressive works. The majority of my work starts as a photograph that I took and ends up as what you see in front of you.
MACKENZIE M. HEBNER (pg. 65)
I grew up in a small town filled to the brim with desperate circumstances that broke my heart, circumstances I experienced. I write to share the stories of those who were silenced, who have been, and who still are. I hope to open mindsets and inspire change as we grow to understand those around us. The power of writing is to have the opportunity to put thoughts into words, to connect people in a way nothing else can, which I hope to achieve.
LAUREL BRINSON-LARRABEE (pg. 84)
My motivation for this piece was to create a small comforting space that visually showed the feeling of trying to comfort yourself when overwhelmed. I consider this to be my pandemic-reaction piece as a year of quarantine was coming up as I made it. I wanted to showcase the cardboard as a main element since everything gets delivered these days, and then contrast it with the escapism of a box fort and fairy lights.
MADELINE GIBBS (pg. 58)
Music has always been an instrumental part of my life (no pun intended), and there hasn’t been a day in my life I haven’t sung, performed, or made music. Although I’ve always improvised melodies in my head, composing has been a rather recent development in my life. I found this original melody while browsing choral music on YouTube and finally felt confident
L.L MAIN (pg. 87)
I write poetry because language is an eternal struggle to transcribe both the objective and subjective into a form that can be shared from one human to another,
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MIA TOGNOLI (pg. 24, 77)
enough to arrange my own interpretation of the piece. The emotion of this arrangement is based heavily on the original poem, and I’m really proud of how it turned out in the end.
These works are a collection of creative endeavors that encapsulate a range of expression and emotions. They are some of my favorite creative endeavors from this year, as well as one of my favorite original pieces of music.
MAKENNA BROOKS (pg. 18)
This piece was taken at an art exhibit in Arizona. I went with my best friend, and some photos were intentional, but this one was completely captured on a whim. Despite having no original meaning, I think this photo could represent hope, as the light pierces through the darkness in the room.
MOLLY PISZCZEK (pg. 81)
One of my favorite parts of photography is the creativity and flexibility. With a camera, the world is your canvas, and you have to find the ideal way to capture it. I like to try different angles and distances while shooting, and then play around in Lightroom and Photoshop. I always find myself taking way too many photos because I can’t decide what image I like the most until after I create it.
MARSHALL SALTZ (pg. 60)
I believe my art to be an honest portrayal of who I am at that moment. I may change over time, but the art I create is a snapshot of who I was, and possibly who I think I will be.
NICOLE POTEKEV (pg. 54, 83)
The goal of my photography is to bring those who cannot, or do not, explore the great outdoors an understanding of why our lands are so important. From land to sea to air, I want my work to educate others and give them a glimpse into what we are actually trying to save. Context matters in situations as large as climate change.
The Lincoln Memorial. Beyond the men photographed was a large rally after the demilitarization of Afghanistan, to support every flavor of progressive movement. I rarely travel, yet I couldn’t bring myself to post any vacation photos on social media. While in D.C., I already saw too many people inside (mostly white), there for the novelty. There to take photos of monuments, moments, history. Which were long ago created for the people outside, the ones making history.
MCKENZIE HERYFORD (pg. 40)
OLIVIA EILER (pg. 12)
MATTHEW MCKENNA (pg. 46)
My photographs revolve around the local food system here in the Willamette Valley. I have partnered with Goodfoot farm, a vegetable farm in King’s Valley, OR, owned by Beth Hoinaki, that utilizes biodynamic approaches to agriculture. I think keeping our food dollars local not only helps our community economically, but that supporting local farms and producers can help us to sustain this land for generations to come.
Writing is the only thing I have that will ever be mine. It is the only thing I can make that will live and breathe without me to support it. I write poems to my uncle who passed in 2019, hoping he can read them on the other side. I write letters to old, lost friends I will never send. I write sonnets to my friends to tease them for choosing to share company with me. I write because it is mine.
RIDWANA RAHMAN (pg. 32)
MCKENZIE KLECKER (pg. 20)
Alone at home again in the summertime is an exploration of artificial light in the natural spaces I always find myself in when I go back home. It’s about the discomfort and ease that both come with returning home after being away.
Art, for me, is the greatest release. It serves as a way for me to put my emotions and thoughts on paper, a path in which I can opt for visual representation instead of verbally communicating. Most of my paintings have meanings and deep symbolism behind them. I also practice simple doodles that keep my imagination active. I hope people can relate to elements of my artwork and take comfort in the knowledge that they do not struggle alone.
RYAAN AKMAL (pg. 88)
My writings are done with a reverence towards archaic language and rhythm, as well as an interest in manipulating the structure of poems, as I hope my work makes clear. I formed “Life, in Half” as a sort of test of mirroring or repeating writing while changing its tone, hopefully producing a unique experience of recontextualizing something that has already been read.
MELANIE GUTZMANN (pg. 45, 86)
Painting these pieces brought me joy: placing colors haphazardly and then figuring out how to bring them together.
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SAM GROETSCH (pg. 34)
in any way. My work resides within the fantastical, and this common theme has tied all of my creations together with a common purpose: to provoke wonder and a dream-like sense of imagination.
“Axeyard Camus” was something written in the margins of some notebook while I was bored. Joyful repetition was a natural subject to think about while grinding through calculus homework.
ZANE RUSSELL (pg. 16)
SAMUEL MISA (pg. 62)
I have always had a keen interest in deep, atmospheric, and subtle worldbuilding. This interest only increased when I became invested in more expansive internetdriven worlds during quarantine. Inspired, I quickly began expressing my own ideas through a myriad of short stories and written pieces.Through my work, I attempt to take very comedic ideas and narrate them incredibly seriously and atmospherically to the point where the joke embodies the work.
I wanted to talk about something that I’ve always struggled bringing up to even my closest friends and family. I just wanted to use this as an avenue to get these thoughts off my chest in the way that feels most comfortable to me.
SHEYANNE LOOSE (pg. 36)
My work is inspired by controversial issues viewed from various, sometimes neutrally observational, perspectives. The issue of the “single story” creates bias and limits perspective. I like to explore this obstacle and help people to see that there is more than one side to each story, one you may not normally see.
ZANE YINGER (pg. 26)
My poems often express themes of queer love, human emotion, and nature. I’m most inspired by Greek mythology in which heroes are chronically and tragically transformed into plants. This is where my work thrives: in the liminality between humanity and nature. I think my poetry asks readers to question their definitions of personhood. We are surrounded by nonhuman people. It is only when we open ourselves up and listen for their songs, that we invite reciprocity and sacredness into our lives.
STELLA DIZON SABLAN (pg. 37, 82)
As I grew to admire my personal background, I fell more into the idea of making emotions and beauty in culture visible. I use my slow and defined, or fast and gentle, brush strokes of acrylic paint on canvas or various flowing lines of ink on paper. I want to portray the aspects of emotion and beauty carried through various backgrounds, religions, and life experiences. Each of my pieces hold a deep meaning to me, and I hope will connect with people who view them in their own way.
SYDNEY MARKER (pg. 23)
My music is usually a reflection of a feeling. Spring Waltz in C Major was composed to symbolize the freedom and joy of Spring.
TOSCA RUOTOLO (pg. 13)
Art is a way for me to let go of the worries I carry around day-to-day. Sometimes the emotions I’m experiencing are too overwhelming to openly talk about, and drawing gives me a great avenue to explore my feelings in a creative and judgment-free place. I can draw my emotions a lot more clearly than I can speak them, and putting my experiences into characters and doodles is therapeutic.
VIANNE SARBER (pg. 52)
The ability to create a sculpture teeming with personality out of an emotionless hunk of plastic is intriguing. Perhaps that is why I’ve been drawn to the topic of dragons. Mythical creatures do not exist within the bounds of reality, and can be interpreted
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SUMMER 20
Magazine collage by Diana Christofersen
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