IMAGES Parkland College Student Art Magazine
A student-produced, student-juried publication showcasing student art in its many forms
LIKE us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/images.SAM, and be sure to check back next year for information on how to submit your work. To view past IMAGES entries, check out our Tumblr page at http://imagesmag.tumblr.com/
A Parkland College Student-Produced Publication 2400 W. Bradley • Champaign, IL 61821
From its start in 1981, IMAGES has continued to improve and increase its content to include the best that Parkland College has to offer. IMAGES was first supported by Joe Harris, then chair of the Department of Humanities. After several editors and an extended hiatus, Prospectus News has taken over the production and promotion of the magazine and has worked with a small team to produce a high quality magazine. IMAGES encourages students to submit their traditional visual arts, graphic design, poetry, fiction, and non-fiction work for review and possible publication in this magazine. The IMAGES team is excited to present another year of great art and design from Parklands best and most creative. IMAGES provides students participating in the making of this magazine handson experience in magazine design and production, as well as an exciting chance to judge what content gets published. Special thanks go out to Parkland College Student Government and the Office of Student Life Activities Program, who make the production of the magazine possible through their continued financial support. Thanks also goes out to the faculty of the Department of Fine Arts and Department of Humanities, both of which are critical to the ongoing success of IMAGES. Their help in publishing and also encouraging students to submit work has helped to improve this magazine each year. We would like to specifically thank Program Director Kaizad Irani for encouraging his agriculture students to submit their work into the new segment “Landscape Design.” Thanks also to Editor Sean Hermann, Director Tom Caulfield and Activities Program Manager John Eby for their continued work and support of IMAGES magazine.
ART & DESIGN DIRECTOR
Burke Stanion
IMAGES CREATIVE TEAM
COVER ART
Mark Melvin
EDITORS
JoJo Rhinehart Chanelle Stokes Staff
John Eby Sean Hermann JoJo Rhinehart
DESIGN CRITIQUE
WEBSITE TECHNICAL
Jennifer Davis Larry Ecker
IMAGES guidelines:
Patrick Holy Drew Rennick
JUDGES
Crystal Day Sean Hermann Jason Marshall Briana Kay Stodden Chanelle Stokes Craig Towsley
Submissions are accepted from students registered during the current academic year. For IMAGES 2013 that is July 2012–May 2013. Interested students may submit a maximum of (6) works to be considered for publication. A maximum of (3) works per artist will be selected. IMAGES staff members may make the maximum number of submissions, but may neither promote nor judge their own entries. Questions email: images@parkland.edu
MONSTER
Daniel Rearden
Urbana 3D Digital
1
UNTITLED
Susan Coulter Champaign 3D Image
2
PRAIRIE SNOW
Gary Price
Bement Photography
3
NOVEMBER RAIN
Muhammod Arif Shad Islamabad, Pakistan Photography
4
RED RIDING HOOD
Samantha Timmermann
Mansfield 3D Digital
5
SPRING
Samantha Odenaal Ogden Photography
6
Aa Bb Dd Ee Gg
Cc Ff
Hh Ii Jj Kk Ll Mm Nn
Oo Pp Qq
Rr Tt
Ss
Uu Vv
Ww Xx Yy Zz ITC SLIMBACH BOOK www.itcfonts.com Designed by Chang Bao
ITC Slimbach was created by an American type designer Robert Slimbach in 1987. It was inspired by German typefaces and the works of Hermann Zapf. Slimbach belongs to the transitional category of the Serif typefaces. The designer combined clean serif shapes with the classic calligraphy forms to create a contemporary typeface.
BALLOONS
Chang Bao
Urbana Graphic Design
7
There are things that I need to say. On a quiet evening I would like to have tea with you. Let’s talk about the meaning of the world— Of our daily nuances, of talking, of people, Of wandering aimlessly but always being home. Let’s travel the world, or travel in our hometown And see just how different our perspectives are— Though we see the same, hear the same, Taste the same, smell the same—love the same. On a mundane afternoon, let’s walk and listen To the rustling of trees and the warm drifting Cloud of steam from our coffees. Then sit— Slightly apart, always together, afraid Of touching. Let’s stand on the sidewalks And wait for the lights to turn green And allow us to move forward, into the streets— Into the mass of cars that threaten to end our existence. On a warm Sunday morning, let’s sleep in, Together—maybe—or miles away. Let’s not Think about the other, but the self— Or perhaps the lack of the other, or the self. Let’s go antique shopping on the same morning And reminisce about the things we tried to understand And ask for help from the other—hoping They can fill that empty part of ourselves. At a certain midnight, let’s lie on our back And gaze at the stars—and let’s not talk. Talking is too much, and too little. And it is never enough, never fulfilling. Let’s wander aimlessly till we are home And the fences close at sunset. Let’s go out to sea And swim into the currents, or sit upon the sand And disappear into the horizon. These are the things I would never say. THINGS
Sarah Le
Champaign Poetry
8
I can’t remember Felix. The trees. I can’t remember if they exist. I remember it was beyond your backyard and its restricting fence; we had to sneak through several neighboring yards to get to it. It was a grove of about eight or more trees, so beautiful and orange, there was a chain link barrier concealing it from us, but we didn’t care about that. In the middle of these beautiful trees was a meadow of the most luscious green grass and at the center of that was a large pile of sticks and leaves and things. Do you remember Felix? There was no grass around the pile; it was the one ugly thing amongst all that beauty. You used to take me there when we were just children. We would laugh and play in that meadow all day. Felix? Do you remember? It was grand back then when we were children, so open and free. The trees seemed so dense back then, like a forest. It was an adventure… Felix? Was it real? Or a dream? I can’t remember now. But it was so vivid, your laughter would fill the air and I would smile so wide and we would play until your mother called us in for dinner. She kept telling us we should find a new place to play. It was dangerous….
Was it dangerous? I can’t remember now, my memory is hazy, it was so long ago, so glazed over by years of torment. It was a nice memory if it was real though…We would play army and go on missions to defeat the enemy. Remember? If we got shot we’d lay down dead and then get brought back as another soldier. We’d lay down dead… Remember we’d use the pile of sticks as home base? We tunneled into the center and hid out until a squirrel appeared and we’d jump out and try to catch it. It never worked though; the enemy squirrels were too fast for us. I remember one time I was in the base and you were being the enemy, I was spying on you. You did something odd though Felix, remember? I heard footsteps and you turned around, I couldn’t see it but something made you leave. Quick… I couldn’t see what it was; I thought you went to get something real quick and you were just playing at scared. Then it got hot, real hot… Felix? Was it real? That place in the trees? I can’t remember now… I can’t remember the trees. Do they even exist? Felix?
THAT PLACE IN THE TREES
Jessie Debolt
Mahomet Literature/Short Story
9
CIRCLE/CIRCUIT/CIRCUS
Tyler Reifsteck Champaign Photography
10
JENNIFER SMITH BOOK COVER
Susan Coulter Champaign Graphic Design
WHAT YOU MIGHT NOT KNOW
My Life as a Stage IV Cancer Patient
JENNIFER SMITH with Teri Fuller
11
FROM MISUNDERSTANDING TO SOMETHING ELSE
JoJo Rhinehart Monticello Photography
12
STILL LIFE
Melody Bilbo Champaign Drawing
13
DABO
Haedeun “Haeley” Park Seoul Other (sculpture, metal, etc)
14
UNTITLED
Irenka Carney
Urbana Photography
15
A CLOSER LOOK
Jessica Adrian Philo Photography
16
NEUTRAL Cycle Workshop
NEUTRAL Cycle Workshop
NEUTRAL Cycle Workshop
BILLBOARD CAMPAIGN
Burke Stanion
Thomasboro Graphic Design
17
no distinction between lust and pain flash backs to the past- disturbing images honesty catching up in- weaving lies pointing fingers where they do not belong tearing up the meanings of every word don’t put your world into mine this world is always crashing it will crash yours as well trying not to notice the possession- the property like owning a star- unable to claim for yourself those words were trailed with malice controlled by pain- controlling the agony feeling the anger- embrace those feelings set apart by personality act accordingly- silently suffer this temptation to bury it all stay inside this cycle the circle of nothingness this hole of nothing but shit pain is nothing but an illusionto master and to teach just a star in the sky just a grain of dirt on the ground just a hole in your head nothing stops the tears but the tears themselves my silent rant my hidden place amongst the stars the sands of infinite time my essence in the background of this society creativity splashing against me like a painter in a rage masterpiece of disaster ‘tis my life
THE ART OF LETTING GO
Jenny Smillie Urbana Poetry
18
Why must life be so hard? It’s like a sick joke that goes too far The pain … the suffering The killing … the diseases Why can’t everyone live by the saying, “I would never harm a flea?” Instead we insist on letting hardened criminals walk the streets, does not anyone care about you and me? Rapist get five to ten, will they pay in the end?? Drug dealers get three to five and they do nothing but take lives. How about Jeffery Dahmer or the terrorist bombers? They all walk free but what about all of the trauma? The lives they have took What do we do?? We let them off the hook? Why must life be so bad? There are so many problems and we try to ignore them We have so many that are poor, and what do we do? Legalize the whores We can send a man to the moon We can predict typhoons We are a Nation of Big Brothers But why do we insist on hurting one another?? What ever happened to fist fights … now they do drive by’s What does that prove? Kids shooting kids
What happened to Barbie’s and GI Joes? Instead of hard work, it’s who you know It does not matter how nice you are All that matters is the amount of money you have I know this is sad, but it’s true But what can you do?? We have rights like no other country in the world we are entitled our freedom right from birth We have the right to choose No matter if we choose to loose Go for ‘it’ they say … what is ‘it’? Is it love … is it money Is it power … or fame? Maybe it is to someday meet the creator of our game That is if you believe There are so many religions to choose from How do we know which one is right? In some countries this even causes fights Is really that far from sight? I hope and pray that someday we will all realize that we were created equally We all live and die and we all show emotions and devotion we can all cry and show fear when it is needed So please be kind to one another for you will never know when you will need their helping hand to help you stand. What can we do, it is up to you.
WHAT CAN WE DO?
Shanda Graber
Tuscola Poetry
19
CHICAGO BEARS
Ghada Yousef Champaign Graphic Design
20
VINTAGE FORD
Jessica Adrian Philo Photography
21
AFTERNOON DELIGHT
JoJo Rhinehart Monticello Photography
22
REFLECTION
Arrmia Benton Champaign Photography
23
POLLINATION
Melody Bilbo Champaign Painting
24
ARTISTS
Crystal Day
Gibson City Photography
25
FALL-ING LEAF
Bissie Buscombe Evanston Photography
26
SELF PORTRAIT
Benji Frazzetto
Champaign Other (sculpture,metal,etc)
27
Let us teach you Let us help You’re seeking a future You’re seeking wealth Common knowledge won’t do You must seek the truth The truth within yourselves The truth of this world It’s hard It’s cold But the containment of it is breathless Let us teach you Let’s become one With your mind With your soul This isn’t a joke We find in you a faith Unlike no others Seek what’s not for granted But what gold in which you seek to find
Let us teach you Let us pray You will find your calling You will find the day But for now Just listen closely To the words in which we say For one day you’ll thank us and be upon your way Let us teach you something Beyond your mind’s delight Finding comfort in our wisdom Passed from dawn to night Let us teach you glory In walking upright paths So that day you stand there gladly Upon the pedestal You’ll remember That we taught you That hurt is not in vain Move on into the future Holding on, to what you’ve gained Let us teach you something
LET US TEACH YOU SOMETHING
Jennifer Hershberger Urbana Poetry
28
I see no reason to be afraid. No reason to shake, tremble, Heart palpitating, palms sweating; No need to cry. No need to fear, to dread the very act of speaking; That which so many take for granted.
Broken and never put back together again. Who are we to break that silence? Who am I? A small existence, not more than an ant Or a little blade of grass in a never-ending meadow A single star in the sky. Who am I to break the silence?
The mere act of opening my mouth and allowing My thoughts to flow into solid, concrete words Send shivers down my spine. For no reason. No reason at all.
I wish I could shut myself up. Rid of all gestures, movements, sounds, words. The silence must never be broken, The silence must be respected, The silence must be there.
Now why is it that my frail hands And its nerves tremble at the mere thought Of speaking, the mere thought of Breaking the silence that comes so natural with life? Indeed, why is it so hard For the silence to break?
Yes, the silence must be there. For without silence, there are no sounds No words, no music. Nothing. There is nothing without silence.
It is deafening, that silence; Like a swarm of bees, or a flash of the winds. The silence exists inevitably, for always. It is an everlasting force, a will of nature. Who am I to break that silence? Yet so human is silence, and yet so human It is to break that silence. With every gesture, every move, Every opening of the mouth, every stretch Of the vocal chords, the silence is broken.
Nothing without the feeling of being trapped In time and space. Nothing without the feeling Of being one with your surroundings. No, there is nothing like silence.
SILENCE
Sarah Le
Champaign Poetry
29
WHORLS OF WHILE
Angela Norman Mahomet Photography
30
REMEMBER WHEN…
Scott Hunter Ogden Photography
31
THE TALL GRASS
Jordan Peoples Savoy Painting
32
REVEALED BY THE SUN
Alison Branz
Chatsworth Photography
33
BOOK COVER
Benji Frazzetto Champaign Illustration
34
UNTITLED
Irenka Carney
Urbana Photography
35
UNTITLED
Scott Hunter Ogden Photography
36
ROAD TO KEDARNATH
Rashmi Kapoor Champaign Painting
37
He sits a couple of feet away in his armchair, Reading the daily newspaper. He had read it once before, of course, In the morning, always in the morning with his coffee, Black, and a thinly sliced piece of homemade bread, The fruit jam spread on thinly. And yet he reads it once again every night after dinner, Over tea, often herbal, as if he needed to. We do not talk. He sits in an armchair that is undeterminably old. At times, he says it is a relic from his Grandparents’ days; other times, it would be A rare find at the flea market. His story changes as often as his mood does not. There he is now on the mysterious armchair, Framed in a beautiful mahogany, With dark brown leather lining. It sits confidently and sturdily in the corner of the room, Demanding the sort of attention that nothing In corners of rooms has the right to demand. Even more special, perhaps, was the man atop the chair. He was, still is, and will probably be The only one who sits in that chair. I have no intention in coming close to it, And he has no intention of letting me think I can try. He sits on the edge of it, his right leg crossing Comfortably over his left, the ankle on his knee, His back leaning against the leather and wood. The back of the chair, though hard and rigid From almost anyone’s perspective, seems As soft as feathers next to that man’s back, A back hardened with time and life itself. THE CHAIR
Sarah Le
Champaign Poetry
38
He held the newspaper with his hands, Weathered and worn without The long years of hard labor. His face is hidden behind the paper, But it is not hard to know what he looks like: Wrapped in mild interest and a hint of dark amusement, His normal expression towards ordinary things Like the news, his coworkers, his students, or me. Oh, if I could rip that newspaper out of his hands And throw myself on him, my hands Clamping that face, that hard jaw line, My eyes staring into his grey ones, searching, looking. He shifts, untangles his long legs, And cross the left one over the right. He shakes the newspaper in one jolt of Motion and settles back into the chair. Look at me. Please look at me. I glance back at the chair in the corner. It is empty now, but it still holds a suffocating presence. It stares at my back, a small, nervous back. It seems to smile, even laugh, at my small back. Child, what do you think you are doing? I stand up and face the chair. Reaching out a shaking hand, I touch the leather lining, Still warm from the touch of that man. I breathe out. One, two, three. At the end of the day, it is but a chair.
When a woman sheds her final tear it is a final release of what was but no longer is. It is an absolution that she is done. It is the realization that it is over. When I woman sheds her final tear It is regret that the love she once had feels wasted. It is the emotional release that’s draining her inner spirit, flowing freely from her for the last and final time. It is the sadness seeping from her heart, because the ache has become too much. It is the end. It has no choice but to be the end because it is no longer giving her life. It is now only taking away from life. A woman’s ability to love a man, the right man, is truly tremendous. A woman will give a man she loves her all, often times, with only just receiving half of that man. When she trusts a man, he gains her belief that he will never hurt her.
When a man reciprocates with his love in return she gains the belief that they are connected. She believes they are one and that often leads to him being placed on pedestal. This is the first mistake. No matter how much a woman loves a man and trusts a man, she should never fool herself into thinking that he would never hurt her. It is inevitable. This may sound harsh, but it is a fact. It may not be a tremendous hurt, but hurt is hurt no matter how minor. Once that woman has experienced true hurt she will be done. This is the mindset of a woman who has shed her final tear.
WHEN A WOMAN SHEDS HER FINAL TEAR
Alexis Roberts Champaign Poetry
39
UNTITLED
Crystal Day Gibson City Photography
40
I SEE
Karen Scott Villa Grove Photography
41
UNTITLED
Irenka Carney Urbana Photography
42
BATS AND T-REX
Julio Gaytan
Onarga Drawing
43
PIGEON VALLEY
Della Jacobs Homer Photography
44
LABAUNNE AUTUMN
Jordan Peoples Savoy Painting
45
ZOMBIE HUNTER
Dan Zangerl
Urbana Other (sculpture, metal, etc)
46
THE DEADLY SIN: ENVY‌
Angie Worman
Teutopolis Photography
47
Who needs discreet in the face of defeat? I bow my head and stare at my toes. My eyes cross as I focus on the end of my nose. I don’t know what I’m doing with my life right now. Should I? Do you? Some people do. I thought I did too. I might, but … well no see what had happened was … okay look it’s like this … One excuse after another. You should talk to mother. She’d tell you it’s true. Actually don’t that’s up to you. I’m babbling rambling not making any sense and my words run together like my thoughts when I’m trying to sleep or my feet on the street as I run and I can’t stop my lungs are about to pop I need air and to … breath. Deep breathes, in and out. No need to scream or shout. One day I will let this all out. For now I’ll just write it down and pass it around town. On day everything will make sense. On day … but today, today is full of nonsense. ONE DAY
Jasmine Wiliams Savoy Poetry
Naked flesh; I’m stripped of me. Gave up all I had, for free. Entrusted, open book to read. Neglecting all of everything. In our novel, sprouted seed. With stem of certainty for need. Roots mending broken heart, Somehow birthed a secret deed. Skeleton veins in leafy sprout— cower through an angry shout. Watered with blithe ignorance, sorrow hides in pages’ pout. Without ink, nude story told. About a youth, abruptly old. Calloused flower pressed to dry. In a tale of you and I. DRIED FLOWER’S TALE
Melody Bilbo
Champaign Poetry
48
Hear my rhyme, against all crime.
Why, I ask, do you steal?
Words for the holy, truth be divine.
What’s your task, you see so real.
Where lies our folly? Does it lay with mine?
Pay them back. That how you tame?
Black, White, who knows the truth? Indian foo’ or Asian routh?
Blind my rack, hung in shame.
Haters dis, killer dat. Leave you this, imagine that.
Circles we run, all the same.
Beings we are, dust is all.
What is fun? What is our name?
Choices go far, Rise or fall.
Outside the box, inside the membrane.
Life springs tall, Death so small.
Peace my detox, shelter I maintain.
Minute existence, legacy or naw’
Father Sky I hail, Mother Earth my support.
Do you call for resistance? Is your power so raw?
By my spirit I flail, violence is no resort.
I preach not destruction, but freedom from pain.
I am a dancer, that’s my life. Don’t be a fighter, therein lies strife.
Love is resurrection. Rape ain’t sane. UNDER THE NONE
Joseph Wyatt Champaign Poetry
49
VERA BRADLEY
Ghada Yousef Champaign Graphic Design
50
BALLAD OF SERENITY
Muhammod Arif Shad Islamabad, Pakistan Photography
51
STILL LIFE IN FOCUS
Rashmi Kapoor Champaign Painting
52
BLACK WATER
Della Jacobs
Homer Photography
53
HONG KONG UNDERGROUND
Chang Bao Urbana Photography
54
HIPPIE AT HEART
Briana Kay Champaign Photography
55
LOVELY SANTORINI
Ayaka Paprocki Champaign Photography
56
MARANETTA
Joe Asselin Champaign 3D Digital
57
She exhaled heavily as she set it down on the sink. Slowly, she looked up into the mirror and then closed her eyes. She caressed her face gently with the back of her fingers, imagining his soft touch. Her head tilted back as she pictured him kissing her neck. Tears began to run down her cheek. “Don’t cry baby,” she could hear him say, “You’ve always been the strong one.” He was trying to help. But now, she is alone. They have all died. Her cheeks and chin quivered. “No! It’s…not…fair,” she half yelled, half yelped. In an eruption of tears and emotion she collapsed to the floor. With her head buried into her fists, she experienced within herself a feeling so immense her body felt as if it could explode. She was not so lucky. Her crying exacerbated her cough. With every bark emitted, it was followed with an immense, searing pain in her chest and throat. The action made her want to cry more and she cuddled within her own embrace, wrapping her arms around her abdomen. She crawled deliberately down the hallway, through the bedroom door, and rested against the wall. The deep orange sun was low in the sky. She hated the night. She examined all the pictures of her family in the collage she had built around her. Picking each one up as she spoke, “Dad. I know you, more than anyone, would be upset by this. I hope somehow you can forgive me. I hope I can see you somewhere after this, in that better place you always talked about.” FINALLY, TOO LATE
David Smith
Normal Literature/Short Story
58
She sniffled, fighting back tears and more painful coughs as she spoke. “Mom, I can’t do another night alone. I hear the moans and screams outside. I can’t listen to it anymore. I’m slowly dying. The sores haven’t even begun which means I have months yet to go. There is another reason now too. I’m so sorry.” “Alexa, I love you sis. I still feel like your alive somewhere out there. Even if I had the strength to find you, I wouldn’t be able to in my condition now.” “Brian, you and Jennifer were quite the pair. I know Mike and I wanted to be as in love and happy as you two were. You were an amazing brother,” she choked on her words, “You were always there for me. Part of me wishes you were here now, but I know it’s better you’re not.” “Mike. I was never the strong one. Together though, we were perfect,” she broke down again. Through her tears and gasps for air, she fought to verbally express her thoughts, “I love you with all that I am. And, I have some news to share if you can hear me out there. I’m pregnant, Mike. We finally have a baby after all the failures. Can you believe it? But now you’re gone…I hope to see you on the other side my love.”
“See you soon too, my baby,” she put the gun in her mouth, her other arm holding her stomach.
Every breath you take every step you make I will be a step behind you all the way I’ll tell you what I think I’ll tell you my love and how I care Even though we’re only friends I’ll be there till the end My only wish is to somehow find the key To unlock your heart, for you to see that You could put your love in me Each day I look forward in finding the key to make my dreams come true Someday I will no longer walk a step behind I will walk by your side and take the same breath and make the same step Until that day I guess I will have to stay a step behind, but I will never give up, till I find that key, because I’ve walked so many steps to get a step behind.
EVERY STEP
Shanda Graber
Tuscola Poetry
build me a box from my shattered dreams, my broken heart, my silent screams build me a box where I can sleep inside my own little place to hide made from the things I could no longer evade because I was too weak to fight the being afraid build me a box where I can recoil and hide from the toil a retreat from this place my very own space build me a box stronger than me that withstands the waves of this tumultuous sea with walls made of iron and steel so tough I can’t even feel build me a box and hide me away don’t ever come if you can’t ever stay leave me alone if that’s what you must do because maybe this box just wasn’t built for two BUILD ME A BOX
Hannah Pepper Poetry
59
BASEMENT TOIL
Dustin Kerchner Champaign 3D Digital
60
DIRT ROADS
Chanelle Stokes Mahomet Photography
61
SPARKLING WHITE
Samantha Odenaal Ogden Photography
62
TIME
Briana Lehmann Sidney Photography
63
GOOD MORNING
Dan Zangerl
Urbana Other (sculpture, metal, etc)
64
DAISY
Rebecca Davis
St. Joseph Photography
65
MONSTER
Logan Long Gibson City 3D Digital
66
TEA BOX
Amy Mueller
Urbana 3D digital
67
Glossary Then - Den The- De Rabbit- Lapin and-an’ through-t’ru door- do’ fact-fack
floor- flo’ that- dat that’s- dass for- fo’ “Yes my dear little one”- “Ya Ma Cher p’tite” chicken hawk- manageur de poulet
they-dey thing-t’ing getting-gettin’ them- dem dog-chien boat- bateau alligator- cocodrie
A Christmas funny story of Cajun life in the backwater bayous of Louisiana. Backwater Bayous Cajun Christmas Offered With Flair (With Apologies to Clement Moore)
‘Twas de season of Christmas, an’ all t’ru de land, Dey don’t a t’ing awoke, not even de marching band. Den out on de roof, I heard a large clatter, I rose from my bed to see what de matter. I run like a lapin out de do’. Den what my foot do, but step in de chien bowl in de middle of the flo’. Slip right off de step and landed on my crack. I rose up slowly hoping I did not ruin my back. I rose to de feet to see what made dat clatter and what did I see but a great big ladder. I jump like a cat onto de ladder I was bound determine to find de matter. I rise to de top and what did I find but my Paw Paw sipping on some muscadine wine. I thought I was going to find a burglar, an’ dass fo’ a fack! I den slip down de ladder for it was time to empty de bladder. Den in de kitchen what my eyes saw was my sweet Mama. De skillet left on de stove from de bacon dat was just fried. Biscuits going in de oven, and Mama replied, “Ya Ma Cher p’tite it is time to gather de eggs dat de hens have laid.” I den run out without a splat! My feet were going licka de’ split to gather de eggs de hens laid all in de pen. While eggs were collected my stomach started a grumble, and den I realized it was time to eat so we can begin de day without a fumble. Breakfast was already for us to enjoy. We ate and den realized dat Paw Paw was missing and how could dis be? Oh, no, I remembered where he could be. Without a sound not even a shout, I flew out in a great big flash.
68
De sun was shining, and I was not alone. I had a journey, and it was to take de ladder and not go to Rome. The top of de ladder led me to de place where my Paw Paw was still awake. He was dressed in several furs and feathers dat were of musk-rat, lapin, and mangeur de poulet from his head to his toes. His cheeks were a glow like a rose with his dimples looking so merry! He was laughing and his belly shook like a bowl of blackberry jelly. I smiled to myself for as it appeared he was old Saint Nick dat was full of great cheer. I said to him at dis time, “Paw Paw food is ready for you to come down and dine.” I den left not thinking any more of dis matter. I headed to de woods to begin in what really mattered. Papa has been in de fields working all day, while trying to make a living de Cajun way. Time was still needed for collecting de hay. De cows and de chickens were in de barn yard bay. Maw Maw was in de barn sitting on de stool milking de cow we had all named Sue. I checked all de traps dat were set in de woods. Den I headed back to de barn to collect de crawfish nets and bait. When I arrived at de barn yard site, there was Maw Maw going inside with de milk that Sue had supplied. I gathered de nets and bait dat was needed, den slipped in de house for a quick snack. There was a great big surprise. It was Mama making gingerbread with Maw Maw by her side. The gingerbread smell was such a delight I den went out to catch de crawfish, hoping they’d bite.
De day grew long, and de sun was soon to be gone. I den realized a strange chill in the air. I began to pick up de crawfish nets. The sack was full of crawfish and de nets were folded. Now was time for me to split and not for me to hesitate, not even an inch. What did my ears happen to hear? I turned in a twist and looked, and what did I see but Paw Paw standing by a tree. He was whistling an’ hollering an’ calling dem by name: “Ha, Gaston! Ha, Tiboy! Ha, Pierre an’ Alcee! Gee, Ninette! Gee, Suzette! Celeste an’ Renee!” (Cajun Night Before Christmas). He got in de bateau while still calling dem by name. The eight cocodries all lined up in front of de boat for ole Paw Paw to tie ropes on dem. I den stooped low to de ground in fear, but I was so amazed dat they all could hear. Paw Paw stood up in de boat wit’ de snow-white whiskers dat was on his face, looked forward, and said, “Nothing will get in my way, for I know dis place.” De boat began to glow, and den I realized it was starting to snow. Paw Paw leaned forward and picked up a sack, flipped it over his shoulder, and chuckled with a jolly laugh as he arched his back. I den stood up a little so I could see while he leaned down to pick up a whip. Den I heard him shout loud with de splashin’ an’ crackin’ of de whip. Den a tug on de rope and de cocodries were all at a float. “Merry Christmas to ya’ll and to ya’ll a good night.” I den realized dat ole Paw Paw was ole Saint Nick and started to gloat. I den ran with de sack of crawfish and nets for home and hoped to make it there before the moon come back. I arrived home peacefully and what did I see, but a feast of Christmas and even a tree. I den knew that Christmas was real, for what did I witness but ole Saint Nicholas though somewhat ridiculous. Without a click not even a clack, I grabbed my hat
and coat and began to help in gettin’ ready for all the Christmas display. Lights were hangin’ and all a glow. Papa was roastin’ a hog, while I sat on a log. Mama in the kitchen and Maw Maw too, busy makin’ the fixin’s’ for the group that was arrivin’ very soon. The tree daslin’ with color. The snow was still fallin’ and it all was such a glow. My eyes did see that Christmas was so very near. I was so excited everyone could see I was jumpin’ and gleemin’ and even shakin’ at the knees. In a distance I could hear a noise that was comin’ very near. It was splashin’ and clashin’ and even some shoutin’. Then what did my ears hear but the voice of ole St. Nick as he came near. “On Gee, Suzette and you too Gee, Ninette!” “Come on now, Ha, Tiboy and Gaston we got presents to deliver so let’s get a blastin’!” Then the arrival did come and there laid all the glowin’ of ole Saint Nick. Laughter and shoutin’ filled the air as the kids and neighbors were all filled with cheer. St. Nick began his givin’ with presents and treats, and all I could do was think this was so neat. Christmas was here and we all could hear the sounds all around us of great cheer. The family and neighbors gathered all around to collect the Christmas wishes that Paw Paw had laid on the ground. It was den dat I learned at dat time dat cocodries were there for a reason. Dis reason was to bring all de folks treats and great cheer for de holiday season. And it was den dat I thought dat Papa and Mama did know ole St. Nick was Paw Paw all a glow sipping on muscadine wine, “Ho, Ho, Ho!” And though those cocodrie if hungry might bite, I said, “Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.”
CAJUN CHRISTMAS SHORT STORIES
Mark Badeaux
Baton Rouge Short Story/Literature
69
THE EDGE OF BLACK
Angela Norman Mahomet Photography
70
COUNTRYSIDE
Samantha Odenaal
Ogden Photography
71
JELLY VIATHAN
Sarah Lerch Champaign 3D Digital
72
C
U
D
O
a
n
D
P
a
r
k
l
a
n
D
C
O
l
l
e
g
e
P
r
e
s
e
n
t
PECHA KUCHA NIGHT champaign-Urbana
Volume 11
Friday
February 8, 2013 Doors open at 7:30pm Show starts at 8:20pm Admission is FREE 20 Images x 20 Seconds Parkland College Applied Technology Center (NW corner of campus) Emceed by Michael Morgan Music by DJ Mertz Luke Boyce Vanessa & Doug Burgett Michael Coulter Jonas Dees Raeann Dossett Rebecca Grosser Kaizad Irani Tom Ramage Jennifer Smith Cathie Stalter www.parkland.edu/pkn www.pecha-kucha.org/night/champaign-urbana
Tweet to: #pkncu (during the night)
Design: Amy Mueller, Parkland graphic design student
Devised and shared by Klein Dytham Architecture
PECHA KUCHA POSTER
Amy Mueller
Urbana Graphic Design
73
JELLIES
Ashleigh Martin Mahomet Photography
74
SHUTTER
Karen Scott Villa Grove Photography
75
OLIVE NOSE
Bissie Buscombe Evanston Photography
76
A WOMAN SCORNED
Jordan Peoples Savoy Painting
77
UNTITLED
Atley Stumpf 3D Digital
78
TWILIGHT
Shane Rogers Champaign Photography
79
TEA CUP
Samantha Timmermann Mansfield 3D Digital
80
EARRINGS
Briana Lehmann Sidney Photography
81
TRICYCLES
Chang Bao Urbana Photography
82
THE RAM
Haedeun “Haeley” Park
Seoul Other (sculpture, metal, etc)
83
ON THE RIM
Gary Price Bement Photography
84
BIKE IN GARBAGE
Joe Asselin Champaign Photography
85
ONE WILD NIGHT
Muhammod Arif Shad Islamabad, Pakistan Photography
86
ITC TYPEFACE POSTER
Burke Stanion
Thomasboro Graphic Design
Aa
Bb
Cc
Dd
Ee
Ff
Gg
Hh
Ii
Jj
Kk
Ll
Mm Nn
Oo
Pp
Qq Rr
Ss
Tt
Vv
Ww Xx
Yy
Zz
Uu
KOR I NN A The H. Berthold type foundry was established in Berlin in 1858, grew to become one of the largest and most successful type foundries in the world, and remained in business until 1993. The Korinna typeface was originally created by Berthold in 1904, during the Art Nouveau period. While working at the International Typeface Corporation, Ed Benguiat and Vic Caruso revived Korinna in 1974. The typeface is distinctive in style and lends itself well to informal display work such as menus or invitations. Named after Corinna, an Ancient Greek poet, and introduced during the “Jugendstil� Art Nouveau period, the character of this serif is rich and bold, yet playful and casual.
87
WITNESSED
Craig Towsley Savoy 3D Digital
88
MEADOW BROOK
Katrina Reed Savoy Photography
89
SPECIAL SEGMENT
Landscape Design
Artistic rendering, creative design, and photos of installed landscape work are combined in this special section of IMAGES 2013. They represent a creative process that may go unnoticed or could remain underappreciated. The following works by Landscape Design, Construction & Management students, are samples of the artistry that’s nurtured in this program.
Most students already have extensive knowledge of plant selection and best fit to location and appearance at mature growth. Many things must be considered carefully when designing landscapes, including plant hardiness, light and water needs, soil types and plant growth habits. All these aspects add a third dimension—like sculpture— to the works. From colorful rendering and technical drawings, to digging, placing and planting their visions spring to life.
The following pages capture the creativity of a few, but with the installation and finishing touches, prove the finely skilled work of many.
90
Bailey Walden
Sidney
91
Brittany Bengston Urbana
92
Joel Kouski Champaign
93
Joel Kouski Champaign
94
Joel Kouski Champaign
95
Joel Kouski Champaign
96
Andy Smith Champaign
97
Ashley Taylor Broadlands
98
Joel Kouski Champaign
99
Kate Dobrovolny Urbana
100
Joel Kouski Champaign
101
Joel Kouski Champaign
102
Brittany Bengston
Urbana
103
Joel Kouski Champaign
104
Joel Kouski Champaign
105
in d e x
Adrian, Jessica
16, 21
Norman, Angela
Asselin, Joe
57, 85
Odenaal, Samantha
Badeaux, Mark
68, 69
Paprocki, Ayaka
Bao, Chang
Park, Haedeun “Haeley”
6, 62, 71 56 14, 83
Benton, Armia
23
Peoples, Jordan
32, 45, 77
Bilbo, Melody
13, 24, 48
Pepper, Hannah
59
Branz, Alison
33
Buscombe, Bissie
26, 76
Carney, Irenka
15, 35, 42
Coulter, Susan Davis, Rebecca Day, Crystal DeBolt, Jessie Frazzetto, Benji Gaytan, Julio Graber, Shanda Hershberger, Jennifer
Price, Gary Rearden, Daniel
3, 84 1
Reed, Katrina
89
2, 11
Reifsteck, Tyler
10
65
Rhinehart, JoJo
12, 22
25, 40
Roberts, Alexis
39
9
Rogers, Shane
79
27, 34 43 19, 59 28
Scott, Karen Shad, Arif
41, 75 4, 51, 86
Smillie, Jenny
18
Smith, David
58
Hunter, Scott
31, 36
Stanion, Burke
Jacobs, Della
44, 53
Stokes, Chanelle
61
Kapoor, Rashmi
37, 52
Stumpf, Atley
78
17, 87
Kay, Briana
55
Timmermann, Samantha
Kerchner, Dustin
60
Towsley, Craig
88
Williams, Jasmine
48
Worman, Angie
47
Le, Sarah Lemann, Briana
8, 29, 38 63, 81
5, 80
Lerch, Sarah
72
Wyatt, Joseph
49
Long, Logan
66
Yousef, Ghada
20, 50
Martin, Ashleigh
74
Zangerl, Dan
46, 64
Mueller, Amy
106
7, 54, 82
30, 70
67, 73