Season of the Witch by Samantha Evans

season of the witch

season of the witch Samantha Evans

Thank you to the following contributing artists, mentors and supporters; Stacy Asher, Anissa Benson, Morgan Bruggeman, Katie Claus, Hannah Demma, Elina Diaz, Elizabeth Evans, Mary Alice Daly Evans, Emily Gauger, Jordan Geisert, Lani Hanson, Kat Hedges, Emily Johnson, Christine Kramer, Tina Lindell, Molly Misek, Megan Rook, Jessica Smolinski, Stephanie Sterling, Allison Sutton, Colleen Syron, Jenna Weir, Emily Wiethorn, B. Adele Wolf, Rosana Ybarra Season of the Witch copyright ÂŠ 2017 by Samantha Evans. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews. www.sevans.design

For her. She is stronger than she knows.

portrait of samantha evans by christine kramer, 2009

Preface

The term “unconventional” is defined by Merriam-Webster as not bound by or in accordance with convention as well as being out of the ordinary. For further digestion, convention is described as usage or custom especially in social matters as well as a rule of conduct or behavior. Certainly, convention has evolved over the history of humankind, but there is still an image of the white picket fence American dream lifestyle that is anticipated within our society today. It is expected of a woman to get married. It is expected of a woman to want and have children. It is expected of a woman to keep a tidy home, sit with her legs crossed, not curse, be disinterested in science or technology, keep quiet and be polite, to be submissive, be prudent and pure, be thin, wear makeup … I could go on. The list of expectations weighs even heavier on women of color, women beyond the heterosexual spectrum and women who identify outside of cisnormativity. Millennial women are changing the landscape of tradition as created and seen by the generations prior. These adjustments are being made by the largest generation since the baby boomers and, simply, we are advancing established culture in a way that makes some uncomfortable — even those within our own age group. Despite the definition, how one defines tradition or unconventional is unique to each individual. I am leaving it open for the reader’s own interpretation, just as I have left it open for the artists to define themselves as they please, without labels outside of the umbrella of atypical. We are bound together — pun intended — in this publication as witches. Rather than carrying a negative connotation, “witch” liberates us as we come together as a pack, embracing one another in our unique differences and interweaving paths. Women supporting women. Artists supporting artists. The new day is dawning and with it comes an unknown. This is the season of the witch.

HAL LELU JAH 16

The nurses can’t call back for four hours And father threw out the Toaster, so I took my tears to saddle and rode my Sadness beyond the bluffs, missing you. A poet dies and I think it should mean Something, in this time when meaning Is so lost. I can see life in you, sand angels You’ve yet to cast loose on the shoreline. I trace the dust from the skies, Colorado fires Waft over Nebraska, wonder of dystopian Rose gold obscure all, but how much we Miss. Our loss hangs between us unspoken. In my mind, I hold you beneath a fir tree, a Love lingering like sap, slow and wise. I envy The winds that tousle your hair, the sun That kisses your bright eyes. Hallelujah. I’ve never been so afraid, the trail narrowing Into impassable futures, confining solitude. It would have been nice for you to know me, Before the earth clears away my footprints.

by emily johnson previous page photo by molly misek

megan rook following page photo by samantha evans

a good earth

by emily johnson photo by megan rook previous page photo by molly misek 24

What is the purpose of a good Earth. Was there ever a bad One, and what did it do before We decided it fell from heaven? The trouble with places seems to only Be the trouble we carry in ourselves. Men who keep projecting mistakes and Hang them on innocent mountains. Maybe a precipitation cycle is just The oceans’ ignored, endless crying. A furious shower to scrub itself of Vapid, brutish assaults to its character. Maybe the sea cried so much that the Glaciers couldn’t take it, and died just to Warm and fill the ocean with a love we Were never great enough to show it. Maybe volcanoes have every right to be Furious, having formed our center, natural borders we dismissed. As kids are shot in arbitrary ones, they blow over and ash settles over ashes, a small gesture for a populace too shameful to carry accountability for the death of its own, and the depth of its avarice. While we beg for the edge of the desert it begged for ours first, expelling us with freezes and burns more extreme than our Worst days. And yet it blooms, in secret. Maybe a good earth was always good. Maybe here is the only heaven you need. As fault lines fault us for ungratefulness, Maybe it isn’t bad at all. Just we are.

Maybe

christine kramer

it isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t bad

at all. 27

Maybe

christine kramer

a good earth

was always good. 29

kat hedges following page photo by molly misek

Comedian I leave from a shift Serving libations To clientele my fathers age (and a boss, frequently) Who constantly infringe On my comfort Conspicuously complimenting (or touching) certain body parts Asking for relationship status or numbers Or plans that night Though they won’t even go far enough in their charade to tip decently And I’m near the end of the work night, tempted by such a sad simple display of decency by a sweet, handsome guy and his whatever sort of creepy friend To continue into unknown, unsafe, probably but-so-needed escape of socializing and being with people who aren’t old and drunk and paying for you being their eye candy I’m there and making flirty eye contact with The good one and he’s sweet and chivalrous and polite and fetches me red solo cups of something nice from whatever other end of the party and I nervously, innocently want to steal a sweet kiss and exchange numbers, Is all

by b. adele wolf photos by emily wiethorn

But instead whatever-friend somehow sequesters me away for What seems like just minutes but Now I’m in a cab But can’t Protest, and he’s asking me Where I live Because of course he’s from out of town Why don’t we go to mine He’s a comedian In town for a gig, and He plays on my generosity And not sobriety That he’s not from here that he needs a place to crash Such a fucking plot line And it follows similarly that I’m not with it Enough To resist I could have Could I have? when We get home And he wants More It’s not violent But it may as well be For how it rips me in half

I didn’t

I don’t

I still don’t

Want it 38

I wake, horrified, unbelieving Defiled In unknown, alien territory, Uncertain how to take step one, let alone get to the nearest safety He asks me Somehow if I want breakfast.

XIV we could be tangled in tree limbs climbing together you and me kissing we could be tangled in you and me limbs climbing each other kissing

by tina lindell photo by megan rook previous page print by hannah demma 45

As if it were as easy as picking an apple off a tree saying, “Here’s the only apple you’ll eat the rest of your life.” And that was a scary thought for me.

by christine kramer photo by emily wiethorn previous page photo by samantha evans 49

origami

before you my life was one dimensional but with your hands on me my body bends my body folds into something new beneath you

by tina lindell previous page photo by megan rook following page print by samantha evans 52

y body bend y body folds

before my life was one dimensional but your with hands on me into something new beneath you

you

oes it even matter

by samantha evans illustration by elina diaz previous page photo by kat hedges 58

at the end of the end we will all finish whatever it is we started whether it is done or not it all moves on within and without

rosana ybarra following page photo by molly misek

night blossom the prettiest petals like your heart & your limbs unto mine & my own open only under moonlight

by tina lindell ceramic vessel by jenna weir previous page print by hannah demma 67

ceramic vessels by jenna weir following page photo by molly misek

g slips you comes

b reath breasts

shouldersh chest my

inevitable

sigh you are my breath held a tender rise of my breasts makes room to envelope you within this chest until the inevitable fall with the collapse of my shoulders comes the parting of my lips until you escape in exhalation forever gone from me

by tina lindell

kat hedges following page photo by molly misek

It’s no one else’s life but yours, sweetheart. Yes, my darling. He should hunger for your touch. Take your time, love, because you don’t have to rush.

by samantha evans photo by emily wiethorn

earing my 28th birthday, I am no closer to being legally wed than I was 10 years ago — or 10 years before that, for what it’s worth. The season of the witch. I wanted to believe I wasn’t being pressured by my mother to find a husband, but as more time has passed, she takes it upon herself in the most inappropriate of times to remind me she wants grandchildren or she can’t wait for my future wedding. For the most part, it doesn’t bother me. I shrug it off or ignore her. But sometimes, I can’t help but say something snarky. It is a generational difference and factually significant that millennials are getting married at a later age. I am not out of the norm, statistically, or among my friends.

My mother married my father when she was 23. Their marriage crumbled when she was 42. Their marriage is still the weirdest thing to explain now, 13 years later. If this is the example she wants me to strive for, I have made it clear that I have chosen to live my life differently. I want more for myself than that. I need more out of love than that. When I was young and naïve in the arena of relationships, I truly thought that my soul was linked to one man. He was out there somewhere, probably dating a bunch of duds just like I was. Now, older and slightly wiser, I have a greater grasp on the realities. Our souls are not linked. Our hearts are not one. You meet someone, like them, love them, and decide together you want to share your lives with one another. Simple and easy. Tight. Obviously not. Loving another person is a choice, a decision you consciously make day in and day out. Love is a muscle that grows stronger overtime. Through good times and bad, you decide to commit yourself. The same goes for self-love and acceptance. It is not a single destination. There is someone special to me that I deeply love with my whole heart, more than I imagined I could love another. Often times, I feel dizzy when I think of him. My bruised heart pounds against my ribcage for him almost every moment of the day. I physically ache when I miss him. My hands shake in the coming hours before we get to see each other. My ears ring when we kiss. I have never felt this way for another person before, and while that is exciting, it is terrifying. Maybe he doesn’t feel the same way. Maybe I am too much for him. Maybe I don’t love him in the exact way that he needs. I consider him the man I want to share my life with. If this isn’t it, I don’t know what is, and I’m not really interested in finding whatever that other version may be. I want to be with the man I am with now and no one else. Maybe absolutes like these are what set us up for disaster. Maybe if this fails, I will never find another because of my reluctance to even the idea. I don’t know. However, there are a few things I do know for myself.

I know I am a patient person who doesn’t easily quit. I am more forgiving than I should be, but my capability to forget can plague my emotional mind. I am a diligently supportive partner. I am good at making people laugh, including myself. I struggle to not instantly want to fix or heal a situation. I know I am capable of loving. I know I am deserving of love, and this alone is a personal accomplishment. I want my mate to love me as deeply in return. I want him to understand me and accept that I have many crippling faults. I need him to tell me it is OK when my anxiety is rattling my brain in its cage. I need him to understand himself on the same level of interpersonal effectiveness as I do. I know that a mutual understanding and respect makes for a solid foundation. There are frivolously small things my partner does for me that I really adore. He knows how I like my coffee. He washes the dishes and lets me dry because he knows the dish soap irritates my hands. He sends me songs to listen to when I’m busy working. I treasure when he picks me up for a hug. I crave the sound of his voice. For the first time in my life, my romantic partner challenges me to discover more about myself and grow. And my desire to be sweet to him in return is overwhelming. He really has a hold on me. Do I think I am destined to be alone for the rest of my life? No, I genuinely hope not. I want to have a partner in life, alongside in love. Am I going about my existence on my own timeline, even if it is not exactly my mother imagined it would be at this point? Yes, sorry Mom. Do I know what love is? Yes. While I don’t think there is only one single individual that is our perfect match, odds are there is another human in close proximity that we could potentially share profound compatibility with. Whether this is my end all be all or my discovery onto something greater, I’ll continue to be a realistic, yet devoted, romantic.

by samantha evans following page photo restoration by christine kramer

About the designer and curator

Born on a Thursday, she inherited her artistic eye and love for art from a grandmother she never had the chance to meet. Samantha Evansâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; interest in design began when she was a preteen, meticulously clipping letterforms and objects from the half-dozen magazines she subscribed to for collages. Resilient, risible, romantic: Samantha feels her truest self when she is connecting to others. Season of the Witch was created as her senior thesis design project for the University of Nebraskaâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;Lincoln and completed in December 2017.

scan by samantha evans previous page print by samantha evans