SheCult: MUSE by SheCult

SHECULT

muse 1

2Photographs by Noelle Maldonado

DEAR READERS, We see MUSE as a means of continuing. Our muses become crucial to foster what inspires us, increasingly so as queer folks who are routinely denied humanity. Our sense of attraction and love has been deemed an unnatural existence as means to disadvantage, prosecute, and execute queer peoples. We remain standing tall. We believe the artwork expounded from this experience is some of the most crucial in existence. This magazine serves as a collection around the beauty in resilience.

By Alejandra Spruill

6By Alexis Palmer

EARLY EVENING Moments fall like Pressed flowers from well-worn notebook pages. Roses can breath and laugh and life smells like vanilla chapstick. Light is slipping in through the window, Pooling on the floor. It is singing sonnets to me from the floor: Warming my feet. I think my blood is strawberry jam moving slow and sweet. Something beautiful is on the edge of my mouth.

Poems by Emma Bruce

MIDNIGHT SNACK She took a cold pancake from the fridge Damp, like a sponge from condensation, Each bite an afterthought of plastic. She ate slowly, lips first; as if gnawing, as if, kissing. She did not care that the kitchen light was fluorescent Or that the grout lines fell back thick and dark from the moon-faced tile. She chewed the pancake slowly until even it was an afterthought. The cool moon licked the window glass And upstairs the air-conditioning clicked on, Gently misjudging its own thoughtless groan.

By Noelle Maldonado

STEPPING STONES I laid beside her, post-coital, naked, breathless and seemingly in love. That’s when she turned to me, smiled and asked, “When did you first know you were gay?” It began to dawn on me that mostly every day I tell myself I’m not “gay enough”. That maybe today I’m one thing, but tomorrow I’ll be something completely different. That I’m whatever people say I am, think I am, or believe I am. That I’m always wondering how I am perceived. I wanted to tell her that I had my first kiss at a party in sixth grade. I was eleven. I kissed her right on the mouth. It felt like a bomb after it detonates. The ringing in my ears, I mean. It knocked the wind out of me and sent me paralyzed on the ground. Boys recorded it on their phones and girls turned their noses in disgust. I think people watched it for the remainder of middle school. I was confused. I had honestly thought kissing her would be okay. I wanted to tell her that when I was thirteen I finally saw tits that weren’t mine. “I’m 60/40” she said as her shirt fell to the ground. “Me too.” I said as I followed suit. I didn’t know what it all meant, but I knew percentages gave it life somehow, so I said it. Because being “in between” is difficult sometimes. There is such a desire in this world to be all or nothing, perfectly packaged and easily perceived. I don’t know why matters of perception bother me so much. But they do. I wanted to tell her that gay became a dirty word. That my mom always said men like Freddy Mercury and David Bowie were either gay or straight. Never bi. Bi was kids at school laughing behind a phone. Bi was 60/40. Bi was fake. So, I wanted to tell her that after I loved a boy, I resided in a world of invalidation.

By Izzy Kings Because they tell you it’s a phase, it’s a stepping stone to something greater. And maybe all of it was just my stepping stone into being a confused straight girl. Because I hadn’t known what it felt like to love a woman yet. Their breasts, their curves, the soft slope of their stomach colliding into their beautiful thighs. That was porn though. That was sneaking on tumblr at 3 in the morning and watching gifs of girls fucking. That was getting off to tight asses and perky tits and always scrolling past dick sucking whenever I could. That was gaping wordlessly at the pretty woman behind the cash register at the super market, but being too afraid to say anything. Cause men made me feel safe and loved in their big arms, so maybe quiet was okay. But women, they make me feel valued in my soul. They make my heart sing. “Umm 16?” I finally answered her. The word felt round and heavy in my lips. It felt good. Like the proper age to figure these things out. “That’s pretty old,” she said. Flatly. I created judgment out of her words. But still, I wanted to tell her everything. That I have tasted, tried, and regurgitated. That laying beside her has suddenly made me think that perhaps I have created stepping stones in the minds of men all along. That I have formed stairs in their hearts that have carried me all the way to her arms. That there will always be these “stones” following me wherever I go. I know that now. I’ve accepted it. But I am unsure of where I’ll land and maybe that’s okay

By Alexis Palmer

Why Are You So

Obsessed With Me?

How the liberal heteros are stealing the queer narrative

By Olivia Townsend As pop culture is pushing the envelope to NSFW and edgy content, we are seeing a flourishing of new voices being represented in the arts. In the age of being “woke”, the straights are tossing their boring heteronormative, characters aside and reaching into the melting pot of experiences they can’t relate to. I can’t argue that some are doing seemingly good jobs at incorporating the gays into their subplots, even if their favorite subject is focusing on the closeted masculine man. I’m not saying the straights should not write gay characters. Take the San Junipero episode of Black Mirror for instance. Charlie Brooker (a straight, white man) was able to incorporate queer women into a plot that doesn’t involve murder, women leaving each other for men, or most importantly, didn’t involve his irrelevant opinion on gay women. To film boys: I don’t care about your opinion of San Junipero and how it’s “objectively not a good episode.” This is where your opinion does not matter. I just appreciate not being used as a pawn by the straights to be naked or killed to further their plotline. Queer women like San Junipero because we’re written as actual people with a character bio longer than the word “gay.”

I love my straight allies and I love my male feminist allies but I do not love what they’re doing to our narrative: Writing it for us. While Charlie Brooker was able to pull it off, it’s because the character’s sexuality wasn’t the main focus. He was writing gay characters, not the gay perspective. If you’ve ever been in a writing workshop, it is consistently about who can write the best gay character. Don’t get me wrong, I love it when straight people tell me I’m homophobic because my queer characters are flawed and femme. In fact, my favorite of all is being mansplained why my female character’s experience just “isn’t realistic.” In a culture of one-upping each other on how politically progressive we can be, some straights are forgetting that they aren’t queer. Some cis-men are forgetting that they’ve never lived through the female experience. No, sorry straight people, you writing about gays doesn’t impress me. In fact, your insistence that you can write us better than we can is getting old. These liberal ideologies are leaving the queers in shambles. For example, I do not want to beg a straight cis male writer to “just have a queer leading women for once.” It is a necessary skill for cis men to be able to write a good female character or a good queer character but I do not want them writing and producing a perspective that isn’t theirs. Instead of begging cis men and the straights to make a film about “us” for once, it is up to us to make it ourselves. Since when did we want a straight director making a movie about lesbians? Did you all forget the trashcan fire that was “Blue is the Warmest Color?” If we ask a straight director to make a movie about us femmes, we will inevitably be disappointed. Straights desperately want to write femmes as tragic, delicate figures. Or worse, they write us as wild, sexual sirens and pass hypersexualization off as female empowerment. Did you know a male author’s book is more likely to get picked off the shelf than a female author’s book? Think of it this way, me, a queer femme, and a man both write a novel

about a young queer women. His is more likely to be sold. His is more likely to be more popular. He will be applauded by the liberals for being so brave and progressive. Meanwhile, the actual queer perspective back here won’t even be acknowledged. Therefore, the cycle of queer erasure continues. Why am I supposed to kiss the feet of a straight writer that acknowledges my existence? It’s not a conservative audience out there watching gay movies, it’s the liberals, so those liberal straights are not actually changing anyone’s mind by writing about gay people. You’re just turning us into zoo animals for the liberal hets to brag about the progressive movie they saw last weekend. Stop acting like making a gay main character is the most cutting edge thing you can do to your plotline. Therefore let’s feed that heterosexual fascination with something written by us. This is why we have to support our fellow queers rather than rely on straight people to write our story. We’ve got to support one another! Part of me is conflicted, because, I love to see more gay content out there. In fact, I chase after queer bait subplots like a starved animal. But straight people are doing us dirty by muffling over voices with their much stronger, producible ones. I want to see something made by us, for us (like SheCult!), not the hungry liberal audience. We made it cool for straight girls to wear mens pants, show us some respect, please.

By 12 Noelle Maldonado

By Isabelle Molnar

WHILE VALERIE SOLANAS WATCHES FROM HEAVEN By Victoria Capraro Doesn’t this man know he is playing Joni Mitchell too loud For my liking, and I am starting to grow hives from the inside out, doesn’t he know How the California blues t/rigge/r me, t/r/i/ggg/er/ing/g/g like one thousand lost memes silently Burning in death valley. Joni Mitchell plays B-b Dyl-n songs so loud, that’s trig/////gering too Cause I knew a boy, and another boy, and boyboyboyboyboy, two thousand clucking boys and their strong arm, sharp brows, angled haircuts. In my dreams Every man who’s ever hurt me gathers in Malibu to play a volleyball tournament, and they have Different faces but they all have the same name, and now I know to run from any man Who loves just Joni, her guitar, her cancer moon, and live recordings in a sunspot naked one afternoon with a joint. Me naked in a sunspot with a joint two thousand times Thinking I could die here in this boys arms, maybe I did die there two thousand times in those boys arms, and J. Mitchell’s timbre makes the amputated ghost limbs tingle sometimes. I make a long list of every man I hate and bury the whole list in the snow and wait for spring, and again and again for spring, but frost remains, etc. I keep my jacket on for another month, etc. Something something frigid bitch, something final form, I never asked for this.

P O W E R By Audrey Peterson the powers that be that put value on my parts, my sex, my tongue, my blood, the entirety of my being, categorized, itemized, and marked for sale prices set by the surveyors of the masses, cishet-fucks, led by hegemonic tyrants chains around their necks gagged and naked tugging their cornmeal cocks to shameful she male, sissy, trans pornos pale perverts palming their members in the dark illuminated by pulsing pixels provided by pornhub streamed directly to their eyeballs via chrome cast 4.99 a month for hd

By Tessy Vetter

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;M STILL YOURS By Alayna Theunissen Your lips have passed over mine In the realm of my musings Have mine ever passed over yours? I have intertwined our hands Despite the miles between us Did you ever want to feel my fingers? I never wanted this when I had you Corporeal

But now In the space of vague impressions Barely

formed

feelings

I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t seem to picture us apart 18

ABSENT LOVER By Catherine Barna She only emerges on the darkest of nights When the sky is a stage, set and ready for the show She is a scorned lover Reminding you that you can see but you cannot feel Her touch leaves no sensation Only a ghost of a past love lost She will give you the promise of warmth with those rays reaching out like fingers to caress your face But you cannot feel, her touch is not of this world She is radiance Her light may blind you but only on your darkest nights She performs on her own terms She changes her shape but her ways stay the same She leaves no trace and vanishes when the sun comes up 19

MAVERICK By Emma Spooner On my first day living on a different planet, my eyes bulged larger than those of the Malay groupers on display at the Bedok South market across from my hotel. I scrunched up my nose at the pungent durian smell that hung in the heavy air, the bustling streets alive with thousands of people. My heart beat rapidly. Despite the fascinating, mongrel culture teeming around me, I wished to leave Singapore, to be back on Groton Street, in my house behind the corn fields, with my best friend next door, my cairn terrier Nellie on the porch, and the inflatable pool in the backyard. Little did I know that the most terrifying experience would not be connected to the five million strangers aswarm on a tiny, 278 square foot island, or walking into a new school. It would be having a crush on a girl. Soon after entering the sixth grade, I reluctantly began “going out” with a boy by the name of Matthew. He bashfully cornered me in the school cafeteria one day, with his friends on either of his flanks, holding a tray with chocolate Milo and buttered naan. I stood there with my lunch box dangling by my legs, desperately confused. He blurted out, without any introduction, “WILL YOU GO OUT WITH ME?!” I said yes immediately. I definitely didn’t like him. He was always so sweaty. But he played football, and I’d heard that cute boys play football, and that it was supposed to be a good thing. Plus, all the popular girls were watching and I didn’t know what else to do. That year I also became best friends with a quiet red-headed girl from Texas named Kayla. Her apartment complex had the best pool I’d ever seen - so naturally, we spent many afternoons playing Marco Polo and splashing Kayla’s older brother. One day, we were dangling our legs over a small koi pond near the lobby of Kayla’s building, when a girl on a skateboard whizzed behind our backs and across the wooden bridge. She skillfully twisted to a stop, popped the board into her hands, and

plunged her hand into her pocket to pull out a squished piece of bread. Startled, I gazed up at her in wonder. She plopped down next to us, brushing her mousy brown flyaways out of her face, and hurled the bread into the pond. As the koi swarmed to fight over the mushy lob, Kayla smirked. “Emma, meet Emma,” she said. I shyly smiled at this exotic girl who shared my name. She was wearing the boys’ cargo shorts from our school uniform, and sported clunky black Adidas and a low ponytail. Her huge green eyes blinked mischievously. Emma pulled out another piece of compressed bread from her cargo shorts and took a huge bite. Showing her gap-tooth grin, she replied, “Nah, you can call me Maverick,”. Offering no explanation, she stuffed the rest of her bread blob into her mouth, threw down her board, and sped away. I soon learned that Maverick, her parents and her two young siblings had moved four times in the past two years, but were originally from Bosnia. Kayla, Maverick, and I soon became the goofiest trio the entire country of Singapore had ever seen. And my initial feelings for Maverick only strengthened and grew as our friendship did, and growing along with it came a sense of dread and confusion. I loved spending time with Maverick, but it became impossible to skateboard together or see her at school without a pit in my stomach opening up. I began to avoid her altogether, pushing everything I had felt into the smallest corner of my mind. I broke up with Matthew over text on my pink Nokia 6700 slide phone and sat alone most days at lunch. When I was younger, my parents never talked about queer people. We lived in Singapore for three of my formative years, a supposedly democratic country that has outlawed male homosexual relations, has no LGBTQ+ anti-discrimination laws, has outlawed adoption by same-sex couples, and has censored books, TV shows and movies with gay representation. As a 12 year old, I was confused, and trying to figure out my sexuality. I remember one day, in the sixth grade, upon thinking about Maverick, I sat in my small bedroom in our apartment taking “Am I a Lesbian?” quizzes on my mom’s laptop. I clicked on one link, probably 3 or 4 inconclusive quizzes in, and a message popped up that read, “This

website is not accessible. You have attempted to visit a website that is not permissible in the nation of Singapore.” My heart leapt in its socket, and I slammed the laptop screen down. Certainly, this meant it was wrong - what I had been thinking, what I had been feeling. The Singaporean state didn’t want me thinking about being gay - so clearly I shouldn’t have been. My response was to shut down, to isolate myself, and to never talk about it. I blamed my increased heartbeat and sweaty palms and butterfly-stomach on Maverick’s tomboyish clothes and attitude. I thought, because she acted boyish, some part of me perceived her as a boy. I tricked myself into believing that the fluttery feeling in my gut was a fluke. I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere - to my knowledge, I had never met someone from the LGBT community, and I felt entirely alone. We moved home to New England the following summer. I seemed to be pretty successful at suppressing my queerness, because I don’t remember questioning being straight again for a number of years. Maverick and Singapore felt like an entirely different universe, and with that distance, I was able to shut down the thoughts that had been racing through my head. I didn’t think about my sexuality again until high school. When I was fifteen, I began writing my own music, and exploring other musicians that inspired and influenced me. Through listening to other women songwriters, I started to discover riotgrrrl feminist punk music, and from there I found queercore, and from there I discovered an entire community of underground queer musicians making all types of music that express the marginalization they’ve experienced. I could feel these artists’ pain and anger through their words and music. I could hear each of their own identities through their songs. These artists wrote of the same kind of erasure that I experienced as a kid, the same self-suppression that I forced myself into, the same isolation and denial. It was honestly incredible. And I began performing and writing in the same vein. I don’t know when I came to the realization that I was queer. I think slowly, through my teen years, as I found this community of queer artists, first online and then in reality, it rose up within me, and I came to terms with it. The specific labels I chose changed constantly, and are still changing. I came out to my parents my

senior year of high school, and my dad said he knew all along. He said he could mostly tell because of my song lyrics, which made me want to cry. In a good way, I think. Performance artists forcibly and symbolically take up physical space. They use their bodies, no matter how marginalized, to make a statement. There’s something there - something extremely empowering to take the space in a studio, gallery, apartment, treat it like a microcosm of the real world, and interact with the audience in a physical, concrete and demanding way. To me, performance was the most real and concrete way to come to terms with my identity. By physically taking up space on a stage or in front of a class, and singing words that are true to myself and my experience, I am creating a space that is under my jurisdiction. At least in my mind, it’s a way of defiance - my body is in the light and I am in front of you and my identity is real, and it’s not yours to politicize. I am drawn to performance as an act of protest against censorship and erasure, and has helped me find my confidence in the face of oppression.

Photograph by Noelle Maldonado21

QUEER RESILIENCE

trying to uncover myself beneath the debris underneath the pieces of me that broke upon impact of falling in love that left fear crumbling and made rust from tears as ash scatters from burning bridges the dust longing to settle and rest itself on unattended or abandoned things such as â&#x20AC;&#x153;usâ&#x20AC;? i know somewhere underneath lies the part that hasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t died the part that breathes, bleeds, and loves

By Nann Tsehay

NO ONE ASKED Victoria answers questions that literally nobody asked her! You’ve come to the right place! I’ve tried literally every possible method of crotch hair removal: waxing, shaving, chemicals, lasers, Dear Victoria, etc. And let me tell you the one thing is all has in common: it fucking I try to keep my bikini line clean because it makes me feel sexy, hurts. Bad. Some methods hurt less than others, but there’s no way plus my boyfriend loves it. It empowers me to have sex, so I considto avoid discomfort when you’re trying to remove the densest and er it feminist. However, I have one big problem. Whenever I shave, curliest hair on your body. Hair removal also costs so much money. it looks fine for a few hours, then I get nightmarish red bumps and So much. Like, most American women spend at least $20,000 on ingrown hairs. How do I get rid of the razor burn!? It makes hair removal over the course of their lifetime. That’s a whole year everything itchy and uncomfortable, and totally ruins the moment. in a studio apartment in Williamsburg. In addition to being painSigned, ful and expensive, shaving your pubes takes up time. If you want Stinging in Seattle to keep things really bare, you’re looking at daily upkeep. Sucks! I know! Even worse, bare crotches are all the rage. We see hairless women in advertisements, porn, magazines, and movies. Basically anywhere girls gotta strip into their skivvies, the bare bikini line appears. Of courseit makes you feel sexy, when it seems like practically the whole world says it’s sexy. Well here’s the tea: if it causes you a bunch of pain, takes up all your time, and costs you a ton of money, shaving your pubes because you wanna get banged by a boy doesn’t support the values of feminism. While liberal feminist definitions of sex positivity may lead you to believe that you can own your pleasure by removing your hair, real feminist sex positivity values feeling good over feeling fuckable. Myths from media, friends, and even other self-proclaimed feminists send us the message that feeling fuckable is the same thing as feeling turned-on. Actually, feeling turned-on is about consent and pleasure. Feeling fuckable is about deriving a sense of self worth from the way men look at you. Do you want to shave your pubes because you want to look good? Or do you want to shave your pubes because it makes you feel g ood? That being said, if you really want to banish your bush, make sure you’re using a brand new razor and plenty of shaving lotion on already-exfoliated skin. Move the razor slowly in the same direction your hair grows, taking time to re-apply cream with each pass. You can buy a fancy ingrown hair serum online or just treat the area afterwards with plenty of baby oil. (to be continued…)

By Liz Bolduc

“LGBTCue to Get Better” By Eric McCoy Back in the day, queer folk were said to have not existed in high school, but that is absolutely untrue. Up until very recently most LGBTQ+ students hid themselves out of fear. So in our new modern and progressive society, how does the future look for queer high school students? Abysmal. According to a CDC survey in 2016, more than 40% of LGBTQ+ students have considered suicide, 60% have ceased school activities due to hopelessness, and 38% have been bullied at school. Many queer students suffer physical and mental trauma throughout high school because of the heteronormative and queerphobic culture of the school system and the complete inaction on the part of said system to enact any change.

The nebulous size of the LGBTQ+ student population makes it difficult for school systems to properly address the heteronormative and queerphobic culture prevalent within American high schools. Before tackling the problems that queer students face in high school, it is of vital importance to first understand the LGBTQ+ student body as a whole. The New York Times article “Gay and Lesbian High School Students Report ‘Heartbreaking’ Levels of Violence” discusses the aforementioned CDC survey, which found that roughly 1.3 million LGB students (transgender, asexual, etc. were excluded from the survey) take part in the United States school system. This is around 8 percent of students. This is not an insignificant number, yet it also has the potential to be much greater once you factor in transgender, non-binary, asexual, intersex, etc. students. This statistic also excludes questioning students, who may share the fears of coming out or experimenting with queer students. If questioning students hide in the shadows

and pass for cisgender, heterosexual students, we can’t get an accurate look at the LGBTQ+ student population. And if there isn’t an accurate estimation of queer students, it is difficult to represent them. What sort of fears do queer students have within the modern high school? The CDC found that “[t]hese adolescents were three times more likely than straight students to have been raped.” These are children that are being sexually assaulted because of their sexuality. Sexual assault can scar people for life, which is reflected in LGB student suicide statistics (keep in mind that these include LGB students who were not raped as well). The CDC also revealed that over 40 percent of queer students have genuinely considered suicide (as mentioned above), while 29 percent had attempted within the past year. High school is intended to be a place where students learn, not fear for their safety and lives. The inaction of school systems to address the suffering of queer students caused by the heteronormative standard is a major problem within high schools. Take for example the non-profit organization It Gets Better founded by Dan Savage. There are two chief things that are wrong with this organization (aside from Dan Savage’s transphobia): it isn’t a school-based organization and it doesn’t actually address high school life. Dan Savage has no connection to the United States school system, so his project is entirely independent from actual high schools. This wasn’t the school system taking the first step in addressing LGBTQ+ issues. Also, the It Gets Better Project doesn’t actually seek to fix any issues within high schools. It’s meant to encourage queer students to make it through high school in order to make it to adult life, which is supposedly more accepting. That doesn’t stop them from being raped in high school, or from being bullied by straight people. The New York Times article also notes an organization called Green Dot Bystander Intervention, which actively works towards ending college and high school bullying. The problem is still that this isn’t the schools’ organization. The US school system isn’t acknowledging this problem and refuses to take preemptive measures in order to educate and protect their students. If they can’t do one of their main tasks as educators, what are they doing? Si-

lently upholding old, heteronormative traditions. “How?” you may ask yourself, and the answer is simple: doing nothing. They don’t need to do anything extraordinary to devalue queer students. High schools have been set up to marginalize and suppress queer students for decades. Since oppressive conditions are already in place, the school system’s inaction in addressing the systematic problems speaks louder than anything else. It makes it clear that they don’t care about the lives of all of their students, only the lives of their cisgender, heterosexual students.

ly talked about when it was considered relevant by teachers. The administration was only tentatively supportive. Queer students do not require simple acknowledgement, they need active support. I’d say that even a socially progressive college such as Emerson College is not necessarily exempt from this criticism. Being located in a highly populated city, Emerson College should be even more vigilant and protective of its LGBTQ+ student body, and take a more active role within it. The most important thing they can do is listen to the community. No out-group just wants the in-group

By Alexis Palmer

I want this to be a call-to-arms for LGBTQ+ folk and straight allies–both in and outside of the high school setting–to make sure that future generations of LGBTQ+ students are protected. Significant changes need to be made in the school system pronto. I don’t mean in five or so years; I mean they should have been implemented yesterday. As a queer person (non-binary and bisexual), I never personally faced any oppression in high school simply because I never came out. I didn’t know who I was at that point, but I still saw what went on. It took until my senior year for there to be a legitimate LGBTQ+ club at my school. The topic was only brief-

to blindly applaud them and then ignore their words; they want to be heard, and they want change. Every school administration— from high school to college—should investigate the scope of its queer population and quickly assess the most prominent problems brought up by the students themselves. The two schools I mentioned are located in Massachusetts, known for being one of the most socially progressive states within the United States, yet I fear for the LGBTQ+ students of both schools. Are queer children truly safe in the Deep South, in rural New York, or even in a city like Boston? The answer is no, and we need to change that.

By Pixie Kolesa

HER By Delia Curtis Her long loose waves billowed over her shoulders. She was the kind of girl that leaned in when she laughed, getting closer. Never hesitant. The laugh consumed her, starting deep within her stomach and spilling out her mouth. I notice the curve of her shoulders, the little grooves of her collarbone. I think about reaching across the table to touch her, any part of her, just to prove that sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s here, that she exists in this particular moment with me. When we kiss, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s slow and honest, baring ourselves before one another, creatures of the earth succumbing to an earnest craving. We grip each others sides, holding on for our lives. Letting go, weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve lost ourselves.

DON’T FEAR CHANGE I enjoy being a person of change. I enjoy being able to change my hair. I enjoy being able to change the flowers on my head. I enjoy being able to change my posture. Me being this person of change, I was able to change myself from somebody unknown to somebody honored, to somebody adored, to somebody worshiped. People loved me because of this change. I changed the way I held myself, the way I presented myself, the way I displayed myself. These people only liked this version of me. They didn’t want me to change again. Though, this change brought me so much benefit, so much glory, so much power. These people wanted me to change so little that they decided they were going to turn me into stone and put me on display for everyone to admire, for everyone to appreciate, for everyone to praise. But, they don’t recognize the world is still changing. How can they expect me to not change if the world around me changes? Nobody’s going to like me if I don’t change because I won’t fit in. I need change. Change is control. Control is everything. Don’t fear change. It’s healthy. It’s human. It’s nature. Do not fear change.

Art and Poem by B.Ruthrauff

BLUE

By Lauren Pellerano Gomez

By Alayna Theunissen

By Isabelle Molnar I love my girlfriend’s dick. I could stare at it all day. I’ve been drawing it in my notebook, over and over. When we’re together, i’ll caress it with my cheek and look up and her and say “am I oversexing you?” She smiles and says “yeah.” And we proceed. In high school, I didn’t love anyone’s dick. I’d really only heard bad things about them. And the first time I put my mouth around one, all I tasted was the ugliness of men. I tasted corruption, the way it had manipulated me. The only reason why I was sucking this boy’s dick was so I didn’t have to fuck him. The preciousness of losing one’s virginity was something i’d been taught my whole life, and that didn’t seem like a very precious moment. I needed to shut him up, and more than that I needed to prove something to myself. I didn’t have any sexual interaction with penises for three years after that. And then one day I fucked a guy who lived in a dorm two floors down from mine. And it went kinda like this. .Unenthusiastically bouncing up and down, as if riding a dick. And then I said, “That was fine” - and my fear evaporated. When and if my girlfriends dick is gone, I won’t have noticed. When and if her smell changes from the hormones, or so they say, I’ll still love her smell. Because it’s hers. I’ll still nestle into her armpit and take a deep, longing breath. I love my girlfriend’s dick. I won’t miss her when she’s gone. A lover transformed A partner forever A blemished being with a perfect heart. A lover transformed with hair like the golden wool for which heroes died and demons wept. The lamb nestled into me while my heart was young And I grazed her coat with blushing fingers To ease the pains of growing. That people are repulsed to watch a lover transform From their tasteless mold to a marble divinity And preach their repulsion as love Is a crime to all that’s beautiful And all that’s small enough to hold in your hand And your heart.

RECHARGE TOGETHER

By Liz Young

I was diagnosed with autism when I was a young girl. Many neurotypical people say that autistic people aren’t very emotional. I tend to see myself as a very empathetic person, especially since I have had to practice presenting my feelings through many years. As a child, I’ve loved watching cartoons and anime with robots. There’s this belief that robots have no emotions, but I like to think they would probably be on a different emotional level than humans. Robots, like the two in my illustration, could possibly learn how to show feelings, just like I have taught myself to do so.

MUSE

By Sarah Callery She sits in a shell gilded in gold each crease and divot adorned in jewel upholstered in silk, looking down on 5th Avenue behind thick glass, as diamond chandeliers sway overhead their branched stems cling to the ceiling to the bodies of Renaissance figures as they did in Versailles.

By Mary Geoghegan

HIGH SCHOOL REUNION

Artwork by Beatrice Black

I walk down the hallway of my old high school. My sneakers don’t squeak against the tiled floor like they used to. It’s been ten years since graduation. I didn’t think I’d ever get here but somehow, for some reason, I’m at the reunion. I had been debating whether I wanted to come tonight. I was a no one in high school. No one would miss me if I didn’t come, no one would notice if I did. Do I really want to see how “wonderful” everyone’s lives are now? I really don’t think I can stand listening to people talking about their jobs, spouses, and kids, showing off their new boobs and fancy cars. They are all just the same people they used to be in nice clothes, trying to prove something to people they used to go to school with, who they never see nor think about anymore. They spent four years being miserable here, just waiting for the real world and their real lives to begin. Was the real world really that disappointing? Women walk by me in tight black dresses that hug their hips and strappy heels to emphasize their calves. All the guys are wearing dress pants and ties. The only thing to differentiate them is by the color of their button down dress shirts. It’s amazing how so much time has passed, but everyone still dresses as they did for the freshman year Homecoming Dance. Funny, I say that while I’m wearing exactly what I did in high school; a pair of jeans, sneakers, and a green button down. It’s not like I could wear anything else. I’ve never had anything really nice. My parents worked as much as they could, but with six kids, most money went towards food and bills. I was fine with hand me downs from my older sister though, I had my entire life to wear clothes I picked out myself. I had planned to do something with my life when I got out of this Hell hole. I was going to go to college with my girlfriend, get my Ph.D. in robotics, and make something of myself. I was going to leave this school, that house, this town, and never look back. None of that went to plan. Three boys, who I think had been on the lacrosse team, open the door to the gymnasium where the reunion is being held, and I sneak in behind them. I look around the room. Everyone is talking to someone, reminiscing about the “good old days.” No

one even glances in my direction. I didn’t expect them to. “Hey Jackie! Good to see you, how have you been?” I murmur to myself in a deeper voice than usual. “Oh, I’ve been absolutely lovely! How have you been?” I answer myself in a British accent for some reason, maybe to impress the person I am pretending to be. Though, I don’t know how becoming suddenly British makes me impressive all of a sudden. “Same, sa-,” I am pulled out of my conversation by one thing I definitely didn’t expect; a hand coming up behind me and resting on my shoulder. “Hey, Jackie!” says the owner of the hand as I jump in shock and turn to face him. It’s Billy Jackson. He was co- president of the Graphics Club. We hadn’t been friends but we had been friendly. We sat at the same table at lunch sometimes and he helped the Robotics Club with a graphic for the robot fight we had our Junior year. We paid him in Nerds candies, Doritos, and two hall passes. He was an odd kid. It’s still nice to see him. I know he’s in the same boat I’m in. “Hi, Billy.” I reply with a sigh of relief. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spook you.” “It’s alright.” I smile. “How are you?” “As good as I can be. You?” “Same as ever.” Billy glances over to the table of his old club members. “You can go talk to the guys, it’s cool! I’m sure some of the old robo club members will gather around soon. Actually, I think I see Ashley Gordon and Samira Chillings over by the punch,” I lie. I don’t want to be alone but I don’t want to make Billy miss out. He smiles big at me, his teeth are pearly white but all are just slightly crooked. I wonder how I ever forgot a smile so genuine and beautiful. “Cool! As long as I’m not leaving you alone. We can talk later?” Billy asks, already walking away. “Yeah! Have fun,” I shoot him two thumbs up and slowly make my way to the punch bowl, just to have somewhere to go. I hear the gym doors open and close behind me, and some-

thing inside me tells me to turn around. Standing in the doorway is my ex-girlfriend, Jane. I want to hate her, but looking at her I can’t. She’s standing there with her beautiful black hair draped over her shoulder, her smile painted red, and her curvy figure all wrapped up in a dark blue dress with a black sweater. She looks as beautiful as the last time I saw her. God, that was so long ago... Another thing I can not ignore is the woman on her arm. Jane and her date sit down at a table full of friends Jane had made senior year, without me. I watch her talk and laugh. There were times over the past ten years I would have given anything to hear her laugh. I think the reason I decided to come was because I wanted to see her. I never told her I loved her, but I think she knew. I hope she knew. Back in high school, when her hair was short, when she bit her nails and painted the stubbs black, when she drove a blue car that matched my eyes, when she was my girl and I was hers. We would sit on her bed and take polaroid pictures of eachother while singing along to the radio, back when polaroid was popular the first time. I could hold a tune but Jane was tone deaf. But that didn’t stop her from singing as loud as she wanted. I have a vivid memory of her singing “Friday, I’m in Love” by the Cure one afternoon. She had her eyes closed and she just belted the entire song, screaming at points, which was almost better than her trying to sing, but in that moment she looked so beautiful, so free. I took a picture of her and then shoved it in my flannel pocket. I memorized that picture, from the way her lips grew into a smile as she yelled, to the thick blue curtains that was hung behind her, and the way the wind from the open window made the strands of her hair dance. I wonder where it is now. I always think of high school as the worst time of my life, but that may be because I’m too miserable without her. Everything without her is dark. It really was the good old days. I only wish I had had more of them. More days with her... While thinking this, I remembered why I didn’t want to come. Never once did she look my way, and I dare not take another step closer. Someone taps on a microphone. “Hello!” A woman with a high pitched voice screeches. She

is standing in the front of the room, where balloons and a projection screen is set up. “I am the school’s current principal, Louise Hillguard,” the woman has a fake smile on her face, almost pained. “I just want to welcome all of you back! I hope you’re all having a good time.” The crowd gives a dull “woo”. Louise gives an awkward cough into the microphone. We will be opening the bar in a few minutes.” A group of men, including the group Billy is sitting with, gives a much more enthusiastic “woo”. All of a sudden, Geraldine Mason, our classes president and apparent reunion chair, rushes from her position next to the man working the projector and grabs the microphone from Louise. “But first we want to honor the people from our class who have passed away.” Geraldine says in a fake enthusiastic voice, inappropriately timed, albeit, but it’s funny to see she hasn’t changed. I remember hearing her use the same voice and smile when running for class office. “Vote for me!,” she yelled at me as soon as I walked through the door one day of school, extending her arm and offering a button. I say offering, but she did nothing short of putting it on me herself. “Ha, as if,” I laughed at her. I still took the button and I still voted for her. In fact, I kept the button in my locker until it was cleaned out. But for some reason, I laughed at her. I wonder if she remembers that. Geraldine hands the microphone back to Louise, meeting her with a sudden change in face. They swap annoyed expressions, one saying I can’t believe you forgot about the memorial slideshow and the other saying you didn’t give me a chance to mention it. The lights dim. Geraldine runs off to the side, but this time I watch her keep a determined eye on Louise. My focus is ripped away by a picture appearing sideways on the screen. After a few seconds, the picture is right side up. We are faced with a crooked tooth smile. “William Jackson” the principal presents. I look over at Billy. His friends are all looking at each other and muttering things like “Good ol’ Bill” and “It’s a damn shame” and Billy has a sad smile falling off his face. I remember the day Mr. Thimbleton, our principal at the

time, got over the loudspeaker to tell us we had a half day and we could go home, even though it was only second period. When Jane and I got to her house, her parents were sitting on the couch waiting for her. “He fell down the stairs at home and hit his head on the edge of the wall. He was home alone and his parents didn’t find him until he was already dead.” That was the first time I had known anyone who had died. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the way Jane shook. She had English class with him and they always teamed up for jeopardy. It was strange going back to school the next day, everyone knowing that a classmate died but all acting the same as before, as if nothing had happened. It was a few weeks before I stopped shooting dirty looks at anyone who laughed or at anyone I saw smiling in the hall. The projector goes to the next picture. “Jacquelyn Simmons.” I stare at my forced smiling face. They use my yearbook picture, which might be my least favorite picture of myself, but it’s somewhat comforting to see my own face again. I look over at Jane. Her date, whom I have deduced to be her wife, is consoling her. Everyone at the table is giving her a half smile and a condolence. I remember the night when she crashed her blue car that matched my eyes. I remember that it was raining and she was driving me home. I remember her taking her hands off the wheel to take a picture of me staring out the dashboard, my eyes glassy from crying over a dumb movie, something I never did, with my hair stringy and wet from the rain. I remember the flash going off and then noticing the car drifting over into the other lane. I remember grabbing the wheel, trying to save us from the oncoming truck. I remember thinking it was always a truck in the movies that came at you when drifting over the line, it couldn’t be a camry or a hatchback. I remember succeeding saving us from the car, but not from the alternative fate. I remember the car rolling off the road and the glass shattering, making a gash in Jane’s arm. I hit my head and glass stuck in me too many places for me to notice. Every inch of me was in agonizing pain. I sat there, looking at Jane hang

upside down, her eyes closed. I remember knowing I was going to die and trying to squeeze out my last words to her but all I could manage was “ I lo-” before it all went black. My gaze shifts from her face to her arm. Is she wearing that sweater to hide her scar? I wonder what number date qualified for her to tell her wife that her first girlfriend died? I imagine them in bed, and her girlfriend-to-be-wife lightly outlining the scar from the crash and asking how did you get this?, and Jane sitting up to relay the story through tears. She probably held her head in her lap and stroked her hair as she cried. It’s amazing how my death probably helped their love grow stronger. I’m happy she’s happy, and she looks really happy, but I wish I had that happiness myself. I want to graduate high school and go to college and get married and have kids and repay my parents and wear nice clothing… but that time has come and gone in their world. Right now, all I want to do, is simply go over there and hug her. I remember why I didn’t want to come. I didn’t want to see that broken look on her face. She will never look my way again. I don’t dare take another step closer, because I’m terrified to find out if a heart that stopped beating so long ago can still break.

DEAR FEELINGS

By Jay Jay

Pain, You have been here since the start. The lack of movement, the boredom inside, the feelings I feel, you won’t leave me. You are like a knife forever lodged into my side. No matter what I do, you will not move. You bring numb and sadness but at times joy and bliss. You confuse me so with the different shocks of you, whether it is the physical or emotion. Your words and actions just engrave itself into me, as if I was the sand and you, the tide bashing into my neverending shore. You don’t leave me when I want you gone but you do when you want to be gone. Love, For you are my most fearsome enemy. You give me hope and desire then collapse my mind with lust and want. You show me the different sides of what you are but you never let me express them. You give but don’t let me take. You hide and it’s hard to seek but you give me joy and happiness. Love, I could not ask for more but you. For you have corrupted my mind with tulips and flower that mindlessly spin around. You have sent me through multiple journeys of different needs. You have changed the obsolete darkness my head revolved into a shimmering place of wonder and beauty. Nothing, You were once my friend. You shared my sadness, you smiled at me. You came to my rescue when you watched me flee and now where are you? For you have been replaced, but why don’t you try? Why have you disappeared from me? You had me together and kept me safe. You were the times where I could not breathe and I would sit. You have left and the colors have taken over. Where are you? You sounded an army and shut off the thoughts, but lately you have not. You let the others free when you are the constraint. Your jail cell has been locked and the key thrown away but why? For your face has not left but your body and soul has.

Numb, You have haunted me in my dreams. You left me unable to get through my sleep and left me paralyzed. For why must you attack me when my defences are down? Why must you send troops when I had dismissed mine? You leave me broken and shattered but you keep me together. You make me think and feel when you bash the bat of emotions on the tiniest spot of insecurity. For why must you sacrifice something so large on something so small? You leave my presence with strength and vengeance then return with unworthiness and treachery. You walk through hills and mountains just to pull me down, back to the start, and put more trials and emotions into me with every step I take. You take the darkness and just plug it over and over and over until every last drop is drained into that little hollow hole that is unguarded and broken. For you play with weakness and leave the battle. Victorious.

Artwork by RenĂŠe Girouard

BY THE PENCIL By Nicole Lawrence

Your name is Grace and you love drawing. You spend most time drawing since it’s the only thing that makes life enjoyable nowadays. Since your mother’s death, the depression has sunk in like an anchor; rusting for decades but nevertheless immobile. Retirement doesn’t help matters. Everyone has asked what will be done now with this new found freedom, but nothing new is offered—Draw, read, maybe work on the old pottery wheel out in the garage. They always thought you were such a “natural” at teaching, but it was only the second best choice, a necessary decision to support yourself and your mother. But at least when you were a high school art teacher, you got to inspire young artists. At least when you were an art teacher, you got to make an impact on others at such a vulnerable stage; the way your art teacher, Mrs. Higgins, did. The way, decades ago in Paris, your sketches impacted strangers on the streets, passing the gallery with eyes and mouths wide open. Now you only draw in the sunroom attached to your mother’s home in Oregon. You inherited the childhood home when your mother, Margret, passed away twenty-two years ago—living with her a decade prior to her death. Margret had been paralyzed from the waist down after a car hit her at 46 mph. Margret turned sixty-five in the hospital, a miracle she hadn’t died after the accident. From Paris to Oregon, the care for Margret was more significant than the sweet sirens from the future as an artist. Besides, you have drawn in this sunroom every day, and today is no exception. You draw here to remember Margret, as if to conjure her spirit so that you might spend one more day together. It’s where you two spent most days; singing, dancing, reading stories and having long talks. Bellies down on the hardwood floor, elbows bent and hands cupping both sides of your faces, with kicking legs, staring at one another giggling. In this shrine, a 25” x 30” white drawing pad is on an easel. A wooden stool, faded but sturdy, is right in front of the easel. Stiff and staring at the canvas with lips pinch tightly and arms across your chest. Weight shifts from the left to the right, and your

tapping a pointer finger on the side of the cheek; one, two, three. The salt and pepper long hair is held by your trusty drawing pencil in a loose bun. You wrestle between your options. Tapping finger; one, two, three. You release your hair by pulling the pencil out of the bun. Raise your pencil, which is more like an extension of your hand, to the canvas. Squinting, eyes lock onto the blank slate. Inhale and exhale with force, hoping for something, anything, to inspire your hand. Nothing. You inhale again, and now hold the breath. Keep filling your lungs up and then…nothing, exhale with a huff and slump down onto the stool. You sit slouching for a minute—now two. Right hand props your chin up while you tap your fingers against your chin. Slowly scan the room, left to right, for some form of inspiration. The four sheets of glass envelop you as a protected inhabitant of the lush pine forests, which are signature to Oregon. It’s softly raining—another signature of Oregon’s. As your eyes travel across the landscape all you see is moist dark green trees, deep brown tree trunks, and grass mixed with mud; nothing new. This landscape, here in Beaverton, is utterly breathtaking and has been the main focus of inspiration for some time now. But you’ve grown weary of drawing the same trees; perfecting the bark so it has just the right amount of shading to provide just the right amount of life. A drawing should always have life to it, it should have a purpose for existing. There isn’t even a bird. Not a single bird in sight. You let out another sigh. Eyes look side to side, then quickly up as you begin to repeat something to yourself. With urgency stand up, eyes gaze out over the scenery as you place the drawing pencil behind your ear. Then exit the room, only to return a few minutes later with a medium clay bowl full of apples, pears, oranges, and a banana. As you walk into the room, you look down at the bowl of fruit and pause. Hesitantly, place the bowl of fruit in the middle of the room, a yard or so away from the canvas. Inhale to remove the pencil from behind your left ear and walk to the drawing easel, and shakily raise the pencil to the white drawing pad. In Paris, you had drawn under a pseudonym and signed every piece in the lower right-hand corner then and since—By the Pencil. Focus on the canvas, then onto the fruit bowl, and back to the canvas. Starting with the banana…ripppppp—redo. This time start with the red apple…get the shape, the stem but….rippppp—redo. Just start with the pear, the piece of butt shaped fruit reminds you of Paula’s once delicate silhouette that you had drawn so many times befo…rippppppp— redo.

Standing at the canvas, fling the pencil straight at the pear in the bowl of fruit. Woooooosh the pencil twirls circles in the air, and, instead, bounces off the red apple. Red, like Paula’s hair was back in college, by now it’s probably grey. Red, like the passion of kissing Paula’s lips after the first utterance of young love. Red, like the sorrow of choosing between, “me or drawing” after promises for eighteen months of “I won’t make you choose.” Red, like the love flooding Paris by a sea of lovers that would remind any isolated drawer of the romance that once lied so close in bed. Shaking your head, as though that could shake out the old hurts, walk over to the bowl of fruit. Crotch down, and examine where the pencil landed beside the bowl. Frown. You pick the apple up for a closer look at the sheen the skin has. Still radiantly red, only a minor bruise. Bite the apple, and notice the skin tastes crisp and the flesh tastes fresh. You smell the ripe apple and feel the juice run down your fingers, sticky and sweet. Take a minute, take a breath then place the apple back into the bowl. You pick the bowl up and place it on the wooden table beside your drawing pad. It will make for a nice decoration. Out of habit, grab the bulk of your hair and wrap it into a messy bun with your pencil stabbing clear through the middle, holding it in place. A piece of hair falls from the bun, and with a huff blow it out of the way. Another exhale and you leave the sunroom to retrieve another form of inspiration. This time, you return with a photo of Margret. Hold it close to your heart as you walk towards the drawing pad. Pin the picture to the top right corner, so as to use for reference even though you can draw your mother while blindfolded and with one hand behind your back. The picture is still a nice reminder. She is young in this photo, your favorite photo of Margret. She has long brown curly hair, half pinned up and the other half left untame and flowing. She is laughing; maybe your father was telling her a joke as he snapped the photo, or maybe she was happier that day. She was always happy, though after the accident you’re still not sure what she felt. When Margret died, she held your very first drawing to her heart. You have never wept so much as you did that moment she looked into your eyes, her bottom lip uncontrollably quivered and squeezed the drawing from your hand. She always liked when you held the sketches for her to look over. She said something—the words are forgotten—and drew the sketch to her heart while her eyes closed. You smile and softly touch the photo. Your eyes begin to burn and warm tears brim to the very precipice of your eyes. Barely hanging on, the droplets give way and fall free and bitter-

sweet. You’ve lived too many years without her to play hide and seek with your emotions like you did when you were a child. You reach for the pencil in your bun, releasing your long seasoned hair. Bring the pencil to the pad, without drying your face, and sign—By the Pencil. You bring the pencil up to the center of the pad, smile, and begin to draw your mother’s jawline. Follow the curves from your memories, gentle and soft. Her cheekbones are defined and blushed, but not dramatically. Her nose, buttoned, is small and round with freckles softly scattered across her face. Her lips are thick, and her eyes are small. She is beautiful, and you are always amazed at her elegance. Position her on the sofa against the back wall of the sunroom, like you did after her accident so she could look out into the landscape and model for you. Draw Margret looking out into the backyard, and have the drawing so that you see her facial expression reflected in the glass wall. Draw her smiling, and happy. Finish the sketch of your mother and step back a moment, pencil against your cheek, head tilted with eyes squinting. Tilt your head to the left now, still squinting, scanning over the work. Something is missing. So go add some detailed trees but first pat yourself down, all your pockets, your chest, and even your head. Look around the room, squinting until, ah yes, there they are, your glasses. You walk over to the table with its new decorative bowl of fruit, put the glasses on, and sit down on the stool. Bring the pencil back to the pad and add a few dozen tree trunks to the landscape for a realistic touch. Then carefully erase the mistake marks and blow on the drawing pad. Step back to look at the finished work. Again, you tilt your head from side to side with scanning eyes over the drawing. Nothing technical is wrong with the drawing, all the details of your mother’s face are as perfect as they could be on paper. Yet something about this drawing is not fulfilling you; it is not providing the usual rush of euphoria, excitement, and passion—that red to your cheeks. In fact, the more you look at the drawing, the more frustrated you are at yourself and the world. Frustrated at yourself because you can’t recapture her aura, her very essence within your drawing. It felt like in the past, even so far away from her, you once could capture Margret in your work, but maybe that was youthful naivety, maybe you never really could capture her. Angry at the world because it took her away from you too quickly. You never really can bring her back. No matter how much time you spend in your sunroom, no matter how many portraits you draw of her,

no matter how long you live in her house, she is gone. You haven’t changed that in twenty-two years, and never will. Angry at the world for leaving you here at seventy-two years old feeling crumbled under the ruins of your life and decisions. You don’t regret anything, only dream life might have been different, better, if you hadn’t gone to Paris or at least reached out to Paula when you came back to Beaverton. What were you afraid of ? Let out a scream, a long rattling scream. Stand still, exuberantly exhaling, and feel the sound waves echo away from you. The pencil falls to the ground. The tears pour out of your eyes followed by sobs that struggle to keep quiet. Press your eyes shut, sharply inhale. Opening your eyes, slowly exhale and scan the sunroom for any change. Nothing. Shuffle back and bump into the stool. Sit down, with a hand over your mouth and cheeks wet. You run your hand up your face and through your hair to the very tips. Look closely at the tips. They are dried, old, and tired. Let the hair fall through your hand. Run your fingers through your hair like a comb; plucking dead hairs and sprinkling them onto the floor. Your scalp tingles with irritation as the hairs are plucked, but it feels soothing seconds later. Close your eyes as your fingers run through your hair a few more times. The hair goes a little past your back. This is the second time you kept your hair past shoulder length, the other time in childhood. Fidgeting as your mom brushed through the knots of the long matted hair. Itching to splash in the mud and dig around for earthworms. You accidentally kill one. Kisses make everything better, but not for this worm. You begin to cry, you were only curious. Mama kisses your forehead. Kisses make most things better. Eyes open to the sky, damp with droplets, and chock on the mucus dripping down the back of your throat. Lower your head, level with the room, and wipe the corners of your eyes. Reach for the photo pinned in the corner of the drawing pad, but fingers struggle to make the photo tangible in your hand. Examine the photo from afar, examine the look in her eyes. The glee, the pleasure, the joy. Push hands against your knees to stand up and grab the photo. Hold it as tears try to blink away and contemplate what exactly Margret said before her last breathe. The words are lost, somehow blacked out. Some droplets fall onto the photo, staining the old paper. With care, quickly dab the tear stains dry. Wipe your cheeks dry and softly blow on the stains. Stop blowing on the photo, but keep puckered lips. Hold out the kiss to your mother’s face. Slowly lower the photo and place it on the table. Sit back down on the stool, and bend over to pick up the pencil. Hold the pencil

up in the air, something about this pencil strikes you. The pencil moves out of focus as you gaze over the backyard. Remember how a drawing pencil was the first subject you ever drew, the sketch your mother clutch to her dying breast. Your hands are eight years old again, holding your first drawing pencil. How delicate and thin it feels in your hand, it feels proper. You draw the pencil that first day. It isn’t very good, but you enjoy how it feels to create the smooth led into art. You’re thrilled when Margret brags of your talent. Margret loves the pencil drawing. Your eyes continue to water, blurring the vision of the drawing pencil in your hand. But smile through the tears, and decide on what you’ll draw. Stand up and…rippppp—redo. Bend down, and sign the lower right-hand corner—By the Pencil. Shaky hands move to the center of the white paper, and adjust the pencil. Focus your hand. Breath in and out. Pull away from the canvas. First, sharpen the pencil. Then, decide. Hold the decision firm in your mind. You smile as you look around the room, the display case that preserves your dearest memories in this childhood museum. Observe your hand, holding the pencil, move in slow motion towards the drawing pad. Right as it reaches the paper, only a centimeter away, you remember the words Margret uttered before her death. They ring out in your ears, the way Paula’s last “I love you” still rang out months after she said it. Notice the sound of the rain against the glass walls, it rained like this the day Margret died. She was sorry you sacrificed your dream for her health. She was sorry. You feel a rush of warmth from your heart run through your body like a current. Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump. It is strong, determined with a mind of its own. Your heart begins to pump harder, and you realize you’re sobbing as if Margret just whispered those words in your ear. The air is a toxin, impossible to breathe. Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump. Your heart now feels like it’s about to break through your rib cage and out of your body. Eyes bulge out of your skull while your hand, with the pencil, clutches your heart. This is nothing you’ve ever felt before, nothing like when you were a scared little girl alone on the school bus for the first time, or the scared teen on the bus sketching graffiti into the back of the bus seats. It beats so fast now. You wish you had heard the apology from her, not from a memory. You forgive her even though she’s not at fault. Your eyes watering from the pain. A sharp gasp in, then nothing. You give one last soft exhale and fall onto the white canvas. As you fall, your drawing pencil stabs the supple skin; your final work.

By Liz Bolduc

Artwork by Beatrice Black

S U BJ EC T/O BJ EC T/ F I G U R E Posing for Artists I became a model because I loved figure drawing and became memorized and curious about the process of modeling. I loved that figure drawing required me to accept and embrace any person’s body that walked into the studio in a robe. After what seemed like hours of 30 second poses, I stopped seeing a nude body as a sexual thing, and instead as form with mass, power, and delicate balance. As a young woman recovering from an eating disorder, figure drawing enabled me to embrace the power, beauty, and diversity of the human body. Ripping off my clothes and stepping on to the pedestal as a figure model became my way to provide an example of confidence that I needed when I was younger. I have modeled for friends, strangers, private studios, and classes. I felt unbelievably powerful watching artist zoom in, painting unremarkable and embarrassing body parts, such as my stomach or back. It forced me to see my own body as something more than a sex object. I started defining my body by its’ actions rather than its’ appearance. Through modeling, my body became a verb rather than a noun. I hope that this piece on reflecting on the relationship between artists and models will replicate my empowering modeling experience. My time figure modeling differs drastically from the women depicted in paintings hanging in art museums. Their names and voices often never follow the provenance of a painting. By sharing the model’s perspective, I hope to highlight the more collaborative relationship artists can have

By Abby Neale How to Support and Welcome a Model into an Art Studio If you are an artist, art teacher, or art administrator that works with models on a regular basis, here is how to show your models some hospitality as they engage in something courageous an vulnerable for the sake of art.

Welcome all shapes, sizes, colors, and gender presentations If you are trying to better depict the human body truthfully, welcome the wrinkles, mastectomies, trans, fat, thin, and tattooed. Most people drawing bodies without a model draw an idealized body, this is not what we want. After you build relationships with multiple models, and find someone that suits a specific project, you can offer them an extended gig. If you are posting a job for a model, never request specific body types or genders on the advertisement! This is not porn.

The person modeling sets the temperature If you are hot or cold as an artist, you can put on an extra sweater, your model can’t. As a model, I can handle some hot, sticky weather if I can drink some ice water, but cold makes my muscles stiff and make me feel nakeder. I recommend providing your model with small space heaters and soft, clean blankets in chillier conditions.

The person modeling picks the music Music can build confidence and prevent boredom in a long session. Music can also distract and make a model loose their mojo. For example, do you really want to be nude in front of a crowd while misogynistic or body shaming music plays in the background? This also gives the person modeling some sense of power of control in the space. I recommend agreeing upon a long playlist, radio station, or a pandora station, this can also be a way to break the ice and build a relationship with a model.

Conceal embarrassment Drawing a live model is undeniably a little awkward at first. Especially for youth and starting classes. Educate your students about working with a model. A strategically placed easel or drawing bored can go a long way. I always prefer when nervous people peek from behind a drawing board if they are still getting used to a live model. If people need to, they can always excuse themselves. When people giggle, it is hard to tell whether they are laughing at you, or feel nervous. I like doing a set of 30 second or 1 minute poses to warm up and focus.

Request a specific pose by mirroring Show a model how you want them to pose through a combination of talking and showing the model what you want with your own body.

Tell the model when it is time to get undressed This can be awkward, and all sessions are different, so just tell the person modeling when it is time for them to get undressed and where to put their clothes.

Never post adds for models on Craigslist Using your local arts community is a much better way to find models. Almost every arts space has builtin boards, most major cities have art-specific job websites. If you are sharing food with your class or studio, offer it to the model Even if your model always says no, this will make them feel like a member of the community.

Artwork by Beatrice Black

Shannonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hair changes color with her mood. She is most often sunny and blonde, living in the golden state, never to return. Casey and I first bonded over boys, and later over girls. Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d scream our feelings into the form of song lyrics, drink long into the night and hold each other together. Gia is light and airy and her embraces feel like lying down to bed after a long day. She laughs easy and often, the sound reminding me of warm summer days spent driving in her car. Reese is unapologetic, in the best way. He never thinks to back down from whatever life throws at him. Like the muses of Zeus, created to forget the evils of the world, these goddesses relieve me of my sorrows. They remind me of the heart that beats in my chest, making me aware of why I am here and what Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m passionate about. They move me towards the light and into the world with renewed vigor and meaning.

By Victoria Capraro

By Sara Barber

SHECULT

SUPERLATIVES Most Likely to Add You on LinkedIn

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Most Likely to Fuck Your Genders

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SHECULT

is an artistic and social collective for queer people who experience femininity

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