ISSUE #51 by Submissions Magazine

SUBMISSIONS SUBMISSIONS MAGAZINE MAGAZINE iSSUE #51 - THE ONLINE iSSUE

Ralph Moffettone A Storefront Called Sorrow

Lauren Britton Landscape

Kara Gnehm Lungs

Anna Giordano Untitled

8 10

Michael Steck The Desertâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Arms Matthew Sotiriou STOP *cover image

Eric Rodriguez All My Children

12 FEATURE A Conversation With Olivia Fox by Elizabeth Rudig & Brigid Slattery 16

Cam Corrado Industrial Soul (video still)

Hannah Speregen Untitled

Joseph Pecararo Ophelia

Allison Sarenski The Revenge of Piggy

A STOREFRONT CALLED SORROW Left bereft and out of breath am I With a sickness in my throat. These are the consequences of guilt Like curdled milk transforming into fear And out of fear, cowardice, And because of fear, cruelty. 3

Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a storefront called Sorrow, In it my car winds noisily into a turn And idles motoring in a parking space. Pastures interrupted by people and commerce, Wanting for nothing in particular. Wanting - and why? Wanting to die.

THE DESERT’S ARMS

The sun looks different when driving directly

“Two glasses of water and a rare steak, with salsa on

towards it. The car on the same geometric plane,

it.”

barreling forward, until the tires get sticky and gasoline

“Same for me,” said Robert, “bring us a pitcher of beer

boils and smooth leather upholstery becomes dust.

too.”

Driving west across the desert at sunset, thinking

about calamity and incineration. Robert lit a cigarette

the table, the bow tied around her waist weaving in

and handed it to me, the air-conditioning spilling the

fluorescent light. Robert let out an audible sigh and lit

smoke all across the windshield until I couldn’t see

another cigarette.

it anymore. We were listening to F# A# ∞, an album

“How much money do we have left?”

that lives up to its name: on the vinyl printing, side A

“Enough.”

is entirely in the key of F#, side B in A#, and just before

“How much is enough?”

the end is a locked groove, which keeps playing the

“Enough for us to get to Mexico City, stay a few days,

same eerie loop infinitely, until one gets up and moves

get back.”

the needle. Of course we were listening to a CD, but

when the last track came to a close, it kept looping,

trip with me he’d laughed. There was a special on the

and looping, and looping. Robert and I were focused

Discovery Channel, he said, and it described the vile

on making sense of the endless desert, and neither of

living conditions and rampant crime. He said that we’d

us noticed the loop for nearly half an hour. Half an hour

stand out more than I thought, even with our cheap

of those same three notes, half an hour of blistering

clothes. No tan can really change the color of your

ambient noise that we were too busy to understand.

skin, and we were the city’s most abhorrent travelers:

We stopped at a diner off the highway in

white men with money to spare and no direction. It

southwestern Arizona, just after the sun had set fully.

took almost a month to break him down, and once

From the moment I stepped out of the car, I felt as

he agreed, the excitement of traveling to Mexico’s

though I had a strange, dusty film on my teeth that I

infamous capital city took hold of him, just as it had

couldn’t wipe or lick away. I shrugged to myself and

taken hold of me. We desperately wanted to see what

didn’t say anything until the waitress asked what we

the hell of the desert could look like, and what it would

wanted.

do to us.

I watched the waitress move away from

The first time I’d asked Robert to come on the

The food came and we ate silently. My nose

feminine walk away from me into a sunrise or sunset,

started to run from the spice, but it was good, it was

and I saw every outline of her silhouette until she

a kick to the abdomen that said get going, and I was

crossed the horizon, into nothingness. The whole

ready to leave. Robert kept looking at the waitress

desert was nothingness. The whole part of the world

from across the diner; it was deserted, and she was

that god and everyone forgot about, starved of water

writing something in a notepad and occasionally

and collecting the Earth’s dust.

glancing back at him. He must have motioned her over

while I was looking out the window, and in a moment

an infinite field of dead animals, perfectly preserved

she had slid into the booth, next to me.

in the heat and dryness. There was no stench, only

“What’s your name?” Robert asked.

silence. I was horrified that I wasn’t horrified, that

“Brigida.”

the scene didn’t make me want to vomit or weep. I

“That’s a lovely name.”

stopped the car and stepped out, the wind began to

“Yes, thank you.”

blow, and I knew that something was coming for me

I felt a sudden urge to vomit and slid past

from behind. I didn’t want to look, I couldn’t look, and

Brigida, who didn’t take her eyes off Robert. Neither

I walked backwards to the open door, sat down, and

of them saw me empty my stomach on the pavement

kept driving.

around the corner, nor did they see the blood that

came up with the steak. I decided it was nothing,

beside me; I looked through the window and saw two

wiped my mouth, and went inside. Brigida and Robert

dark figures in the car, saw no movement. I touched

were in the same positions, still staring, not speaking. I

my lips and blood was on my fingers, and knew that I

wanted to reach for a glass of water but felt like doing

was not okay, I was not alright, and just then the car

so would break a tension they were working hard on

lights came on and began to move away.

preserving. I slumped back in the booth and shut my

eyes for a moment. Getting sick had drained me, and

daydream, or a fever.

I’d been driving for ten hours. Sleep overtook me, and for an indefinite period of time I was caught in haunted dreams. In one I watched a figure that seemed to be

In the next I was driving alone, passing through

When I woke Robert and Brigida weren’t

I closed my eyes and drifted into it like a

A CONVERSATION WITH

OLIVIA FOX coordinator of ZINEFEAST, prez of Critique Club

words by Elizabeth Rudig and Brigid Slattery layout by Alexander Goosmann Q: Where’d you get the idea for Zinefeast? What made you want to do it? A: I’ve always loved zines, comics, these sorts of events. I’ve been going to MoCCa [Museum of Comic and Cartoon Art] fest for a while, following artists on the Internet that I like, its been something I’ve done. I’ve always thought these gatherings can be really powerful hubs of creative energy, so why not do one here? We [Crit Club] have been wanting to do this the whole year. This event got a lot of people from different backgrounds and majors together in one room. Q: What do you consider a zine, for people who may not know?

A: A zine is anything independently distributed, any DIY content. Really anything is a zine, even video games. This event is a lot about independence, thinking for yourself, doing whatever you want as an artist. Q: Was this completely your idea? If not, who else helped you with it and what did they do? A: So many people! Critique Club. I founded Crit Club. Joe [Jakubowski.] Joe is my partner in crime. But yeah, it was something I’d been wanting to do for a long time. Chris Simon, the vice president, did all the designs for the posters, helped with the website. Ray [Chalmé] really got this happening too, he made me realize the resources we have at our disposal, he put me in touch with everyone I needed to talk to.

Q: What artists were you most excited about? A: When we were tabling at MoCCa, Dean Haspiel approached us and started talking about doing comics for the Purchase Load [1st Purchase newspaper], and he so happened to be doing a get together for all those people who worked there. I worked at the library and digitized the Purchase Load my freshman and sophomore year here, so I knew what he was talking about. Also, another crazy coincidence, my dad went to Purchase and actually started the Load. So today we did a panel with Dean and talked about the Purchase Load and the news media now on campus like the Brick and the Indy and kind of discussed that. It came full circle with my dad starting the Load, I started ZineFeast- it all came together in this crazy coincidence.

But other than that, my original focus for this event was a focus on queer and women artists. We invited Anna Anthropy to come out here, we flew her out from Oakland, we paneled with her earlier in the day. That was incredible to me; I want that to be a priority in the future, because their voices are drowned out even within indie comics. Q: What do you think of Purchase DIY culture and do you think this event is a step to foster it in the future? A: Yeah it definitely is. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s been really touching to me, honestly. I had never really thought that I was a part of this campus until this semester, which is weird, but if you create something

like this people will come out. People were working for a while making stuff specifically for this event. It pushed people to make art for themselves, not school, not a show. That is a really empowering thing. Some people came out and said to me things like: “I’m really glad you did this, there’s an outlet for me through this festival.” Q: Did this have anything to do with your senior project and/or was this event influenced by your project at all? A: I’ve had a hard time to get the faculty to recognize this. It had nothing to do with my senior project. Some people have been really good, but for the most part this is totally outside of senior project, something I wanted to do for myself. My senior project is about identity, printmaking, computers and it’s vastly different. This was funded by students, we paid artists, got food- all by ourselves. I think that’s important, the fact it wasn’t my senior project, the students really did everything.

Q: Was this really hard to put together logisticswise? It seems like everyone was very supportive and into it, is this true? A: Yeah, it was very hard to put together, we ended up having to steal tables from everywhere. It was hard to get so many people together in one spot, you know, just emailing them and everything. But yeah, everyone was super supportive! I contacted a lot of artists, people who I’ve gotten to know in the past through these sorts of events- just reaching out and asking people. Q: Are there any plans to do Zinefeast again in the future? A: Yeah, Critique Club will definitely do it again next year. We have a lot of people who aren’t graduating that will definitely make this happen again. Q: Do you have any plans for the near future after graduation? A: Gr0ban. Professional Josh Groban forever.

Q: Can you tell us about some of the artists who have tables? What kind of range of different artists are here? A: A lot of comics, cartoonists, but you know, not mainstream comics people, photography people, weird sculpture people doing weird sculpture projects. It was nice to get all the clubs tabling- some weird collage zines, lots of printmakers, all kinds of things.

UNTITLED

I sat across from her in our favorite diner,

crazy. Her baggy white t-shirt has a bright red ketchup

watching as she picked at the eggs she’d ordered

stain on it. I focus my gaze on that, ignoring her look of

moments ago. She had her hair tied up in her usual

incredulity. I wonder how long the stain’s been there.

messy bun. Loose, blonde strands framed her pale,

It’s one of many on that shirt of hers. She’s worn it so

oval face. I watched as she took a large bite out of a

many times now it’s starting to wear thin. I can see

slice of buttered toast. She never once looked at me,

her floral-patterned bra beneath the white cotton

too preoccupied with her breakfast. I didn’t know

material. It’s the same one she wore last night, as she

what to say to her. And so we sat like that, in the diner,

was getting undressed for bed, before she told me to

for God knows how long.

go sleep on the couch.

“I need a break, Kyle,” she said. Just like that.

I finally work myself up and meet her gaze.

Like it was nothing. Like she was asking me for the time

She’s wiping her mouth, still waiting for me to reply. I

or for something unimportant. Like: ‘I need a break,

wait, wondering if she’ll say anything else to me. Then

Kyle, could you please pass the sugar?’ Or, ‘I need a

I give up waiting and point to her shirt.

break, Kyle, isn’t it lovely out today?’. No, Rachel, you

“Ketchup,” I say bluntly.

can’t have the sugar. No, Rachel, it isn’t lovely out. It’s

“…What?” she says back, looking even more

shit.

confused than before.

I look down at my own food, thinking maybe

“Ketchup,” I say again, motioning vaguely

my pile of hash browns and sunny-side-up eggs would

with my fork towards the stain before shoveling in a

turn into something more appetizing. I take a sip of

mouthful of greasy hash browns. She still doesn’t seem

coffee. I pretend that I hadn’t heard her. Maybe she’d

to get it. Rolling my eyes, I take my napkin, leaning

play along, let the moment pass.

forward to wipe it off. She swats my hand away, like

“Kyle?” she asks. There she goes again with

it’s an annoying fly invading her personal space. I’m

that nonchalant tone. That this-is-perfectly-normal

just a fly to her; an annoying fly taking up her personal

tone, and it shouldn’t be a big deal. Well it is to me,

space and eating her food. I still want to know if she’s

Rachel. It is to me. Are you done with those eggs by

going to finish those eggs.

any chance?

“Kyle, did you hear me?” she asks.

response? Or are you just going to stare at your food

“What?” I say, still feigning that I hadn’t

the entire time?” she asks me.

“Kyle, are you going to give me an actual

heard her. I heard everything she said but I guess that

doesn’t matter now. She’s looking at me like I’ve gone

potatoes settling in my stomach like a brick.

“I heard you,” I reply, the greasy blob of

“Good,” she says, “Because I’ve been meaning

my usual navy sweat pants and grey sweater. I don’t

to talk to you…really talk, ya know?”

think either of us cared about our appearances this

morning. We both knew what was going to happen.

I nod, immediately tuning out at this point. I

know Rachel well enough to know when she’s going to

We’d both stopped caring.

go on one of her self-righteous rants. She always flaps

her arms about for emphasis. She looks like a drunken

(Stork) yanking roughly on the sleeve of my sweater.

stork when she does that. All thin, waving limbs and

I looked at her blankly, hoping for a summary of

bobbing blonde head. She’d fit right in with a flock of

what she’d just said. She always expected me to pay

storks. Rachel the Stork.

attention to everything she said. It was kind of hard

My eyes wander around the familiar diner.

to do since she talked a lot in the first place. She had

The cracked, red leather seating held together by

a look on her face, one that said ‘Well? You going to

duct-tape and hope. The chipped coffee mugs and

answer me?’ I just stared. Well, frankly my dear, I don’t

plates carried by weary and underpaid waitresses. The

give a damn.

shouts of Spanish coming from the kitchen as orders

are brought in and out. I can’t remember why we

stand up. Stand up and toss a few bills on the counter.

liked this diner in the first place. I think we went here

She said something and I muttered that I had to use

for our first date, half out of laziness, and half out of

the bathroom, but instead I just turned and left her

lack of cash. Laziness and lack of cash, there was our

there, sitting at the booth, her mouth hanging open

relationship in a nutshell.

like some sort of gaping fish. She may have called out

to me but I don’t remember. All I remember is pushing

I glance back over to Rachel, well into her

My attention was brought back to Rachel

All I did, in response, was shrug. Shrug and

speech, the ketchup on her shirt having dripped a little

the door open and stepping out onto the busy street.

farther down her shirt as she’s waved her arms about.

I gave one small nod of my head to reassure her I was

and cars floating by like brick and metal blurs. I

‘listening’, then turned my head to glance out the

stopped at one of the many street lamps, covered in

window. My own reflection greeted my sleepy eyes.

fliers advertising moving vans, babysitters, and dogs

up for adoption. Hmm. Maybe what I needed was a

My brown hair had gotten shaggy over the

I took a left, walking aimlessly, the building

past three months and the shadow of the beard

dog, instead. Rachel would be a good name.

Rachel hated was starting to show. Maybe I’d grow it

out just to spite her. I hadn’t bothered to get dressed this morning. Just rolled off the couch and slipped into

SUBMiT EDITOR-IN-CHIEF FRANK PAUL VIRGINTINO ART DIRECTOR ALEXANDER KELLOGG ASSISTANT EDITOR ALEXANDER GOOSMANN & SEAN POSILA FEATURE EDITOR CARA BELLUCCI TREASURER KOLTON BABYCH PUBLIC RELATIONS TYLER SUNDERLAND INTERNS PETER GRAMLICH, BRIGID SLATTERY, ELIZABETH RUDIG, JEFFREY HEIMAN FACULTY SPONSORS CAROL BANKERD, CATHERINE LEWIS

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