Issue 65 by Submissions Magazine

SUB MAG

ISSUE no. 65 B

CONTENTS 4

Kirsten Geracitano

Bret Kaser

Noralma Cruz 25 Sitting Figure

Belize 41 Ajani Don't

Christina Butan

Samuel De Poto 26 London

Kemar Wynter 42 Covered in Foil

Samantha Crohn

Alex Bresalier 27 Yellow Journal

Christopher Jiles 44 Proof

Samuel De Poto

Yuko Kyutoku 28 Whsiper

Hernandez 45 Giancarlo Edge of the Earth

Samuel De Poto

Speed 29 Taylor Our Youth

Bret Kaser 46 Bones 1-3 Triptych

Osmosis of Dreams no. 1

Danielle Foti

Kirsten Geracitano 30 Domestic Paranoia

Cruz 48 Noralma The Binding of Souls

Jessica Jensen

Butan 49 Christina Decay is Silver & Slippery

12 13 14

Vacancy no.3

Drench

Woman

Gladys

Eventually Drought

Cheryl's

Subconscious Self-Portrait

Julien Miller Swimming

Yuko Kyutoku

Still Life

Sasha Ramroop Diya

Crohn 34 Samantha Martyrdom

Loisa Fenichell 15 Growing Pains

Hernandez 35 Giancarlo Untitled

Christopher Jiles

Wynter 36 Kemar Blueberry Cobbler

Alex Bresalier

Yeasmin 37 Nilufa Ensemble

Stephan La Cava

Jensen 38 Jessica Necklace

Feature

Yeasmin 39 Nilufa Red Sleep Deprivation

Looking For...

Amanda

Untitled

Dingos: An Interview with Ross Dener

Taylor Speed Cover Say Cheese

Foti 40 Danielle Gastros

Like a Fish

Miller 50 Julien 19:37 La Cava 52 Stephan Untitled Kaser 54 Bret Portrait 2 Geracitano 55 Kirsten Home Timpone 56 Kelsey Snow Walker 58 Matthew Fireman

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR At what I’ll call a turning point for our generation’s consciousness, print was “dying.” Kindles became Christmas gifts, magazine subscriptions went digital, and banks practically went paperless. Essays written on the publishing industry around the time of the Great Recession and soon after are layered with a loss of integrity. A few weeks ago, one of our editors noted she didn’t see a place for herself in print and I wondered if print had become elitist in this digital age. There are so many conversations that take place during SubMag’s selection and design process. Most are civil, but feelings do enter the conversation; inside these moments of disagreement, I find that the beauty of print makes itself known. Each opinion has a counterargument, and though everyone may not see eye to eye, trusting in one’s individuality is crucial to producing something worth reading. We want to be certain of the work we publish, so we push each other to make claims for works we want to see on our pages. After all, no one said this should to be easy. SubMag keeps one goal in mind: make a product that’s worth stopping for. This issue contains many pieces, all of them different. We’ve found that some of them are in conversation, and some are not. The works you will see beyond this page are stoic in their singularity and craft. Regardless of their differences and their creators’ intentions, we’re happy to provide a space for them to be seen and read in our own little section of the printed world. Shoot us an email at submissionsmagazine@purchase.edu.

Sincerely,

Chris Stewart Editor-in-Chief

KIRSTEN GERACITANO Vacancy no.3

BRET KASER Drench

Woman

By Christina Butan

all belly and breast, forest where tooth and tongue come to eat.

SAMANTHA CROHN Gladys

SAMUEL DE POTO

Eventual Drought (above)

Cheryl's (right)

NILUFA YEASMIN

Dissolving Matter 11

DANIELLE FOTI

Osmosis of Dreams no. 1

JESSICA JENSEN

Subconcious Self-portrait

JULIEN MILLER Swimming

Growing Pains By Loisa Fenichell

1. I do not lick my wounds (like my wounds) – instead I drink my coffee, spill it onto my bed sheets, fall asleep, have always been told to fall asleep, to sleep. 2. To touch the self is to scratch the self. I do so in my plaid bed like again I am ten years old -the stomach pangs of blackest coffee; hiding beneath my blankets like I am no more than piles of cooling ash. 3. I call for music and for puppet shows when I am young. To my mother I shout, forgetting about the father. It is a Friday night. Friday nights are still foreign to me as is walking alone to town past the pinkly painted postal office and the skeletal boys with whom I will shortly fall in love, to whom I hide beneath the blankets. 4. When nobody in my family plays the guitar, I pick it up on the streets, along with a grey hat and a long brown coat. I hold the wine – if it’s gluten free!, yells my mother in her sleep – to my stubbed fingers. In my family, it is the constant wonder to sleep. 15

CHRISTOPHER JILES Looking For...

ALEX BRESALIER Amanda

STEPHAN LA CAVA

Untitled

For those in the know, Dingos is a coveted memento. The pocket-sized zine functions like any other magazine does; its pages cover various topics from fashion to movies to crime – all dictated and edited by Ross Dener, the zine's creator. On a Monday night in February, SubMag met up with him outside the print shop. He’d been waiting for us. With boy-like fervor, he sprung to his feet and led us through what he called a “shortcut” to his studio. Through a series of students, presses and chemical fumes, we eventually ended up in the basement of the VA where his studio had been converted into a cardboard fort. It had the architectural makeup of what would be a child’s aspiration, but Dener had executed the construction himself. The roof was dressed in camouflage and the desk was cleared, save a few pages ripped out of magazines and various materials. Inside what felt like Dener’s own world, he talked us through the history of Dingos.

TELL US THE STORY BEHIND DINGOS' CONCEPTION:

An Interview with Ross Dener

It didn’t start off as a gang or a zine. My buddy Riley and I had this History teacher, and she was one year away from retiring. It was an election year, so History class was all fucked up because she was trying to teach current events: Obama. We just weren’t learning anything, and Riley and I were making an eraser car with a pink eraser and thumbtacks. I don’t remember what Riley named his, but I was like, What’s a good racer name? The Dingo... Something about that name stuck with me, and here we are.

ARE THERE ANY SPECIFIC ZINES YOU ARE

I knew that artist books and independent magazines were something that people did, but I hadn’t really seen any examples. I remember reading my friend’s copy of The Oral History of Punk Rock and them talking about punk zines and thinking, Oh, that’s cool, but I never actually sought that out. The main inspirations are Cosmopolitan and old hunting magazines.

WHEN DID DINGOS BECOME A MAGAZINE?

The magazine is another “being bored at school” story. I went to summer camp with Jessie Katz [Printmaking, Senior] and he made a zine. Then a couple of years later I was in high school and I wasn’t in any art classes, so I was very bored. I was an understimulated 17 year-old, and I was like, I should make a zine. I could do it my way. My sister would always leave her Cosmopolitan magazines on the toilet, so that inspired the format. There’s a fashion section, there’s this, there’s that. I would also look at old men’s magazines, cult magazines. That’s how it became Dingos the magazine. I just started Xeroxing them on the school copy machine and selling them at school. It’s always been the same price – $0.25.

THERE’S A PALPABLE FEELING OF CHILDHOOD IN THE MAGAZINE, AND THE ESSENCE OF A BOYS’ CLUB. DID YOU FANTASIZE ABOUT BEING A PART OF A GANG OF GUYS? No. You sound like a shrink. But Dingos definitely has a lot of elements of fantasy. I wouldn’t do it if it didn’t get my imagination going or make me laugh or something. I'm always cracking up mwhen I'm making it. I just fantasized, Man, what if instead of

"I’M ALWAYS WHEN C R A C K I N G U P T ." I I’M MAKING

being in school, I was a fucking gang leader and killed all of these police officers and shit? Everybody fantasizes about that kind of stuff. If you’ve ever read The Basketball Diaries by James Carroll, one of my favorite sections is when he is sitting in the bathroom and he’s imagining what he would do if he had to kill somebody with a bathroom object, like the toilet paper holder or the plunger or something. I think everybody thinks about that kind of stuff. I just made a magazine. .

INSPIRED BY? COM E FRO M. THE SEX AND MOR BID ITY THA T’S PER HAP S WHE RE

Definitely. I think Cosmo is pretty much sex and morbidity too. It’s like “Buy this, or you will look gross.” Cosmo is just trying to sell you all of this shit to make you “look prettier” or “be healthier,” and Dingos is just trying to sell you stuff that is either bad for you, or a fictional product, or illegal, dangerous; everything. Like Dingos

cigarettes and Dingos beer. Cosmo tells you to do something to make you beautiful and Dingos tells you to do something to get yourself killed or arrested. I went back and looked through the Dingos archive, and there are definitely things that I wrote when I was 16 that were funnier because I was a dumb kid.

HOW DOES DINGOS RELATE TO YOUR PRINTMAKING? I like to think that they are cousins. Dingos has a very narrow scope. It’s crime, action, adventure, sex. My work has some of those themes, but it’s not exclusive to them. They both share my sense of humor. There’s not always that crossover. IS DINGOS AN ACCURATE REPRESENTATION OF ROSS RIGHT NOW? It was weirder when I was in high school. I think I was just trying to confuse the dumb preppy people. Everybody bought it, which was cool, but not everyone got it. There’s definitely a lot of stuff in the old issues designed to confuse. The audience is a little hipper now. It clicks better with them.

"Midnight Recital for the Tabernacle Choir of our Lady Super Unleaded"

As for stuff that I’ve retained since being 13, I mean, that was around the age that my dad and I would always watch classic action movies like Die Hard, Terminator, and Aliens. Definitely that action movie sensibility and old movie tone is retained. WHAT’S THE DESIGN PROCESS? I start out by getting a piece of 11x17, fold it the right way. First thing I do on every one is draw the title on it. I get all of my pictures together, and an exacto knife, markers, and a typewriter. No computers. No Photoshop. It’s all done by hand. The only part that I use a computer for is if I’ve got to type up a long interview, because the rest of it I do on a typewriter, but they don’t have spell check, so I can’t trust myself to not fuck up the spelling on a long interview.

"My Older Brother..."

YOU’VE HAD A MOVIE AND HOSTED A PARTY, SO WHAT’S THE NEXT MOVE FOR DINGOS? Right now we are doing a lot. I just finished most footage for the sequel to the movie. You know those little religious comic books they give out at Port Authority Bus Terminal? I’m making a Dingos version of those. Most of them are two people: a stereotypically good person like, “I go to church and give money to charity!” And there’s a stereotypi-

cally bad guy like, “I steal and rob!” The good guy that you think is going to go to heaven, goes to hell, and the bad guy goes to heaven, and they’re like, “What gives?” I don’t know what denomination of Christianity that would be, but they are all asking for God’s forgiveness and whatever other shitty things you do. I decided to make a

Dingos version where there’s a really good guy and there’s a dingo. They both go to hell. The dingo is chilling with Hitler and Osama and he’s drinking beer. Hell is fun if you’ve been bad enough. I’m working on that, and we’re doing another run of t-shirts. I’m trying to ball out for Zine Feast. It’s a one-man job.

NOW THAT YOU’RE NOT A “DUMB KID,” DO YOU FIND YOURSELF EDITING MORE OR LESS? I definitely edit way less now. The old ones didn’t have swearing in them. They definitely didn’t have as much nudity. They didn’t have as many pictures of dead bodies. That’s because I was still in high school and if I got caught Xeroxing that, it’d be my ass. Maybe that’s what made me a bit cleverer. I had to

be subtler, a bit more tongue-in-cheek. I edit less now because I think people are more willing to maybe see it as art and not something offensive. Though I eagerly await the day when the wrong person finds it outside the Hub and makes an angry post on the “Open Forum.”

WHAT'S THE CRAZIEST RESPONSE YOU'VE EVER RECEIVED FROM ONE OF YOUR READERS? I was doing it through high school, where there was a lot more supervision. Everyone asked me, “Why don’t you do a bigger issue?” So I did do a bigger issue once, but you know dumb messy high schoolers – one kid ended up leaving a copy on the ground. The 3x4 copies on the ground look like pieces of trash, so you might not notice, but when it’s full magazine size, someone is going to see. A teacher saw and was like, “You can’t make this,” blah blah blah. So I had to lay low for a while.

E R S. " N O C O M P U T P. NO PHOTOSHO E N IT’S ALL DO B Y H A N D." IS THERE A SPECIFIC DINGOS READER YOU HAVE IN YOUR MIND? I definitely do it a lot for myself, but not 100 percent; 90 percent for myself, 10 percent for other people. I’m really interested in history, WWII and Vietnam and stuff. I know that probably wouldn’t interest as many people as it interests myself. I always feel shitty when I have a big stack of unsold issues. I try and balance what I’m going to enjoy making and what people are going to enjoy reading.

DO YOU SEE AN END FOR DINGOS? As long as there’s a free Xerox where I can scan and people willing to read it and answer my dumb questions, I’ll keep making it—as long as I have dumb ideas for it.

YUKO KYUTOKU Still Life

NORALMA CRUZ Sitting Figure

SAMUEL DE POTO

London

ALEX BRESALIER Yellow Journal

YUKO KYUTOKU Whisper

TAYLOR SPEED Our Youth

KIRSTEN GERACITANO Domestic Paranoia

DIYA

By Sasha Ramroop NOW THE ROOM is dark like when we entered it. Only pale moonlight flickers in through an open curtain. I roll over to the side. The wave washes over me. Like an old, cruel friend. A tear slips out of my eyes and I wipe it away quickly. Too late. He sits up in one quick motion. “What happened? Did I do something wrong?” “No,” I choke out. “Please go. Leave.” More tears threaten to escape. I feel their heat build. Despite me telling him to go, he does not move. I pull up and snarl. “GO!” He flinches just a bit. “You said you wanted to…” “I did.” I say now, helpless to the tears. “I wanted to. Just go. It’s not your fault. Please.” Finally he moves until he’s by the door. Don’t go, I think. A stupid thought. He opens it and a wave of party music dances in. The door shuts and left is just an echo. NOW WHEN I get back home, I see her sitting on the counter, waiting for me. My heart jumps in my chest when I should be used to this by now. Shreya, my middle school best friend, who killed herself in her bathroom, sits on Aunt Mara’s granite counter. She kicks her feet back and forth. “You don’t have to keep doing it, you know.” “Doing what?” I open up a cupboard. “You know… sleeping with the guys. Pretending it

doesn’t hurt.” “I like it, okay? It’s what I do.” “So you say… but despite you fooling everyone you’re fine, you’re really not.” Shreya tucks a long brown curl behind her ear. I pull out a Pop Tart. “Stop ignoring what I say. Just know… I can’t stay here forever.” My heart constricts but I don’t want her to know it. How much she’ll hurt me if she leaves. But when I close the cupboard door, she’s already gone. BEFORE I REMEMBER the shiny diamond on his ear. His hands as they pulled me into the room. I thought this was what people did. It was unexpected but I played along. He put on a rubber, saying he “didn’t want no fucking girls calling him about babies.” And then, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to do this, whatever this was. But it all happened so fast. He was there, sweaty and skin odor all in one. I could feel the beads of sweat on his chest. I knew I could talk. I knew I could scream. I knew I could throw him off. But I couldn’t. My body wasn’t moving. Only my heart was. Beating fastfastfast. And then it was over.

NOW I CLOSE my eyes. This was the moment I dreamed of. Being in the talent show. In my ears I could hear the murmur of the crowd, chatting and laughing. Someone nudges me onstage. The lights hit my face. So blinding. So bright. I momentarily forget my own name. Then somehow, somewhere the butterflies fly off. The crowd draws to a pause. Hushed breathes and barely a whisper. I began to sing. I put down the mic, not believing, not hearing the roaring clap in my ears that comes from beyond the bright lights. After the show I find Mara. She hugs me and gives me some roses. “I have a star in my hands,” she says, smiling. I hug her back. “Only because I have you to look up to.” Then, I spot the boy. The one who saw me cry. I try to stop the shocked look, open eyes and open mouth, before he sees. He grins his stupid grin. I tell Mara I’ll meet her outside.

“We never really introduced ourselves. Said,” he says, extending his hand. “Diya,” I say, taking it. “Diya! Like the light.” “Yeah.” I glance around the crowded auditorium. People are talking, some leaving. “I have to go,” I say. “But can I get your number?” Said looks shocked. His smile can’t be any wider. He takes my phone from me and puts his number in. I look up. “Said (one night stand boy)?” I shake my head, laughing. “In case you forget.” “I… need some time. But I’ll call you when I’m ready, okay?” “Okay,” he says, smiling from cheek to cheek. I walk away, and can’t help but to glance back. He’s staring at me. This time I smile. Out of the corner of my eye, between the throngs of people I see a familiar face. Shreya. She’s smiling. She waves. I wave back.

By the time I walk up to him I feel I’ve travelled a thousand miles, when I know it’s only been a few steps. “You were really good up there,” he says. He runs a hand through his hair. “Thanks,” I say.

SAMANTHA CROHN Martyrdom

GIANCARLO HERNANDEZ Untitled

KEMAR WYNTER

Blueberry Cobbler

NILUFA YEASMIN 36

Ensemble (right)

MARK COLYER Inscape no. 9

NILUFA YEASMIN

Red Sleep Deprivation

JESSICA JENSEN Beaded Necklace (left)

DANIELLE FOTI Gastros

Don't

By Ajani Balize I knew that there were shards of glass sprinkled in my hair before you decided to run your fingers through them. I poured lemon juice into the rubbing alcohol bottle because I assumed youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d pour some on your wounds. (we are not lovers) (we are not friends) (i am not your pet) (i am not sorry) Now there are 50 cuts on your palm but at least youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve learned how to ask first.

YUKO KYUTOKU Nostalgia

(previous page) KEMAR WYNTER Covered in Foil

CHRISTOPHER JILES Proof

GIANCARLO HERNANDEZ Edge of the Earth

BRET KASER

Bones 1-3 Triptych

NORALMA CRUZ

The Binding of Souls

Decay is Silver & Slippery Like a Fish By Christina Butan like a black moth on a black rose like a hundred gnats drowning in honey & you can’t just swat it away, you can’t just swat that black moth sitting on that black rose with the dead crow disintegrating in the dirt underneath & grandma warned us about the crows & grandma warned us about whistling in the house & grandma warned us about don’t open the door for strangers don’t kill the moths don’t forget to water the roses don’t leave the grapes out because the gnats will come & gnaw & nag & gnaw & the moths will chew at your silky skin & whatwillyoudo ?whatwill youdo? what will you do! when the evil eye stops working &when god stops listening & when your angels fly away & when you wake up & all the moths & the gnats &the fish are nibbling at you & grandma isn’t there to warn you ? 49

50 JULIEN MILLER 19:37

STEPHAN LA CAVA Untitled

BRET KASER Portrait 2

KIRSTEN GERACITANO

Home

Snow

By Kelsey Timpone Start with the toes. Count them. There are still ten. Think about the foot print on your birth certificate. Understand you really were once that small. Move to the legs. You haven’t shaved in weeks. It’s winter. The first snow. Feel for the gash on your knee. It’s a scab now. Don’t pick it. Feel the strangers hand on your thigh. Assume this is how aliens feel. Let your three tallest fingers find the indent where your leg meets your hip. Know someday someone will love it. Not you. Not right now. At your hip. Feel the stranger’s other hand on the round cap of it. Imagine their hand is the snow and your hip is the mountain. You’ve never been skiing. Feel your stomach rise with every breath. Don’t focus on it for long. Resist the urge to touch your belly button. Remember the story of you being born with your finger in your belly button. Realize it’s false because of the umbilical cord. Your arms are criss-crossed over your chest like a mummy. It looks like you are covering yourself like someone might walk in. They won’t. Lose feeling in your fingertips. Try to wiggle them all. Even the bent one. Feel nothing but faint tingles. Give up. Move one dead hand to your right cheek. It makes a noise. The alien next to you stirs, but doesn’t wake. The feeling is back in your fingers. Touch your nose. Feel for the raging red pimple on your nostril. You’re not wearing your glasses. They may be on the desk. Maybe on the floor. Outside it’s snowing. Lean over the alien. Try to focus your eyes. It’s too white. Smell the crisp air. Smell the body odor. It’s yours. You should shower. Not here. Raise yourself up on shaking arms. Army roll away from the alien. Try not to fall off the bed. Fall off the bed. Hit the ground with a hard thud. Locate your pants. Your bra. Your sweater. Your coat. Your hat. Find one mitten. Leave the other. Think that he’ll be sad to wake up and see you aren’t next to him. Know that he’ll throw out the other mitten when he finds it. Take the stairs. Four floors to the bottom. Check your coat pockets for your phone. Find it in the right butt pocket of your 56

jeans. Four missed calls from your mom. One voicemail. Listen to the voicemail in the stairwell. Enjoy the echo. She called to tell you it was snowing. Not at home. At school. Walk outside. Get hit with snow instantly. It’s really winter now. Let it wash over you. Watch small icicles form on the rim of your clear glasses. Allow the snow to suck the artificial warmth out of you. Walk to Starbucks. Get a coffee. The biggest one they have. Drink your coffee. Hot. Two creams. Two Sugars. Note this is the only symmetry in your life. Walk outside. Feel the air cleanse your lungs. Enjoy the pain. Fumble with your mittened hand to find your phone. Call your mom. Tell her you’re knee deep in snow. Ask a stranger to take a picture of you in the snow. Use the collar of your coat to hide the golf ball sized hickeys on your neck. Know your mom cried when she got the picture. Find your friends in the Quad. They’ve all seen snow before. It’s your first time. Explain why you don’t have your other mitten. Field their questions with vague responses. Clutch your coffee closer. The snow is building on your shoulders. Cherish the extra weight. Let it soak through your wool coat. Don’t move. Become a snowman. Your first snowman. Bask in the warmth of your friends. Take a hit from the joint they’re passing. Hold the coffee in your mittenless hand. The joint in your mittened hand. Try not to catch on fire. This joint is the closest you’ll ever come to communion. Don’t think of your mom. Don’t think of the alien. Don’t think of anything. Look through the ice crystals forming on the ends of your eyelashes. Pretend you’re in a snow globe. Like the ones your mom collects. But only displays at Christmas time. Allow your eyes to grow heavy. Wonder if it’s because of the weed or the ice or the lack of sleep. Feel the heaviness spread from your eyes down into your neck. Let your head fall forward. At least you still have your hat. The heaviness travels down your spine. Melt to the ground like the snowman you are. Contemplate lying there until the snow covers you completely. Your friends join you on the ground. There is a peace to the air. It’s the kind of peace you’ve been looking for. You are calm. Just like your mom’s snow globes. Embrace it. Know it won’t last. … 57

MATTHEW WALKER Fireman

SUBMIT

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF CHRISTOPHER STEWART ART DIRECTOR ERIKA FULTON SENIOR ART EDITOR VICTORIA OTTOMANO SENIOR LITERATURE EDITOR ANSEL SHIPLEY COPY EDITOR EMMA RHOADS LAYOUT EDITOR TAYLOR STEFANIDIS COPY INTERN ELANA MARCUS FACULTY SPONSOR STEVE LAMBERT

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