issue
02
PORT CITY REVIEW the literary arts journal of SCAD
PORT CITY REVIEW ISSUE 02
2014
PORT CITY REVIEW the literary arts journal of SCAD
ISSUE 02 PRODUCED BY DISTRICT SAVANNAH COLLEGE OF ART AND DESIGN
S TA F F
EDITOR’S LETTER
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
SHANNON CRAIG
CREATIVE DIRECTOR
GABBY MANOTOC
MANAGING EDITOR
ERIC RAMIREZ
COPY EDITOR & FOUNDER
KENNETH ROSEN
COPYRIGHT & COLOPHON Individual pieces contained herein are the intellectual property of the contributors, who retain all rights to their material. Every effort was made to contact the artists to ensure that the information presented is correct. Any editorial statement, element of design or work composed by the editorial staff is the intellectual property of SCAD Student Media. No part of this journal may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the editorial staff and the adviser. Port City Review, established in 2012, is an annual literary arts journal showcasing the work of SCAD students exclusively via a submissions process. Published content is determined by student editors. Opinions expressed in Port City Review are not necessarily those of the college. The second copy of Port City Review is available free of charge to SCAD students, faculty and staff. Subsequent copies of the journal, and copies for the general public, are available for $10 each. Inquiries should be made to submissions@scaddistrict.com or 912-525-5681. The typefaces used in this edition of the journal are Memphis STD and DIN 1451. This journal was designed by Gabby Manotoc with the use of Adobe Photoshop CC, Adobe Illustrator CC and Adobe InDesign CC. Digital illustrations and graphics were created by Gabby Manotoc. The paper is 150 grade UPM Finesse silk text, and the cover is 250 gr. Ensocoat silk cover. You are holding one of 1,500 copies. Printed in Iceland by Oddi Printing.
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As a little kid, maybe seven or eight years old, my class took a field trip to a small park for bagged lunch. I passed the park every day on the bus, and each morning and afternoon, I saw an old man with a stool and a notepad sitting in a patch of grass, his back to the playground. Always writing, I thought of him as the mystery man. Arriving at the park that day, my teacher, a pretty blonde woman who was probably the age I am now, called to the mystery man by name. Waving back to her, he invited us to sit. Lowering his notepad, he showed our herd of second graders a sketch of a boat. “Now, if I let this boat go in the river, do you think that it will float?” I wasn’t alone in thinking it was a stupid question. “It won’t float, sir. That boat isn’t real it’s just a drawing. It’s made of paper,” one kid yelled. “What if it up and floats away?” The class remained positive it couldn’t. But the old man persisted. “What if I told you all of those other boats in the river started just like this one, as a drawing on a piece of paper?” I see now what he tried to explain. What’s created on paper, if authentic enough, can never stay on paper – it must be tested in the real world. These pages contain drawings, writings, photographs and ideas; real, concrete, and part of something bigger than their creators. Submitted and chosen as the best representations of the talent at the Savannah College of Art and Design, these works allow for Port City Review to be more than just an idea conceived by students. I am privileged to have a part in the development of this literary arts journal. It is amazing to see what can be built from an idea conceived on paper.
Shannon Craig Editor-in-Chief
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S TA F F
EDITOR’S LETTER
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
SHANNON CRAIG
CREATIVE DIRECTOR
GABBY MANOTOC
MANAGING EDITOR
ERIC RAMIREZ
COPY EDITOR & FOUNDER
KENNETH ROSEN
COPYRIGHT & COLOPHON Individual pieces contained herein are the intellectual property of the contributors, who retain all rights to their material. Every effort was made to contact the artists to ensure that the information presented is correct. Any editorial statement, element of design or work composed by the editorial staff is the intellectual property of SCAD Student Media. No part of this journal may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the editorial staff and the adviser. Port City Review, established in 2012, is an annual literary arts journal showcasing the work of SCAD students exclusively via a submissions process. Published content is determined by student editors. Opinions expressed in Port City Review are not necessarily those of the college. The second copy of Port City Review is available free of charge to SCAD students, faculty and staff. Subsequent copies of the journal, and copies for the general public, are available for $10 each. Inquiries should be made to submissions@scaddistrict.com or 912-525-5681. The typefaces used in this edition of the journal are Memphis STD and DIN 1451. This journal was designed by Gabby Manotoc with the use of Adobe Photoshop CC, Adobe Illustrator CC and Adobe InDesign CC. Digital illustrations and graphics were created by Gabby Manotoc. The paper is 150 grade UPM Finesse silk text, and the cover is 250 gr. Ensocoat silk cover. You are holding one of 1,500 copies. Printed in Iceland by Oddi Printing.
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As a little kid, maybe seven or eight years old, my class took a field trip to a small park for bagged lunch. I passed the park every day on the bus, and each morning and afternoon, I saw an old man with a stool and a notepad sitting in a patch of grass, his back to the playground. Always writing, I thought of him as the mystery man. Arriving at the park that day, my teacher, a pretty blonde woman who was probably the age I am now, called to the mystery man by name. Waving back to her, he invited us to sit. Lowering his notepad, he showed our herd of second graders a sketch of a boat. “Now, if I let this boat go in the river, do you think that it will float?” I wasn’t alone in thinking it was a stupid question. “It won’t float, sir. That boat isn’t real it’s just a drawing. It’s made of paper,” one kid yelled. “What if it up and floats away?” The class remained positive it couldn’t. But the old man persisted. “What if I told you all of those other boats in the river started just like this one, as a drawing on a piece of paper?” I see now what he tried to explain. What’s created on paper, if authentic enough, can never stay on paper – it must be tested in the real world. These pages contain drawings, writings, photographs and ideas; real, concrete, and part of something bigger than their creators. Submitted and chosen as the best representations of the talent at the Savannah College of Art and Design, these works allow for Port City Review to be more than just an idea conceived by students. I am privileged to have a part in the development of this literary arts journal. It is amazing to see what can be built from an idea conceived on paper.
Shannon Craig Editor-in-Chief
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ISSUE 02 ON THE COVER AND ON THIS PAGE: Passage Fiber, Wood, Pigment
TA B L E O F C O N T E N T S 02
Staff
03 06
Copyright & Colophon Letter from the Editor Our Mission
Sami Lee Woolhiser San Jose, Calif. Painting major, Sculpture major
EXPERIENCE
SEE 08 09 10 12 13 14 15 16 18 20 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 30 31 32
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Gossamer Dervish Dance Undermining the Everyday Everyone Deserves a Home Submarine My Head is an Animal Regina Spektor Reflection Wandering Teeth Things in America Home Taking Precautions Identity Series Velvet The Private Life of Helen of Troy Corgially Invited Lavender Yum Yums H. Portrait The Gardener Coffee Troubles Oh Rats Self Dream Red Self Portrait Left Brain Howl’s Moving Castle Letter T Haunted Houses British Birds Strangers
PORT CITY CITY REVIEW REVIEW PORT
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36 37 38 40 41 42 44
46 47 48
Shaktaya Series May 2013 March 19, 2013 Untitled Kingdom of Jellyfish Swamp Dweller The Essence of Time Series Shadows & Em Hermitage in Hands Glacier Goats Colorado in a Splash Can’t Wait to Eat Room Practice
FEEL 50 51 52 54
56 57 58 59 60 61 63
Eats Nostalgia november in new hampshire Camaraderie Unheeded Left As a Child I Could Not Eat Oranges Boomerang Sandcastles When the Thunder Tolled May I See Your Written Work Seasick Violets for Iphis
66 67 68 69 70 72 74 75 76 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 86 87 88 90 91 92 94
Obelisk Lamp The Process and Study of Madder Double Bird Style Excessively Exuviated The Cloud Bench Green Truck Rebranding Butch Bakery Rebranding Wormsloe Brewery Triumph Brewing Company Architecture Ceramics Morte Sundance Film Festival Style Frames Eik Made Museum One of Many Ziatypes Platinum Printing Process Fuji Discovery Channel Network ID Crystalize SCAD 35: Urban Intervention Fitness Supplement Infographic Saigon Travel Guide Bow & Arrow
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ISSUE 02 ON THE COVER AND ON THIS PAGE: Passage Fiber, Wood, Pigment
TA B L E O F C O N T E N T S 02
Staff
03 06
Copyright & Colophon Letter from the Editor Our Mission
Sami Lee Woolhiser San Jose, Calif. Painting major, Sculpture major
EXPERIENCE
SEE 08 09 10 12 13 14 15 16 18 20 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 30 31 32
34
44
Gossamer Dervish Dance Undermining the Everyday Everyone Deserves a Home Submarine My Head is an Animal Regina Spektor Reflection Wandering Teeth Things in America Home Taking Precautions Identity Series Velvet The Private Life of Helen of Troy Corgially Invited Lavender Yum Yums H. Portrait The Gardener Coffee Troubles Oh Rats Self Dream Red Self Portrait Left Brain Howl’s Moving Castle Letter T Haunted Houses British Birds Strangers
PORT CITY CITY REVIEW REVIEW PORT
ISSUE 02 02 ISSUE
36 37 38 40 41 42 44
46 47 48
Shaktaya Series May 2013 March 19, 2013 Untitled Kingdom of Jellyfish Swamp Dweller The Essence of Time Series Shadows & Em Hermitage in Hands Glacier Goats Colorado in a Splash Can’t Wait to Eat Room Practice
FEEL 50 51 52 54
56 57 58 59 60 61 63
Eats Nostalgia november in new hampshire Camaraderie Unheeded Left As a Child I Could Not Eat Oranges Boomerang Sandcastles When the Thunder Tolled May I See Your Written Work Seasick Violets for Iphis
66 67 68 69 70 72 74 75 76 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 86 87 88 90 91 92 94
Obelisk Lamp The Process and Study of Madder Double Bird Style Excessively Exuviated The Cloud Bench Green Truck Rebranding Butch Bakery Rebranding Wormsloe Brewery Triumph Brewing Company Architecture Ceramics Morte Sundance Film Festival Style Frames Eik Made Museum One of Many Ziatypes Platinum Printing Process Fuji Discovery Channel Network ID Crystalize SCAD 35: Urban Intervention Fitness Supplement Infographic Saigon Travel Guide Bow & Arrow
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SEE
OUR MISSION Our belief, as SCAD’s student literary arts journal, is if the best artists are the ones who steal, Port City Review is an almanac for creative kleptos. It is intimate - each issue explores art from every angle, making expression through whatever medium more visceral, more real. PCR is a place for students to tell stories, where their art is presented favorably, unbound by pages and space.
PHOTOGRAPHY I L L U S T R AT I O N D R AW I N G PA I N T I N G PRINTMAKING ETCHING
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SEE
OUR MISSION Our belief, as SCAD’s student literary arts journal, is if the best artists are the ones who steal, Port City Review is an almanac for creative kleptos. It is intimate - each issue explores art from every angle, making expression through whatever medium more visceral, more real. PCR is a place for students to tell stories, where their art is presented favorably, unbound by pages and space.
PHOTOGRAPHY I L L U S T R AT I O N D R AW I N G PA I N T I N G PRINTMAKING ETCHING
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SEE Gossamer Photography Eva A. Dalichau Frankfurt, Germany Photography major
Dervish Dance Adobe Photoshop Nasim Naghibi Tehran, Iran Motion Media Design major
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SEE Gossamer Photography Eva A. Dalichau Frankfurt, Germany Photography major
Dervish Dance Adobe Photoshop Nasim Naghibi Tehran, Iran Motion Media Design major
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Undermining the Everyday Photography Maria Minelli Lakewood, Ohio Photography major
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Undermining the Everyday Photography Maria Minelli Lakewood, Ohio Photography major
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ABOVE: Everyone Deserves a Home Ink and Digital Color Cleonique Hilsaca Tegucigalpa, Honduras Graphic Design, Illustration major BELOW: Submarine Ink and Digital Color Cleonique Hilsaca Tegucigalpa, Honduras Graphic Design, Illustration major
My Head is an Animal Adobe Photoshop Cleonique Hilsaca Tegulcipa, Honduras Graphic Design, Illustration major
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ABOVE: Everyone Deserves a Home Ink and Digital Color Cleonique Hilsaca Tegucigalpa, Honduras Graphic Design, Illustration major BELOW: Submarine Ink and Digital Color Cleonique Hilsaca Tegucigalpa, Honduras Graphic Design, Illustration major
My Head is an Animal Adobe Photoshop Cleonique Hilsaca Tegulcipa, Honduras Graphic Design, Illustration major
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SEE ABOVE: Reflection Charcoal and Pan Pastel on Paper
BELOW: Wandering Charcoal and Pan Pastel on Paper
Andrea Ramsey Johnson City, Tenn. Illustration major, Drawing minor
Andrea Ramsey Johnson City, Tenn. Illustration major, Drawing minor
Regina Spektor Digital Andrea Ramsey Johnson City, Tenn. Illustration major, Drawing minor
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SEE ABOVE: Reflection Charcoal and Pan Pastel on Paper
BELOW: Wandering Charcoal and Pan Pastel on Paper
Andrea Ramsey Johnson City, Tenn. Illustration major, Drawing minor
Andrea Ramsey Johnson City, Tenn. Illustration major, Drawing minor
Regina Spektor Digital Andrea Ramsey Johnson City, Tenn. Illustration major, Drawing minor
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Teeth Photography, Graphic Design Finn Schult Naples, Fla. Photography major
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Teeth Photography, Graphic Design Finn Schult Naples, Fla. Photography major
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Things in America Digital Photography Timothy Hutto Elizabeth City, N.C. Photography major
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Things in America Digital Photography Timothy Hutto Elizabeth City, N.C. Photography major
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Home Photography Mackenzie Mercurio Houston, Texas Photography major
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Home Photography Mackenzie Mercurio Houston, Texas Photography major
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Taking Precautions Scratch Board and Watercolor Ink Alison Conway Burlington, Wis. Illustration major
Identity Series: Makeup, Hats, Glasses Oil on Linen Mirelle Jefferson Hoover, Ala. Painting major, Art History minor
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Taking Precautions Scratch Board and Watercolor Ink Alison Conway Burlington, Wis. Illustration major
Identity Series: Makeup, Hats, Glasses Oil on Linen Mirelle Jefferson Hoover, Ala. Painting major, Art History minor
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LEFT TO RIGHT: Velvet Copperplate Etching
TOP TO BOTTOM:
The Private Life of Helen of Troy Copperplate Etching
Corgially Invited Digital, Ink and Watercolor
Michael Ezzell Elkhart, Ind. Illustration major
Lavender Yum Yums Digital, Ink and Watercolor
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Sara Wasserboehr Greensboro, N.C. Illustration major, Graphic Design minor
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LEFT TO RIGHT: Velvet Copperplate Etching
TOP TO BOTTOM:
The Private Life of Helen of Troy Copperplate Etching
Corgially Invited Digital, Ink and Watercolor
Michael Ezzell Elkhart, Ind. Illustration major
Lavender Yum Yums Digital, Ink and Watercolor
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Sara Wasserboehr Greensboro, N.C. Illustration major, Graphic Design minor
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Coffee Troubles Pen and Ink Kat Lanser Raleigh, N.C. Illustration major, Printmaking minor
LEFT TO RIGHT: H. Portrait Oil on Canvas Nam Nghiem Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam Painting major The Gardener Relief Printmaking (Woodcut) Lauren Stenger, Franklin, N.C. Illustration major, Printmaking minor
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Coffee Troubles Pen and Ink Kat Lanser Raleigh, N.C. Illustration major, Printmaking minor
LEFT TO RIGHT: H. Portrait Oil on Canvas Nam Nghiem Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam Painting major The Gardener Relief Printmaking (Woodcut) Lauren Stenger, Franklin, N.C. Illustration major, Printmaking minor
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Oh Rats (Series) Ink and Watercolor Scarlet Nelson Madison, Wis. Animation major
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Oh Rats (Series) Ink and Watercolor Scarlet Nelson Madison, Wis. Animation major
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TOP TO BOTTOM: Red Self Portrait Oil on Canvas Nam Nghiem Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam Painting major
Left Brain Digital Collage Natalie Tribble Gray, Ga. Fibers major
TOP TO BOTTOM: Self Photography Mackenzie Mercurio Houston, Texas Photography major
Dream Digital Photography Michele Mobley Gainesville, Ga. Photography major, Art History minor
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TOP TO BOTTOM: Red Self Portrait Oil on Canvas Nam Nghiem Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam Painting major
Left Brain Digital Collage Natalie Tribble Gray, Ga. Fibers major
TOP TO BOTTOM: Self Photography Mackenzie Mercurio Houston, Texas Photography major
Dream Digital Photography Michele Mobley Gainesville, Ga. Photography major, Art History minor
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CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT: Howl’s Moving Castle Watercolor, Micron Pens, Glue, Acrylic, Markers, Aging, Cracking Varnishes Letter T BIC Pens, Watercolor Haunted Houses Micron pens and Ink British Birds Micron pens, Markers, Watercolor, BIC pens Sandra Inchaurraga Madrid, Spain Illustration major
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CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT: Howl’s Moving Castle Watercolor, Micron Pens, Glue, Acrylic, Markers, Aging, Cracking Varnishes Letter T BIC Pens, Watercolor Haunted Houses Micron pens and Ink British Birds Micron pens, Markers, Watercolor, BIC pens Sandra Inchaurraga Madrid, Spain Illustration major
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Strangers Digital Inkjet Print Andrew Forino Somerset, N.J. Photography major
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Strangers Digital Inkjet Print Andrew Forino Somerset, N.J. Photography major
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LEFT: Shaktaya 1, 2, 3 Pen, Ink, Adobe Photoshop RIGHT PAGE FROM TOP: May 2013 Pen and Ink March 19, 2013 Pen and Ink Simon Cooper Buenos Aires, Argentina Illustration major, Printmaking minor
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LEFT: Shaktaya 1, 2, 3 Pen, Ink, Adobe Photoshop RIGHT PAGE FROM TOP: May 2013 Pen and Ink March 19, 2013 Pen and Ink Simon Cooper Buenos Aires, Argentina Illustration major, Printmaking minor
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Untitled Photography Sarah Duvall Montoursville, Pa. Photography major
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Untitled Photography Sarah Duvall Montoursville, Pa. Photography major
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Swamp Dweller Digital Painting Olivia Ramsden Savannah, Ga. Visual Effects major, Concept Art for Games minor
Kingdom of Jellyfish Adobe Photoshop Jung In Wang Busan, South Korea Visual Effects major, Technical Direction minor
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Swamp Dweller Digital Painting Olivia Ramsden Savannah, Ga. Visual Effects major, Concept Art for Games minor
Kingdom of Jellyfish Adobe Photoshop Jung In Wang Busan, South Korea Visual Effects major, Technical Direction minor
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SEE CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT: The Essence of Time: Glimpsing Eternity Oil Paint The Essence of Time: Identity Acrylic Paint The Essence of Time: Visceral Topography Oil Paint Veronica Zak Cleveland, Ohio Animation major, Painting minor
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SEE CLOCKWISE FROM TOP LEFT: The Essence of Time: Glimpsing Eternity Oil Paint The Essence of Time: Identity Acrylic Paint The Essence of Time: Visceral Topography Oil Paint Veronica Zak Cleveland, Ohio Animation major, Painting minor
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TOP: Shadows & Em Photography BOTTOM FROM LEFT: Hermitage in Hands Photography Glacier Goats Photography Sheena South Jacksonville, Fla. Photography major
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TOP: Shadows & Em Photography BOTTOM FROM LEFT: Hermitage in Hands Photography Glacier Goats Photography Sheena South Jacksonville, Fla. Photography major
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Can’t Wait to Eat Maya Jung In Wang Busan, South Korea Visual Effects major, Technical Direction minor
Colorado in a Splash (Series) Digital Photography Justin Chan Highlands Ranch, Colo. Photography major
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Can’t Wait to Eat Maya Jung In Wang Busan, South Korea Visual Effects major, Technical Direction minor
Colorado in a Splash (Series) Digital Photography Justin Chan Highlands Ranch, Colo. Photography major
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FEEL POETRY FICTION FLASH FICTION NON-FICTION
Room Practice Micron Pens Sandra Inchaurraga Madrid, Spain Illustration major
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FEEL POETRY FICTION FLASH FICTION NON-FICTION
Room Practice Micron Pens Sandra Inchaurraga Madrid, Spain Illustration major
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FEEL
EATS
NOSTALGIA
Hannah Neff Fort Collins, Colo. Writing major, Creative Writing minor
Chase S. Wilkinson Austin, Texas Writing major, Creative Writing minor
FLASH FICTION
POETRY
Delirium is a third heartbeat shared like a landline between your cravings and mine. The more we say the word the hungrier we become. So let it hop as a broken wire might – hum the sacred backtrack : apple slice sandwiches : nut teas : bags of sweets : fruit leathers : tough lamb : orzo salad : vanilla melts : inedible pepper plants : orange tomatoes : whole wheat bread rolls : a soppy, single peach : we destroyed your kitchen sink, under cover of the night. All that time we gave Threading electricities. None of it ever had to be real or taste this good.
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In the wee hours of the morning of my wedding day, my dad broke into my apartment. I found him hiding behind my couch, throwing pillows at my pug and shouting something about a white whale. He was drunk. I could smell it on him before I entered the room. I’d never really seen my dad drunk. He was a bit tipsy at my college graduation, but this was another level. He was a tiny guy. He never stood a chance. “Do you have any clue what time it is?” “That stupid whale ate me leg.” “That ‘whale’ is Delilah and she didn’t eat your leg, dad.” “No, I looked into the eyes of that beast. I know it was her.” I scooped Delilah into my arms. She was trembling. “It’s three in the morning, dad. Why are you here?” He looked at me, his glasses crooked. “Mac and cheese.” In the little kitchen attached to the living room, I found a big pot of macaroni and cheese cooking on the stovetop. My dad walked past me, limping to his right. He glared at the dog. “I’m not hungry, dad. I’m tired. You should be tired, too. We have to get up early.” “Come on, it’s your favorite.”
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FEEL
EATS
NOSTALGIA
Hannah Neff Fort Collins, Colo. Writing major, Creative Writing minor
Chase S. Wilkinson Austin, Texas Writing major, Creative Writing minor
FLASH FICTION
POETRY
Delirium is a third heartbeat shared like a landline between your cravings and mine. The more we say the word the hungrier we become. So let it hop as a broken wire might – hum the sacred backtrack : apple slice sandwiches : nut teas : bags of sweets : fruit leathers : tough lamb : orzo salad : vanilla melts : inedible pepper plants : orange tomatoes : whole wheat bread rolls : a soppy, single peach : we destroyed your kitchen sink, under cover of the night. All that time we gave Threading electricities. None of it ever had to be real or taste this good.
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In the wee hours of the morning of my wedding day, my dad broke into my apartment. I found him hiding behind my couch, throwing pillows at my pug and shouting something about a white whale. He was drunk. I could smell it on him before I entered the room. I’d never really seen my dad drunk. He was a bit tipsy at my college graduation, but this was another level. He was a tiny guy. He never stood a chance. “Do you have any clue what time it is?” “That stupid whale ate me leg.” “That ‘whale’ is Delilah and she didn’t eat your leg, dad.” “No, I looked into the eyes of that beast. I know it was her.” I scooped Delilah into my arms. She was trembling. “It’s three in the morning, dad. Why are you here?” He looked at me, his glasses crooked. “Mac and cheese.” In the little kitchen attached to the living room, I found a big pot of macaroni and cheese cooking on the stovetop. My dad walked past me, limping to his right. He glared at the dog. “I’m not hungry, dad. I’m tired. You should be tired, too. We have to get up early.” “Come on, it’s your favorite.”
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FEEL
THERE’S GOT TO BE BUGS BUNNY SOMEWHERE ON TV
NOVEMBER IN NEW HAMPSHIRE He gave the pasta a big stir and began shoveling out portions into bowls. “I haven’t had mac and cheese since I was, like, 12.” “I know. It’s a shame!” He set my bowl on the counter in front of me. The smell of the rich cheese brought back memories of watching afternoon cartoons. I could feel that tickle on my tongue, wanting me to eat. I wasn’t even hungry. “Dad, you’re going to be miserable later if you don’t get some rest.” “Gotta eat first. Soak up the alcohol.” In the living room he fell onto the couch. His fork scraped the bottom of the bowl with each shovelful. “Well, enjoy. Just…please clean up when you’re done. And please don’t try to go anywhere else.” I left my bowl on the counter. “Come on, Jimmy. Come eat with me. There’s got to be Bugs Bunny somewhere on T.V.” “Dad, I’m going to bed. I have so much to do in a few hours, it’s not even funny.” “It can wait,” he almost yelled. “Later you can go grow up and be all responsible, but tonight, you’re still my little boy.” He gave me the same hard look he gave Delilah when he thought she had bitten off his leg. Then he just looked down at the empty bowl. “That’s not going to change,” I said. “No, of course not. There’s just not going to be many opportunities to think that you’re all mine.” He wouldn’t really remember much of this in a few hours, but in the moment it seemed so important to him. I grabbed my bowl. “Looney Tunes should be on channel 345.” We’d work on growing up later.
POETRY
Marina Kovacs-McCaney Silver Spring, Md. Writing major, Vocal Performance minor
in november, the leaves do not fall but are shot down, bullet shells cascading as bits of frost on the early morning grass. the leaves sleeping through red and yellow, awakening halfway to the ground in a bark-colored shell. winter let itself early into our throats, everywhere you went, you inhaled the cold. unspoken anger and abandonment, forgotten family heirlooms and memories of past lovers curling around your breath and clutching at it with witch fingers. it is the first snow and you are alone. too soon for the season, it rips away the mask of your strength, slices through the folds of reason and you are alone with only memories and fright. memories and fright and longing. you stand nose-to-nose with another of your kind. both raw and vulnerable and freezing. remembering and fearing and wanting to forget. your air-torn bodies pretending to be warmth to each other underneath black skies and white sheets and layers of impenetrable numbness. pretending that to give is to fill and be filled, that you are not growing emptier and emptier each time.
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FEEL
THERE’S GOT TO BE BUGS BUNNY SOMEWHERE ON TV
NOVEMBER IN NEW HAMPSHIRE He gave the pasta a big stir and began shoveling out portions into bowls. “I haven’t had mac and cheese since I was, like, 12.” “I know. It’s a shame!” He set my bowl on the counter in front of me. The smell of the rich cheese brought back memories of watching afternoon cartoons. I could feel that tickle on my tongue, wanting me to eat. I wasn’t even hungry. “Dad, you’re going to be miserable later if you don’t get some rest.” “Gotta eat first. Soak up the alcohol.” In the living room he fell onto the couch. His fork scraped the bottom of the bowl with each shovelful. “Well, enjoy. Just…please clean up when you’re done. And please don’t try to go anywhere else.” I left my bowl on the counter. “Come on, Jimmy. Come eat with me. There’s got to be Bugs Bunny somewhere on T.V.” “Dad, I’m going to bed. I have so much to do in a few hours, it’s not even funny.” “It can wait,” he almost yelled. “Later you can go grow up and be all responsible, but tonight, you’re still my little boy.” He gave me the same hard look he gave Delilah when he thought she had bitten off his leg. Then he just looked down at the empty bowl. “That’s not going to change,” I said. “No, of course not. There’s just not going to be many opportunities to think that you’re all mine.” He wouldn’t really remember much of this in a few hours, but in the moment it seemed so important to him. I grabbed my bowl. “Looney Tunes should be on channel 345.” We’d work on growing up later.
POETRY
Marina Kovacs-McCaney Silver Spring, Md. Writing major, Vocal Performance minor
in november, the leaves do not fall but are shot down, bullet shells cascading as bits of frost on the early morning grass. the leaves sleeping through red and yellow, awakening halfway to the ground in a bark-colored shell. winter let itself early into our throats, everywhere you went, you inhaled the cold. unspoken anger and abandonment, forgotten family heirlooms and memories of past lovers curling around your breath and clutching at it with witch fingers. it is the first snow and you are alone. too soon for the season, it rips away the mask of your strength, slices through the folds of reason and you are alone with only memories and fright. memories and fright and longing. you stand nose-to-nose with another of your kind. both raw and vulnerable and freezing. remembering and fearing and wanting to forget. your air-torn bodies pretending to be warmth to each other underneath black skies and white sheets and layers of impenetrable numbness. pretending that to give is to fill and be filled, that you are not growing emptier and emptier each time.
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PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE 02
ISSUE 02
PORT CITY REVIEW
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FEEL
BENEATH YOUR SKIN THAT STEM STEADFASTLY REACHES TOWARD SUNLIGHT
the fire heats, but does not warm. one night you feel your body turning to ice, and clutch at flames for any warmth, any at all. the sparks jump inside of your belly, fill your lungs and eyes with smoke. first the wild red of burning, then only the ash-gray haze of afterward. sparks falling as buds on a curling stem, initiating some imperceptible growth amongst the lonely winter embers of your insides. and the stem climbs. first weeks and then a month. you and he and persistent memories. shorter days and smokier skies, harsher breaths and sharper winds. the plants outside forced to crackle and collapse overnight, while beneath your skin that stem steadfastly reaches toward sunlight. you feel it through the night-spun numbness, cough leaves onto the carpet. take a knife, silver like the stars, close your eyes. outside the window, the greedy night is stealing life from trees and flowers, tomato vines and lost animals. and you, inside, with the silver, cutting away the stem. you, empty once more.
FROM TOP: Camaraderie Photography Unheeded Photography Left Photography Sarah Healy Johns Creek, Ga. Photography major, Graphic Design minor
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ISSUE 02
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FEEL
BENEATH YOUR SKIN THAT STEM STEADFASTLY REACHES TOWARD SUNLIGHT
the fire heats, but does not warm. one night you feel your body turning to ice, and clutch at flames for any warmth, any at all. the sparks jump inside of your belly, fill your lungs and eyes with smoke. first the wild red of burning, then only the ash-gray haze of afterward. sparks falling as buds on a curling stem, initiating some imperceptible growth amongst the lonely winter embers of your insides. and the stem climbs. first weeks and then a month. you and he and persistent memories. shorter days and smokier skies, harsher breaths and sharper winds. the plants outside forced to crackle and collapse overnight, while beneath your skin that stem steadfastly reaches toward sunlight. you feel it through the night-spun numbness, cough leaves onto the carpet. take a knife, silver like the stars, close your eyes. outside the window, the greedy night is stealing life from trees and flowers, tomato vines and lost animals. and you, inside, with the silver, cutting away the stem. you, empty once more.
FROM TOP: Camaraderie Photography Unheeded Photography Left Photography Sarah Healy Johns Creek, Ga. Photography major, Graphic Design minor
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PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE 02
ISSUE 02
PORT CITY REVIEW
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FEEL
AS A CHILD I COULD NOT EAT ORANGES POETRY
BOOMERANG FICTION
Gabrielle Soria Oakland, Calif. Advertising major
Jay Gers St. Louis, Mo. Writing major, Creative Writing minor
I would walk past them at the market, oranges the size of baseballs, cloistered navels like scrunched mouths, babied and unsatisfied.
These were just moments. Simple moments. Like the time the dog ran away, but came back, proving his namesake true. Or the time she had wanted to kill herself. Back when everything was her fault. Or the time that he had hit her. But life had never felt as miserable as it did in this moment. Right now. She balled the grass in her fists and tugged at it. Lightly. Not even hard enough to uproot it. She thought the mound of dirt seemed empty. But it wasn’t empty. It was far from it. It held her livelihood. It held her everything. She didn’t know how she could have let herself love something so unconditionally. Why? Something whose voice she had never understood. Something so vicious as he had wound up to be. But who were we talking about now? The boy or the dog? Violence leading to violence. Viciousness versus viciousness. Or true nature versus true nature. She wanted to cry. Making tears come seemed impossible. Right now everything seemed impossible. What he had done. And what had happened. She almost couldn’t believe it. But she did. It was how the world worked. How it turned. Wasn’t it? Why? Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t it have been anyone else. Some other poor creature could have died. Maybe he could have been spared. Why? Why were things never normal? And yet so common at the same time? The viciousness that he had possessed had been terrifying. She closed her eyes. Tight. Trying hard to make the tears come. She wanted to cry. She tried so hard. She waited, eyes pulled shut. Nothing. No wait! A sniffle. She opened her eyes. A sniffle. That’s all she got? A sniffle? How pathetic. She had always been pathetic. But that had nothing to do with right now. Or did it? He had gotten angry at her because she was pathetic. And because she always ruined everything. She had ruined this. She ruined everything. Even funerals. How could you ruin a funeral? She could.
Something about them repulsed me – the thought of my fingers running over their pocked skins, dusted with the spray of water every three and six minutes – sitting, moist and anxious, waiting for the cool slanted hands, the open palms to cup and cradle, to carry home – I couldn’t touch them, let alone bring them to my lips. But when, on the playground, one escaped from its paper bag prison, to roll out onto the table, I sank my fingertips into that secret place and pried open the peel, scraping and scraping with probing thumbs, until at last the thing sat, rocking on the rough boards as if in trauma – naked, exposed, and alive.
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ISSUE 02
ISSUE 02
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FEEL
AS A CHILD I COULD NOT EAT ORANGES POETRY
BOOMERANG FICTION
Gabrielle Soria Oakland, Calif. Advertising major
Jay Gers St. Louis, Mo. Writing major, Creative Writing minor
I would walk past them at the market, oranges the size of baseballs, cloistered navels like scrunched mouths, babied and unsatisfied.
These were just moments. Simple moments. Like the time the dog ran away, but came back, proving his namesake true. Or the time she had wanted to kill herself. Back when everything was her fault. Or the time that he had hit her. But life had never felt as miserable as it did in this moment. Right now. She balled the grass in her fists and tugged at it. Lightly. Not even hard enough to uproot it. She thought the mound of dirt seemed empty. But it wasn’t empty. It was far from it. It held her livelihood. It held her everything. She didn’t know how she could have let herself love something so unconditionally. Why? Something whose voice she had never understood. Something so vicious as he had wound up to be. But who were we talking about now? The boy or the dog? Violence leading to violence. Viciousness versus viciousness. Or true nature versus true nature. She wanted to cry. Making tears come seemed impossible. Right now everything seemed impossible. What he had done. And what had happened. She almost couldn’t believe it. But she did. It was how the world worked. How it turned. Wasn’t it? Why? Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t it have been anyone else. Some other poor creature could have died. Maybe he could have been spared. Why? Why were things never normal? And yet so common at the same time? The viciousness that he had possessed had been terrifying. She closed her eyes. Tight. Trying hard to make the tears come. She wanted to cry. She tried so hard. She waited, eyes pulled shut. Nothing. No wait! A sniffle. She opened her eyes. A sniffle. That’s all she got? A sniffle? How pathetic. She had always been pathetic. But that had nothing to do with right now. Or did it? He had gotten angry at her because she was pathetic. And because she always ruined everything. She had ruined this. She ruined everything. Even funerals. How could you ruin a funeral? She could.
Something about them repulsed me – the thought of my fingers running over their pocked skins, dusted with the spray of water every three and six minutes – sitting, moist and anxious, waiting for the cool slanted hands, the open palms to cup and cradle, to carry home – I couldn’t touch them, let alone bring them to my lips. But when, on the playground, one escaped from its paper bag prison, to roll out onto the table, I sank my fingertips into that secret place and pried open the peel, scraping and scraping with probing thumbs, until at last the thing sat, rocking on the rough boards as if in trauma – naked, exposed, and alive.
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ISSUE 02
ISSUE 02
PORT CITY REVIEW
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FEEL
WHEN THE THUNDER TOLLED
SANDCASTLES POETRY
POETRY
Brianna Howarth Cinnaminson, N.J. Writing major, Creative Writing minor
Gabriella Soria Oakland,Calif. Advertising major
We are like sandcastles. Fragile monuments erected from miniscule grains of memories blood, spit, tears flesh and bone. A capable construct. Offering shelter for one’s heart. A pliant edifice. Accepting change with little frustrations. Artful architecture. Exuding uniqueness.
We are like sandcastles. Grandiose structures fashioned from much more than sand: flaws, opinions, a spider’s web of nerves and a conscience. Acutely aware of our temporary existence. Antonym of building is ruin. Like sandcastles, we await our slow decay until finally a sweeping surge leaves nothing more than lonely shore.
The rain fell like bricks into a dark world – lightning drunk, carelessly staggering. The sky reared and snapped, green earth torn, trashed. How relentless the pounding. Whimpering in the wake of thunder we crawled beneath the sheets and hid – all sweaty skin and reverent fingers, tracing the trails of water droplets down chests and into elbows. You slept and I watched the Earth plunge in and out of darkness. The fan churned fast and hard – thudding the sound of sex into this room of silence. I wished I could show you the storm, incensed, the muddy rubble of earth, the silvered walls – but when I rolled over, your skin was glowing like marble in sunlight, and I was afraid to wake you.
FROM LEFT: The Road to Brisbee, Photography La Isla Del Encanto Photography Sheena South Jacksonville, Fla. Photography major
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ISSUE 02
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FEEL
WHEN THE THUNDER TOLLED
SANDCASTLES POETRY
POETRY
Brianna Howarth Cinnaminson, N.J. Writing major, Creative Writing minor
Gabriella Soria Oakland,Calif. Advertising major
We are like sandcastles. Fragile monuments erected from miniscule grains of memories blood, spit, tears flesh and bone. A capable construct. Offering shelter for one’s heart. A pliant edifice. Accepting change with little frustrations. Artful architecture. Exuding uniqueness.
We are like sandcastles. Grandiose structures fashioned from much more than sand: flaws, opinions, a spider’s web of nerves and a conscience. Acutely aware of our temporary existence. Antonym of building is ruin. Like sandcastles, we await our slow decay until finally a sweeping surge leaves nothing more than lonely shore.
The rain fell like bricks into a dark world – lightning drunk, carelessly staggering. The sky reared and snapped, green earth torn, trashed. How relentless the pounding. Whimpering in the wake of thunder we crawled beneath the sheets and hid – all sweaty skin and reverent fingers, tracing the trails of water droplets down chests and into elbows. You slept and I watched the Earth plunge in and out of darkness. The fan churned fast and hard – thudding the sound of sex into this room of silence. I wished I could show you the storm, incensed, the muddy rubble of earth, the silvered walls – but when I rolled over, your skin was glowing like marble in sunlight, and I was afraid to wake you.
FROM LEFT: The Road to Brisbee, Photography La Isla Del Encanto Photography Sheena South Jacksonville, Fla. Photography major
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ISSUE 02
ISSUE 02
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FEEL
MAY I SEE YOUR WRITTEN WORK? POETRY
SEASICK FICTION
Samantha Williams St. Augustine, Fla. Graphic Design major, Creative Writing minor
Cameron Hughes Chapel Hill, N.C. Graphic Design major
“May I read your written work?” is not so simple a question when you consider how it’s born. My poems are in my blood, flowing through my body, organic and free. The process is not that of a typist, thought-hand-pen-paper, but rather, a writer. My pen is my knife. I stab repeatedly into skin, slicing away the thin membrane between poet and poem, writer and work, instrument and words. It begins with difficulty, inexperienced fingers sticking and shivering throughout, but soon, I loosen, and glide with ease. Blood spatters, pours, cascades onto pale, unblemished paper. And with that, the innocence is ruined. Hurdles overcome, I peel away my layers piece by piece, bit by bit, discovering as I go that skin forms stanza, veins become rhymes, life-giving blood to life-giving lines. So you see – “May I read your written work?” is not so simple a question when you consider how it’s born. 60
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ISSUE 02
It is night and the boat is soaked through with the heat of a Virginia summer. The air conditioner is broken despite the condition of the boat, a proper yacht with teak and stainless steel. The two of you move to hold clammy, sore hands, letting them rest between you on the couch that is too shallow and props you upright with rigid posture, the kind that looks exaggerated and uncomfortable, the kind that embodies the moment. You’re sick of watching American Beauty, but you know it makes him happy and you know his happiness, the easy sag of his shoulders and the crooked smile, they’re more important than the movie. You know he’d hold your hand forever and that in these moments, after she corners him and berates him in that cold, sadistic, spidery way that she does everyday, he needs your sticky too-hot palm in his. This is all he’ll ever have the courage for. They never are happy together. Both of them are good people, but you can’t help knowing he needs something better. He’s bursting with talent and he’s bright and he lives in this boat, still a skipper at 30. The bickering is incessant, those uncomfortable moments at dinner, when she’ll interrupt him to have a word. It seems to you that marriage is voluntary. Why would he stay? Does the incessant berating get tiresome? The seat beneath you creaks unnervingly and it makes his hand constrict around yours. You’re a good friend, he says. Your midsection feels inverted in the most uncomfortable of anxious ways. “A good friend.” You know. You do it because you love him. He offers tea and looks at your hands as if to ask them, too, would they like some tea? And he stands and shuffles to the galley and you watch him in his rhythmic tea production, the comfort of knowing how he takes his tea in the hope that it will overwhelm the discomfort of physical distance. He knows how you take your tea, too, and for the moment you forgive ISSUE 02
PORT CITY REVIEW
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FEEL
MAY I SEE YOUR WRITTEN WORK? POETRY
SEASICK FICTION
Samantha Williams St. Augustine, Fla. Graphic Design major, Creative Writing minor
Cameron Hughes Chapel Hill, N.C. Graphic Design major
“May I read your written work?” is not so simple a question when you consider how it’s born. My poems are in my blood, flowing through my body, organic and free. The process is not that of a typist, thought-hand-pen-paper, but rather, a writer. My pen is my knife. I stab repeatedly into skin, slicing away the thin membrane between poet and poem, writer and work, instrument and words. It begins with difficulty, inexperienced fingers sticking and shivering throughout, but soon, I loosen, and glide with ease. Blood spatters, pours, cascades onto pale, unblemished paper. And with that, the innocence is ruined. Hurdles overcome, I peel away my layers piece by piece, bit by bit, discovering as I go that skin forms stanza, veins become rhymes, life-giving blood to life-giving lines. So you see – “May I read your written work?” is not so simple a question when you consider how it’s born. 60
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE 02
It is night and the boat is soaked through with the heat of a Virginia summer. The air conditioner is broken despite the condition of the boat, a proper yacht with teak and stainless steel. The two of you move to hold clammy, sore hands, letting them rest between you on the couch that is too shallow and props you upright with rigid posture, the kind that looks exaggerated and uncomfortable, the kind that embodies the moment. You’re sick of watching American Beauty, but you know it makes him happy and you know his happiness, the easy sag of his shoulders and the crooked smile, they’re more important than the movie. You know he’d hold your hand forever and that in these moments, after she corners him and berates him in that cold, sadistic, spidery way that she does everyday, he needs your sticky too-hot palm in his. This is all he’ll ever have the courage for. They never are happy together. Both of them are good people, but you can’t help knowing he needs something better. He’s bursting with talent and he’s bright and he lives in this boat, still a skipper at 30. The bickering is incessant, those uncomfortable moments at dinner, when she’ll interrupt him to have a word. It seems to you that marriage is voluntary. Why would he stay? Does the incessant berating get tiresome? The seat beneath you creaks unnervingly and it makes his hand constrict around yours. You’re a good friend, he says. Your midsection feels inverted in the most uncomfortable of anxious ways. “A good friend.” You know. You do it because you love him. He offers tea and looks at your hands as if to ask them, too, would they like some tea? And he stands and shuffles to the galley and you watch him in his rhythmic tea production, the comfort of knowing how he takes his tea in the hope that it will overwhelm the discomfort of physical distance. He knows how you take your tea, too, and for the moment you forgive ISSUE 02
PORT CITY REVIEW
61
FEEL
THE TEA STEEPS AND HE ... MIXES HONEY AND LEMON AND SUGAR FOR THE TWO OF YOU
62
him because you know his position is stickier than your own. You want his to point where it’s infiltrated your dreams, but you’ll be OK. His motivation is different; a need to get out of what he’s become stuck inside. At least you’re floating alone with no tethers. There are other men out there. You compare them all to him in the end but Jesus; at least you have an empty bed at night. His is filled with contempt and loathing and bitterness in blonde, and besides, you’ve walked into the salon 100 times to see him sleeping on this rigid foldout couch. He looks at your shoulder or somewhere near while the tea steeps and he wordlessly mixes honey and lemon and sugar for the two of you, and he speaks without much filter at all. “Do you know how nice it would be to do this for you in the morning?” It’s unfair when he talks like that, obtusely honest, like the tension it creates doesn’t affect him. He’s painfully attractive now. He got sunburned today. “You make my coffee really well, too.” He hands you your tea, which he cooled with an ice cube. Ten sugars and an inch of milk. That’s how he takes it. Making coffee for him is one of the times where it gets clichéd and painful, where the heartache consumes. He stands against the galley counter like he just learned of a relative’s death. He looks sick. You sit in silence. American Beauty plays on, trapped inside the television, and his eyes wander to it. This is the second week in a row you’ve watched it. “Don’t you ever think of buying a new movie?” He doesn’t even look at you when he says no. “It would be a hassle to dock, and to get to Best Buy.” There isn’t much else to be said, so you turn away, sipping your tea together, watching Kevin Spacey, your hands still clammy with sweat. The cabin smells like seawater: the boat needs to be cleaned. You ought to dock at some point soon, to scrub it well, and to buy more groceries, to take a cab to Best Buy. What an uncomfortable euphemism that had been for you, making you shift in your uncomfortable seat on that shallow couch. And yet, it was nice to get a euphemism at all, some recognition that he was in pain, too, because you want that recognition, acknowledgement that there is a problem beyond his marriage. You tell yourself that if this is your worst problem, that if being in love is making you miserable, you’re well off. Six months of this, the three of you living on 1,000 square feet of boat, and six more to go.
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE 02
VIOLETS FOR IPHIS POETRY
Allison Spencer West Palm Beach, Fla. Writing major
You deserve a thousand flowers to tear and treasure when I’ve fallen too far in love with your potential, and with the strategic position of your freckles in the midst of the blankness, neighbor to your heart. Violent violet bruises within, scared scarred speckles without, trying to hide in the crevices of your bones. Bury yourself in blankets and drugs, but I still see your skeleton in creaking feet and hands I find so captivating despite what horrors they can inflict. I find so fascinating, this energy to create terror and destroy a house you’ve covered in cuteness to hide that you’ve destroyed your home. You reside in outer-space, but do not live there. You are somewhere else, some inner-space, those crevices with high-speed Internet and empty beds. What horrors you endure. What terrors you create require so much effort, a wild passion for something that you can’t quite put your scorched thumb on. And I watch from a distance, maybe not as quietly as I should, with little sobs here and there, scattered like the sparse freckles across your chest. You are the most energetic person even when you sleep, however rare, however often that may be. In your dreams, accidentally made audible, you speak with clarity and purpose, sprawled across my bed diagonally so that I tuck myself in like a puzzle piece. ISSUE 02
PORT CITY REVIEW
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FEEL
THE TEA STEEPS AND HE ... MIXES HONEY AND LEMON AND SUGAR FOR THE TWO OF YOU
62
him because you know his position is stickier than your own. You want his to point where it’s infiltrated your dreams, but you’ll be OK. His motivation is different; a need to get out of what he’s become stuck inside. At least you’re floating alone with no tethers. There are other men out there. You compare them all to him in the end but Jesus; at least you have an empty bed at night. His is filled with contempt and loathing and bitterness in blonde, and besides, you’ve walked into the salon 100 times to see him sleeping on this rigid foldout couch. He looks at your shoulder or somewhere near while the tea steeps and he wordlessly mixes honey and lemon and sugar for the two of you, and he speaks without much filter at all. “Do you know how nice it would be to do this for you in the morning?” It’s unfair when he talks like that, obtusely honest, like the tension it creates doesn’t affect him. He’s painfully attractive now. He got sunburned today. “You make my coffee really well, too.” He hands you your tea, which he cooled with an ice cube. Ten sugars and an inch of milk. That’s how he takes it. Making coffee for him is one of the times where it gets clichéd and painful, where the heartache consumes. He stands against the galley counter like he just learned of a relative’s death. He looks sick. You sit in silence. American Beauty plays on, trapped inside the television, and his eyes wander to it. This is the second week in a row you’ve watched it. “Don’t you ever think of buying a new movie?” He doesn’t even look at you when he says no. “It would be a hassle to dock, and to get to Best Buy.” There isn’t much else to be said, so you turn away, sipping your tea together, watching Kevin Spacey, your hands still clammy with sweat. The cabin smells like seawater: the boat needs to be cleaned. You ought to dock at some point soon, to scrub it well, and to buy more groceries, to take a cab to Best Buy. What an uncomfortable euphemism that had been for you, making you shift in your uncomfortable seat on that shallow couch. And yet, it was nice to get a euphemism at all, some recognition that he was in pain, too, because you want that recognition, acknowledgement that there is a problem beyond his marriage. You tell yourself that if this is your worst problem, that if being in love is making you miserable, you’re well off. Six months of this, the three of you living on 1,000 square feet of boat, and six more to go.
PORT CITY REVIEW
ISSUE 02
VIOLETS FOR IPHIS POETRY
Allison Spencer West Palm Beach, Fla. Writing major
You deserve a thousand flowers to tear and treasure when I’ve fallen too far in love with your potential, and with the strategic position of your freckles in the midst of the blankness, neighbor to your heart. Violent violet bruises within, scared scarred speckles without, trying to hide in the crevices of your bones. Bury yourself in blankets and drugs, but I still see your skeleton in creaking feet and hands I find so captivating despite what horrors they can inflict. I find so fascinating, this energy to create terror and destroy a house you’ve covered in cuteness to hide that you’ve destroyed your home. You reside in outer-space, but do not live there. You are somewhere else, some inner-space, those crevices with high-speed Internet and empty beds. What horrors you endure. What terrors you create require so much effort, a wild passion for something that you can’t quite put your scorched thumb on. And I watch from a distance, maybe not as quietly as I should, with little sobs here and there, scattered like the sparse freckles across your chest. You are the most energetic person even when you sleep, however rare, however often that may be. In your dreams, accidentally made audible, you speak with clarity and purpose, sprawled across my bed diagonally so that I tuck myself in like a puzzle piece. ISSUE 02
PORT CITY REVIEW
63
FEEL
You exhaust yourself with foul play and I have all the more faith in you for it, knowing I’ve not made a wrong bet. If you can do it, so can I. Whether it is to hold your hand to sleep, quid pro quo. Or to climb zero or 100 trees, with polka-dotted fingernails in baby pinks and baby blues scratching colored claws against dry bark. I sit watching and worrying as you wobble. But marvel at how exhilarating the view must be.
EXPER IENCE
Do you understand now? Your voice sounds hollow but resonates louder echoes and echoes ringing with all the space that lies therein. There is so much room inside your bones. And I love not that you are spacious, but that you have space.
FURNITURE DESIGN MOTION MEDIA I N S TA L L AT I O N C O R P O R AT E D E S I G N WEB DESIGN SCULPTURE A N I M AT I O N JEWELRY DESIGN URBAN DESIGN FA S H I O N D E S I G N P U B L I C AT I O N D E S I G N
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FEEL
You exhaust yourself with foul play and I have all the more faith in you for it, knowing I’ve not made a wrong bet. If you can do it, so can I. Whether it is to hold your hand to sleep, quid pro quo. Or to climb zero or 100 trees, with polka-dotted fingernails in baby pinks and baby blues scratching colored claws against dry bark. I sit watching and worrying as you wobble. But marvel at how exhilarating the view must be.
EXPER IENCE
Do you understand now? Your voice sounds hollow but resonates louder echoes and echoes ringing with all the space that lies therein. There is so much room inside your bones. And I love not that you are spacious, but that you have space.
FURNITURE DESIGN MOTION MEDIA I N S TA L L AT I O N C O R P O R AT E D E S I G N WEB DESIGN SCULPTURE A N I M AT I O N JEWELRY DESIGN URBAN DESIGN FA S H I O N D E S I G N P U B L I C AT I O N D E S I G N
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ISSUE 02
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EXPERIENCE
The Process and Study of Madder Handspun merino and madder root Frances Russell Dallas, Texas Fibers major Claire Barnhardt Charlotte, N.C. Jewelry and Objects major Susie Ashkenas Berkley, Calif. Fashion major
Obelisk Lamp Plywood, Acrylic Nick Baker Gastonia, N.C. Industrial Design major
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ISSUE 02
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EXPERIENCE
The Process and Study of Madder Handspun merino and madder root Frances Russell Dallas, Texas Fibers major Claire Barnhardt Charlotte, N.C. Jewelry and Objects major Susie Ashkenas Berkley, Calif. Fashion major
Obelisk Lamp Plywood, Acrylic Nick Baker Gastonia, N.C. Industrial Design major
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ISSUE 02
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EXPERIENCE
Excessively Exuviated Digital Tarika Thienapirak Bangkok, Thailand Architecture major, Electronic Design minor Fanny Varga Stockholm, Sweden Architecture major
Double Bird Style Motion Media Design Theera (Jay) Keeree Bangkok, Thailand Animation major
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Excessively Exuviated Digital Tarika Thienapirak Bangkok, Thailand Architecture major, Electronic Design minor Fanny Varga Stockholm, Sweden Architecture major
Double Bird Style Motion Media Design Theera (Jay) Keeree Bangkok, Thailand Animation major
68
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The Cloud Bench Wood, Iron Cable, Helium Balloons, Cotton Finishing Sergi Sauras Barcelona, Spain Architecture major
70
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The Cloud Bench Wood, Iron Cable, Helium Balloons, Cotton Finishing Sergi Sauras Barcelona, Spain Architecture major
70
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71
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Green Truck Rebranding Adobe Creative Suite Wesley Harsch Decatur, Ga. Advertising major, Graphic Design minor
72
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Green Truck Rebranding Adobe Creative Suite Wesley Harsch Decatur, Ga. Advertising major, Graphic Design minor
72
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Butch Bakery Rebranding Digital Tien “Keira” Bui Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam Graphic Design major
Wormsloe Brewery Graphic Design Kyra Troy Dallas, Texas Graphic Design major
74
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Butch Bakery Rebranding Digital Tien “Keira” Bui Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam Graphic Design major
Wormsloe Brewery Graphic Design Kyra Troy Dallas, Texas Graphic Design major
74
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Triumph Brewing Company Digital Design Tyler S. Mays Langhorne, Pa. Graphic Design major
76
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77
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Triumph Brewing Company Digital Design Tyler S. Mays Langhorne, Pa. Graphic Design major
76
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77
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Architecture Ceramics Glazed Ceramic Ankit Darda Yavatmal, India Architecture major
Morte Laser cut wood, Wire Construction, Nickel Silver, Ruby CZ, Chain Carla Farfan Houston, Texas Jewelry and Objects major
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Architecture Ceramics Glazed Ceramic Ankit Darda Yavatmal, India Architecture major
Morte Laser cut wood, Wire Construction, Nickel Silver, Ruby CZ, Chain Carla Farfan Houston, Texas Jewelry and Objects major
78
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79
EXPERIENCE
Eik Digital Xiaolei Ning Taiyuan, China Animation major
Sundance Film Festival Style Frames Digital Chris Finn Nisakayuna, N.Y. Motion Media Design major
80
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81
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Eik Digital Xiaolei Ning Taiyuan, China Animation major
Sundance Film Festival Style Frames Digital Chris Finn Nisakayuna, N.Y. Motion Media Design major
80
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81
EXPERIENCE
One of Many Tea Bags and Linen Thread Francess Russell Dallas, Texas Fibers major
Made Museum Print Design Ashley Nunz Buffalo, N.Y. Graphic Design major
82
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83
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One of Many Tea Bags and Linen Thread Francess Russell Dallas, Texas Fibers major
Made Museum Print Design Ashley Nunz Buffalo, N.Y. Graphic Design major
82
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Ziatypes Platinum Printing Process 5/9: Snowing, Power Tower, Water Logged, Gusts Ziatype Contact Print Corey L. Danielli Verona, N.J. Photography major
84
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Ziatypes Platinum Printing Process 5/9: Snowing, Power Tower, Water Logged, Gusts Ziatype Contact Print Corey L. Danielli Verona, N.J. Photography major
84
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Fuji Print Tyler S. Mays Langhorne, Pa. Graphic Design major
Discovery Channel Network ID Adobe Photoshop Ana Cristina Lossada Caracas, Venezuela Motion Media Design major
86
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Fuji Print Tyler S. Mays Langhorne, Pa. Graphic Design major
Discovery Channel Network ID Adobe Photoshop Ana Cristina Lossada Caracas, Venezuela Motion Media Design major
86
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87
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Crystalize Series Shoulder piece: Nickel Silver, Resin, Light Component, Commercial Chain, Findings Ear piece: Bronze, Quartz Crystal Jewelry Set: Brass, Silver, Resin, Beads, Gemstone, Findings Ring: Egg Shell, Quartz Crystal, Resin, Bronze, Paint Necklace: Copper, Brass, Nickel Silver, Quartz Crystal, Commercial Chain Mint Kaewkoon Bangkok, Thailand Jewelry and Objects major
88
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89
EXPERIENCE
Crystalize Series Shoulder piece: Nickel Silver, Resin, Light Component, Commercial Chain, Findings Ear piece: Bronze, Quartz Crystal Jewelry Set: Brass, Silver, Resin, Beads, Gemstone, Findings Ring: Egg Shell, Quartz Crystal, Resin, Bronze, Paint Necklace: Copper, Brass, Nickel Silver, Quartz Crystal, Commercial Chain Mint Kaewkoon Bangkok, Thailand Jewelry and Objects major
88
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89
EXPERIENCE
Fitness Supplement Infographic Digital Video Chris Finn Nisakayuna, N.Y. Motion Media Design major, Graphic Design minor
SCAD 35: Urban Intervention Sketch UP, Lumion, Adobe After Effects Ayman Abdallah Cairo, Egypt Architecture major
90
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91
EXPERIENCE
Fitness Supplement Infographic Digital Video Chris Finn Nisakayuna, N.Y. Motion Media Design major, Graphic Design minor
SCAD 35: Urban Intervention Sketch UP, Lumion, Adobe After Effects Ayman Abdallah Cairo, Egypt Architecture major
90
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91
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Saigon Travel Guide Digital Tien “Keira” Bui Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam Graphic Design major
92
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Saigon Travel Guide Digital Tien “Keira” Bui Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam Graphic Design major
92
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Bow & Arrow Graphic Design Kyra Troy Dallas, Texas Graphic Design major
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Bow & Arrow Graphic Design Kyra Troy Dallas, Texas Graphic Design major
94
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SUBMIT YOUR WORK Port City Review SCAD Student Media Center D at The Hive 121 W. Boundary St. Savannah, Ga 31401
912-525-4713 submissions@scaddistrict.com www.theportcityreview.com
The Savannah College of Art and Design is a private, nonprofit, accredited institution conferring bachelor’s and master’s degrees in distinctive locations and online to prepare talented students for professional careers. SCAD offers more than 40 degree programs of study and nearly 60 minors at locations in Savannah and Atlanta, Georgia; Hong Kong; Lacoste, France; and online through SCAD eLearning. The diverse student body of more than 11,000 comes from all 50 United States and nearly 100 countries worldwide. Each student is nurtured and motivated by a faculty of more than 700 professors with extraordinary academic credentials and valuable professional experience. These professors emphasize learning through individual attention in an inspiring university environment. SCAD’s innovative curriculum is enhanced by advanced professional-level technology, equipment and learning resources.
SUBMIT YOUR WORK Port City Review SCAD Student Media Center D at The Hive 121 W. Boundary St. Savannah, Ga 31401
912-525-4713 submissions@scaddistrict.com www.theportcityreview.com
The Savannah College of Art and Design is a private, nonprofit, accredited institution conferring bachelor’s and master’s degrees in distinctive locations and online to prepare talented students for professional careers. SCAD offers more than 40 degree programs of study and nearly 60 minors at locations in Savannah and Atlanta, Georgia; Hong Kong; Lacoste, France; and online through SCAD eLearning. The diverse student body of more than 11,000 comes from all 50 United States and nearly 100 countries worldwide. Each student is nurtured and motivated by a faculty of more than 700 professors with extraordinary academic credentials and valuable professional experience. These professors emphasize learning through individual attention in an inspiring university environment. SCAD’s innovative curriculum is enhanced by advanced professional-level technology, equipment and learning resources.
issue
02
PORT CITY REVIEW
A PRODUCT OF SCAD DISTRICT
2014
