Issue 07
Port City Review The Literary Arts Journal of SCAD
Judged and edited by students at the Savannah College of Art and Design, Port City Review showcases the very best of student artwork while preparing talented students for professions in editing, graphic design and print production. theportcityreview.com
Issue 07
About the Cover
There are four variations of the cover to this year’s Port City Review. Each artist has a unique story behind their artwork and how it was created. If Tomorrow by Will Cordell B.F.A. Illustration McKinney, TX Digital illustration commissioned by Johnny Depalma on behalf of Umbrelly Books for a children’s book titled “If Tomorrow.” Untitled by Ethan Helow B.F.A. Photography Jacksonville, FL A limestone architectural detail at the Museum of European and Mediterranean Civilisations frames swimmers in the Mediterranean Ocean. Shot on 35 mm film. Covert by Shannon Widjaja B.F.A. Visual Effects Jakarta, Indonesia A flamingo in the Batu Secret Zoo in Malang, Indonesia, preens itself. Digital photography shot with a consumer-level Nikon camera. Flamingos by Julia Schoel B.F.A. Animation Decatur, AL Inspired by artist Hernan Bas and his “Florida Living” series, the piece is created with paint pens on paper.
3
Port City Review
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. 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 an online submissions process. Published content is determined by student editors. Opinions expressed in Port City Review are not necessarily those of the University. The typefaces used in this edition of the journal are Garamond, Poppins and Reenie Beenie. This journal was designed by Anthony O’Baner and Samuel Bramlett with the use of Adobe Photoshop CC, Adobe Illustrator CC and Adobe InDesign CC. Staff Creative Director Anthony O’Baner Graphic Designer Sam Bramlett Copy Editor Carly Shaw
Issue 07
“Fine art is that in which the hand, the head, and the heart of man go together.” John Ruskin
5
See Photography
Te Amo Hermana Digital capture, archival inkjet print Yaniurka Pedroza Venezuela B.F.A. Photography
Issue 07
7
Port City Review
Issue 07
Ha Long Bay Digital photography
Chickens on a Fan 35mm film, digital C-print
Savannah Wingard Lexington, SC B.F.A. Photography
Daniel Roa Mount Pleasant, SC B.F.A. Photography
9
Port City Review
Dancing Light 35mm film Savannah Wingard Lexington, SC B.F.A. Photography
Issue 07
Post Hurricane Florence Medium format film Jordan Larose Manteo, NC B.F.A. Photography
11
Port City Review
Her Way Digital photography
Lonely Paris Digital photography
Jemma Castiglione Huntsville, AL B.F.A. Photography
Yaniurka Pedroza Manahawkin, Venezuela B.F.A. Photography
Issue 07
13
Port City Review
Marie Antoinette 35mm film Ethan Helow Jacksonville, FL B.F.A. Documentary Photography
Issue 07
Do you ever feel like Digital photography Yaniurka Pedroza Manahawkin, Venezuela B.F.A. Photography
15
Port City Review
Lincoln Street Large format 4x5 film Jordan Larose Manteo, NC B.F.A. Photography
Issue 07
Raimundo Medium format film Kendra Stanziola-Mirrop Panamá City, Panamá B.F.A. Photography
17
Port City Review
Athena in Bathroom Digital C-print Daniel Roa Mount Pleasant, SC B.F.A. Photography Streets of Savannah Digital photography Jacquie Gamelgaard Beaverton, OR B.F.A. Photography
Issue 07
Repetition Digital photography Grant Kelly Wayne, NJ B.F.A. Photography
19
Port City Review
Deux Boules de Cassis 35mm film Ethan Helow Jacksonville, FL B.F.A. Documentary Photography
Issue 07
21
Port City Review
Patience 35mm film Sophie Nelson Peoria, IL B.F.A. Illustration
Issue 07
Pressed Large format view camera, C-41 print Gabrielle Gonzalez Ormond Beach, FL B.F.A. Photography
23
Port City Review
Counter clockwise from top: On the Edge of Submission Digital photography Death Within Life, Life Within Death 35mm film Grasp 35mm film
Robin Maaya Orlando, FL B.F.A. Photography
Issue 07
25
Port City Review
Un Jardín de Sueños Medium format film Carla Gonzalez Varas Vitacura, Chile B.F.A. Photography
Issue 07
Solitude Digital photography Raquel Noriega Miami, FL B.F.A. Photography
27
Port City Review
The End of Recess Time Digital photography Shanon Widjaja Jakarta, Indonesia B.F.A. Visual Effects
Issue 07
Turbulent Digital photograph Shannon Widjaja Jakarta, Indonesia B.F.A. Visual Effects
29
Port City Review
Covert Digital photography Shannon Widjaja Jakarta, Indonesia B.F.A. Visual Effects Neon Nights 2 35mm film Jordan Larose Manteo, NC B.F.A. Photography
Issue 07
31
Port City Review
Mourning Digital photography Erin White Charlotte, NC B.F.A. Photography
Issue 07
EST Time Digital photography Grant Kelly Wayne, NJ B.F.A. Photography
33
Port City Review
Untitled 35mm film Ethan Helow Jacksonville, FL B.F.A. Documentary Photography
Issue 07
My Parents Digital C-print Gabrielle Gonzalez Ormond Beach, FL B.F.A. Photography
35
Feel
Writing
Between Blurred Lines Adobe Photoshop Marie DeFreitas Fuquay Varina, NC B.F.A. Illustration, B.F.A. Writing
37
Port City Review
Icarus Poetry by Kaily Drake
St. Clairsville, OH, B.F.A. Illustration
Do not mistake a fluorescent bulb for the sun, or the porch light for love, you silly moth. There is no confusion in a warm fireplace or the coils of an electric stove. Just like adoration, they are fleeting unless you feed them. Do not hang wide eyed in the gaze of white trim window screens or red candles, swallowed in the copper darkness of dusk, because wide eyes perceive the hearts of people who do not contain hearts, and they dilate far too easily. Do not strike a match just to watch it burn for nothing but smoke, and consider the price you pay to waste whole boxes at a time to attempt to get your fill. What I am saying, or so, what I mean to say is that if you are willing to put so much effort into a fleeting light that burns to your fingertips, and if you admire the sun so very much that you attempt to replicate it, why not build wax wings to try to reach it instead? Left: The Alchemist Adobe Photoshop
Xueer Khan Zhengzhou, Henan, China B.F.A. Illustration
39
Gray Skies Over Your Local Kroger Poetry by Kaily Drake
St. Clairsville, OH, B.F.A. Illustration
Alice, I just had the most terrible dream. It felt so real, in that autumn breeze, under that gray sky, that I think I woke up with chapped rosy cheeks. The red leaves told me not to talk to you, They said, “Don’t call her Sweetheart, don’t call her by her name, your affection oversteps lines and hangs itself on my branches. She doesn’t want you to call her Honey, in that lazy tone. Your kisses are corn husks that rot in the wet of the street and she watches and does not retrieve them.” I stand lost on the chilled ground, and the crows cackle merrily and I wonder if they know where you are. I thought I had just been sleeping beside you, I could’ve sworn
the bed was warm on my right side. But Fall had swallowed me in it’s easy smile, and I think it left you alive. I think you left by your own decision. But then what does that make me? A fool left to paint their own face, laugh at my self inflicted demise. But, I trembled, I thought, “If you are not here, I think I’d rather be made of straw. Stake me in the garden, please, at least I’ll still see blooms even when you are not my Sweetheart. And I will think of you with tears in my button eyes for every tragic second you are not wanting me.” Oh, oh, Alice, I just had an awful dream, call me Sugar, please, warm me up with Summer so I never have to see a harvest moon again.
41
Thoughts From Late Hours
Poetry by Emily Sanders
Marietta, GA, B.F.A. Writing
Tap into your writing…she said To what extent? To reveal the weight of the world, My aching adjectives slurring from tired eyes and obnoxious laughter White knuckles from holding you too tightly As I shut my eyes and prepare for what the world may bring Me…Us…Them…We… Are fighting For change, equality, Rhythm, of life. PerhapsThe strongest soldier weeps the loudest tears… And so, I read once “to be soft is to have power” And the words rushed through my veins until I was spitting up inspiration and Passion. Hot fire spitting passion Wonderland Twisted into my finger tips and Adobe Creative Suite And Kaitlyn Mitchell And Glastonbury, CT The ideas go on and on…until they don’t. B.F.A. Graphic Design
Issue 07
43
M. M.
Poetry by Maggie Maize
Soquel, CA, B.F.A. Writing
She admits she’s grown less offended by her own face, though her pit bull eyes catch the light, and raise overfilled sandbags, hard above her brow. She forces artificial dominance out from her soft, rose jawline. Two prominent pillars support her lips to show everyone at first sight that she can’t do it for herself.
Before
Fiction by Tilleen Meitzler
Pennsburg, PA, B.F.A. Writing
with no sign of illness, no ambush, us, who would’ve snuffed internal arson at ignition and no act of self-immolation, had our lips touch. We didn’t feel the gasoline glossed there, and blazed our tongues in flame. Some flings end in treason, but us? Untreatable. A terminal-born pair, or a friendly fire mind-lapse maybe, or unlucky like some preexisting virus dormant until we turn on, shocked into being together. What love would’ve healed us, when our love roused with risks like sore throats, rain checks, fever dreams, and sly limbs so eager to fall asleep? A different one. A fantastic love. Ours knew nothing but to keep herself alive.
Issue 07
Love vs Lust Complementary posters, digital. Adobe Photoshop Ruaida Mannaa Branquilla, Atlantico, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration
45
Broken Life Raft Nonfiction by Marie DeFreitas
Raleigh, NC, B.F.A. Writing and Illustration
You are always the first and last person I think of when I think of the island. I don’t think of it as much anymore. You were there at nine years old, when I first got off the plane, and you are here now as a text message on my phone at 5am. You’re probably getting ready for work. We met at St. Angela’s Catholic primary school and wore uniforms that looked like striped pajamas. You were much louder and braver than I was, and spoke to everyone around us. I liked your confidence. You spoke fast and coated in a Bajan accent. I was quiet and barely could understand a word anybody said. But I could always understand you. There was a first time I came to your house. We ate chicken nuggets and drank red kool-aid and raced on scooters down your street. That was your dad’s house. I could see your parents weren’t together, before you told me. You told me your mom lives in St. Kitt’s, and you see her once a year. I looked around your dad’s small house, with the creaky floorboards and cement walls. It was crowded with tables and shelves of family photos, many of you, your grandmother and your sisters. But there were also many photos of someone else; a thin bearded man that looked sad. I knew from books and stories that this man was Jesus. Your family was Catholic, and half of mine was too. But seeing these pictures felt strange, and my ten year old mind just couldn’t be wrapped around why someone would have pictures of a dead guy in their house. You were thin and tall. Taller than me, always have been and always will be. I hoped I’d match your height by the time we finished primary school, but I had no such luck. Your legs were long, and you had always been put in the fast races on field day, despite your horrible asthma. I hated that they made you run. I wanted to stop you. You always ran anyway, and fell to the ground afterwards, gasping for breath in a sweaty red t-shirt. You were in red house at our school, and I thought that suited your personality. Your skin is milk and honey, and you burn it darker in a bikini on Acura beach. Your hair
is dark brown and usually in corn-rows, or straightened slick to your shoulders as we get older. We stayed in Catholic school five more years. And thinking back on it, would our families have let us to go anywhere else? It was all girls and we were going to be taught how to be “ladies”. Our uniforms upgraded from striped pajamas to a keltic looking skirts coming to our knees, white blouses, and matching ties. We watched hair-pulling, shoebeating fights, and snickered in the background at girls’ melodramatic stupidity. We sat in the principal’s office on numerous occasions for being “a disgrace to the school”, mainly for our throwing bits of chalk across the room at each other, and other shenanigans that diritied our uniforms. We hid backstage in the auditorium, skipping double periods of I.T. class. and breaking into a back room that was stocked with liquor from pantomime shows. I guess we were poor excuses for “ladies”. We spoke of where we wanted to be after school. I never seemed to forget the disappointment I felt when you told me you wanted to be an accountant. You were always good at math, but I couldn’t imagine that being the extent of your dreams. Later you changed your mind to a flight attendant just so you could see the world. I thought this should make me feel better, but it didn’t. I wanted to show you the world. I once wrote sketchy letters across a notebook when I was seventeen. Words that just seemed to form when I thought of you. Give me your hand I can pull you up We can get out of the water I still think of them, and think of you. In my mind you are stuck. Stuck in rough water around an island that we were supposed to swim away from as we grew up. But the tide got you and I couldn’t go back. So now we drift apart. And now I’m drowning in my ocean of guilt for slowly failing to keep your head above the water. One day we hid in the kitchen in the food and nutrition room during lunch. We weren’t supposed to be in there, but we were always somewhere we weren’t supposed to be. We sat on the cold linoleum floor. You spoke quiet and honest, and it was scary because I could see your confidence shaking. You spoke about god and the church, and how you were unsure. I was unsure in a way too, I suppose. But I knew I had room for choices that you were never allowed to make. I stayed silent and let you talk. Not because I should’ve have said anything, but because I didn’t 47
know what to say. I hated that we spoke about such serious things when we were so young. Because I was naive and oblivious, and I never knew what to say. So I didn’t say anything. But we went to church on Sunday. And this passed. And one day you wore bruises that took over your back and legs. Your mom moved back and you split the time between her and your dad. She beat you with a metal hanger when she found a boy in the house. You weren’t allowed to have a boyfriend. You were supposed to be practicing abstinence. Because you were part of the church, and that’s what you’re supposed to do. I stared at your bruised skin, once golden, now plagued with grey and dark purple. You told me the story and I just stared at your body in silence and sickness in the pit of my stomach. I felt I couldn’t do anything but stare. But soon enough, this passed. And then one day there were cuts on your wrists. I ask you why and you came with a pathetic excuse of falling out of a tree. I guess I was a little mad that you felt you couldn’t tell me the truth. I have never seen you in a tree, and trees don’t have razor blades for branches. But I acted like it was acceptable because I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. It was scary. And I didn’t know what to do. And so, this too, passed. You asked me to come with you to your church’s youth group. I didn’t like the sound of it, it sounded formal and boring, and I really didn’t want to go. But I did anyway, because you said you hated going by yourself. And I knew not going was not an option for you. And it wasn’t too bad, and we made a lot of friends. But I knew I wouldn’t be there forever. Your family had you be an altar girl. Every Sunday you’d put on the long white gown and stand on the altar. You loved performing in pantomine shows, but I could see your face. I could see this was a show you didn’t want to perform in. You begged me to stand beside you, and I did, for a while at least. But I didn’t have to be there, on the altar, or even in the small sandstone church. And so soon enough, I left. I know you don’t come from a bad family. I knew them. I’d known them almost my whole life. I loved them all. But I did know sometimes they put expectations on you that you couldn’t escape from, and at times they were the waves that washed over your head. They made it hard to breath. But there was no room for doubt. And I’d always wanted to give you that option. Made it hard to breath. But there was no room for doubt. And I’d always wanted to give you that option. I wished
Echolocations Collage on watercolor paper Clara Hunt West Bend, WI B.F.A. Illustration
I could’ve change their minds for you. Made them a little more understanding. There were a lot of things I wish I could’ve done for you. The more things happened to you that I couldn’t control, the weaker I felt. I never knew what to do or say when things got serious. I felt like you were being swallowed up by waves, and I was as helpful as a broken life raft. I could barely keep myself afloat. But you were the only one I wanted to save. I had my questions that could never be answered and my doubts that could never be shook, so in my own time I moved away from church. And I always assumed you stayed because you wanted to. Maybe I was too oblivious or too self absorbed, but it has taken me far too long to realize 49
that was never your reasoning. And then one day I was really leaving. I was going back to the country I was born in, and I wanted nothing more than to take you with me. You cried in the airport. Years are passing and you tell me when things are bad and when things are okay. They never seem to be good. You tell me our friends are falling apart. They are either growing cold, growing up or moving away. They pick meaningless fights that seem like excuses to leave, and you tell me you are too tired to deal with it, so you let them go. I don’t blame you. You work at Disney World for six months. And I sit on a train for eighteen hours because I’m never going to miss a chance to see you. You wear me out as we walk through the parks and you show me where you work. You are proud and tired, but you seem happy. I think this is good for you. I want to take you back to Orlando when you crawled into my bed in the hotel late at night and we were watching a Katt Williams special. You had your blanket that you’ve slept with since you were a baby, the same one that was at every sleepover we had as kids. The TV is lighting up your face and you laugh quietly, as if you’re afraid you might wake up the empty bed beside us. I’m too aware of the moment and how soon it will slip away. But I try not to think about it, and slink down under the covers beside you and laugh at you laughing. And now you are a text message on my phone. We talk to enough keep in touch but I know it could be more. But we are both busy. We are in school or at work, and spending time with the people around us overrides our chances for conversations over a telephone. We are older and more mature in some ways, and more lost than ever in others. Once again you tell me you are coming home from a church event and once again you are unsure. You want to take a step back. And you are too afraid to let your family know. I want to let you know that it’s okay to be unsure, it’s okay to want something different than what you’ve had all your life. I want to grab your hand and drag you away. I want to bring you here to live with me. You would hardly ever see your family again, and in my mind I am selfishly ready to make that sacrifice. Because I think you can do better without them. You can do better somewhere else. Somewhere where you are not forced to love a god you are unsure of, somewhere where you aren’t bored and wishing you were surrounded by different people, somewhere where you can be yourself and feel okay. Because I’m worried you don’t feel like that enough. And I’m worried that if I say any of this to you, you will simply say I’m overreacting.
Issue 07
The Breadwinner Illustration Komal Pahwa Kota Rajasthan, India M.F.A. Illustration
51
Emory
Poetry by Gracie Williams Atlanta, GA, B.F.A. Writing
I belong in cold strolls of solitary reflection with grim and industrial cobblestones grinding under worn, monochrome boots I exist in mad morning poetry A rambling voice disrupting the isolation It interrupts the placid frosty dawn smacking the air And introduces a place to be That has always been there I belong in a coffee foam, hot burn existence sniffling for reasons other than a change in brain chemistry Now I sit in a vehicle Muddy and bitter Kicking the doors Denting the metal Living in this hell of a time But I still belong I bust out look down at the cracked bricks and pavement the auras and blood-browns of the native cowboy clay The ripped coats and bitter cold The dirty coins clanking in hats The yellow eyes I still belong I inhabit somewhere that is true To the self To reality I belong In that world and no other
We Are Poetry by Maggie Maize
Soquel, CA, B.F.A. Writing
Stressed balloons. Bloated bellies. Deflated directions. But moderation? HA! It seems we want to be filled with immobilizing amounts of flour and be handled by the moist cracked hands of life. Push, pull, squeeze a section hard enough and maybe we’ll see new vibrant colors in ourselves, colors only seen by He who filled us. I tell you, these dense powdery insides store secrets. We are balloons doubling as low grade stress balls— merely thinning rubber bouncing from peak to peak in a field of brittle death-black obsidian. Possessive hands wield skewers all around, ready to collect the spilt flour from their sisters. Gorge. GORGE. GORGE! Creating new cakey cracks. Weakening walls. Decaying fibers. We split.
53
Everlasting Miracle Fiction by Amanda Glover
Decatur, GA, B.F.A. Writing
The doctors said Nadine was a miracle case. She should’ve never lived past ten years old. She’s fourteen now. That doesn’t mean much. I hear the doctors. I see the looks on their faces. I see the looks on my parent’s faces. I hear the sorrow in their voices. Most miracles aren’t everlasting. My name is Elizabeth Sutton. I’m seventeen. Nadine was diagnosed with leukemia when she was three. I didn’t really understand what that meant at six, just that Nadine was sick and might never recover. Growing up, our parents devoted most of their attention to Nadine’s breathing, which I understand. I can’t blame anyone for making sure Nadine stays alive. I can’t blame Nadine for being sick for most of her life. But, I do blame myself for what I did with Theo Gray in his bedroom that night he invited me over to help him study. No boy had ever touched me the way he did that night before. I’d never been kissed with such passion before. It was only after I woke up naked next to him did I realize I wasn’t ready. After I woke up, I redressed, and snuck downstairs only to remember Theo saying his parents were out of town that weekend. When I returned home, I told my family I’d crashed at a friends house. By the way Nadine was looking at me, I could tell she knew there was something else behind my words. When her staring became uncomfortable, I ran upstairs to brush my teeth. “Pregnant?” Nadine said. I wiped the blood from her nose while she laid in her bed. “That’s what it means when there’s two lines on the stick, right?” I said. “Last time I checked,” she smiled placing her hand on my knee. “I’m going to be an aunt.” Her smile faded. I knew what she was thinking: If I make it another nine months. But I was thinking: If I decide to make you an aunt.
Theo said exactly what I knew he would. When I called him, first he asked if the baby was his. Then, he went on this long rant about how we’re both only seventeen and how he’s moving to San Francisco after graduation. Then he mentioned the A-word. Well, that was my first thought when the test came up positive. I’m a highschool senior. My little sister has cancer. All the spare change my parents have go into trying to make Nadine’s life worth living, as does all my free time. I can’t raise a baby; especially not on my own. We all have enough to worry about with Nadine. She is the love of my life. She is my first priority. I texted Theo asking if he wanted to come with me to the clinic, but he claimed to have soccer practice. He said to “text him when it’s done.” I clenched my phone to stop myself from hurling it at the wall. I kissed Nadine on the forehead as she slept before heading to my appointment. As far as my parents knew, I was watching Theo’s soccer practice. “I’m sorry,” I whispered to my belly before stepping out of my car and walking into the clinic. The procedure took about ten minutes since I was in my first trimester. However, I was at the clinic for around four hours to fill out paperwork, get my blood drawn, lab tests, and counseling about other options; which I tuned out. Once everything was over, I sat in my car for a while. When I looked at my phone, my stomach dropped. Fifteen missed calls from Mom. Seven missed calls from Dad. That night, I’d lost two things that were precious: My baby, and my little sister. I was more angry than sad. I was angry at Theo for getting me pregnant, then abandoning me. I was angry at God for taking Nadine from me. I was angry at myself for having my phone on vibrate at the bottom of my purse. Lastly, I was angry at myself for spending my last day with Nadine terminating my pregnancy. I was more angry than sad. I was angry at Theo for getting me pregnant, then abandoning me I was 55
angry at God for taking Nadine from me. I was angry at myself for having my phone on vibrate at the bottom of my purse. Lastly, I was angry at myself for spending my last day with Nadine terminating my pregnancy. I spend a lot of time thinking if Nadine was never sick, would I have had the baby? Would we be able to afford it? Would I have slept with Theo if I’d gotten attention at home? I guess it doesn’t matter to think now. Miracles aren’t everlasting.
Issue 07
Away from Home Illustration Komal Pahwa Kota, Rajasthan, India M.F.A. Illustration
57
Port City Review
A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood Poetry by Julia Corin
Parkland, FL, B.F.A. Film and TV
Issue 07 Your tea is cold and you’ve hardly eaten the green beans I set out in the microwave under a paper towel to keep the flies off. Mrs. Shirley across the yard in the pink nighty always jabbering about the lawn boys not putting the proper time in to our bushes, talks to me often about the paper mill. That’s the odor that swings from the Branches. And you asked me what on earth that smell was when we first unpacked our things and I didn’t know then but I know now, Mrs. Shirley told me so the other day, it’s the paper mill. The river has a way of stretching it like rolling out the dough we buy fresh from the deli. I wish I knew what she does at night and all of the people that live on this street coming and going and leaving meals forgotten in a microwave somewhere But some things are for certain: The frogs are still out singing their death march in those no good chunks of weeds the lawn boys call a bush— And that smell, of the paper mill still walks around our home hooded, like the reaper. and you and I still wait under the glow of this lamp for something to ease this. 59
The Door Fiction by Marie DeFreitas
Savannah, GA, B.F.A. Writing, Illustration
Ruth’s hands were cold. They only gave us one blanket here. I knew this place was worse than the last one. A lot worse. Her little fingers fumbled around in the dark until she found my arm.“Where’s mom?” she asked. I turned over and shushed her. “I don’t know, but you have to be quiet.” I sounded meaner than I wanted to. She started sniffling. She was about to cry. I put my arm around her. She was skin and bones in a dirty uniform that was too big for her. “Don’t cry,” I whispered. “If you cry we’ll get in trouble. Just try to sleep.” She reluctantly let her head fall into my chest. I could hear the other kids’ whimpers, but no one said a word. The room was quiet but I could hear heavy footsteps just outside. I waited for them to burst through the door. A light circled outside too, gleaming through the shutters at us on the bottom bunk. I watched it. It jumped in and out through cracks. It passed right over me and lit the little black numbers on my arm. They still hurt. She still shivered, even with my arms around her and the blanket tucked tightly. I tried to calm her, but every creak made me jump. My eyes shot towards the door with every little noise. But it was still closed. She lifted her head. “What’s going to happen?” She tried to whisper. Her skin was so much paler now. Her eyes were too many shades of purple and grey. Gaunt from too many sleepless nights. “We’re going to be okay,” I said. A bang came from outside. She started to cry. The door was still closed. I couldn’t hide how scared I was. She saw right through me. “Shh, shh, shh...don’t cry,” I told her. She didn’t listen. I tilted her chin up and looked at her swollen, teary-eyed face. “Hey,” I said. “If you stop crying, I’ll let you play with my hair.” She looked confused. They shaved both our heads a couple weeks ago, she cried then too. Ever since Ruth was a little baby she loved playing with my long hair. She’d rub it and twirl it in between her fingers until she was fast asleep. I hated it and told her to stop but I’d do anything to make her stop crying now.
I pulled out a handful from my pocket that I managed to save. Her eyes, still wet with tears, lit up. Then she nodded. I handed it to her and pulled her close as her little fingers pawed it. Tears fell on my chest. Cold little droplets through my uniform, but at least she was quiet. The room was silence. Then the footsteps came back. They were louder, closer. They were accompanied by yelling in German that I didn’t understand. I held my breath and listened. The door flew open. It took everything in me not to jump up, but I gripped Ruth’s leg, pulling her even closer. She didn’t make a sound. Thankfully. Heavy footsteps walked in. My heart pounded. I sat up just enough to see. It was only another kid in stripes being shoved in. Then the door shut.
61
Drawn
Illustration and Graphic Design
Sunday Digital, Adobe Photoshop Kayla Rader San Antonio, TX B.F.A. Illustration
Issue 07
63
Port City Review
Primus // Deadwood Pen and ink, gouache, digital Calvin Laituri Wayland, MA B.F.A. Graphic Design
Issue 07
Blood Orange and Strawberry Red Digital, Adobe Photoshop Kayla Rader San Antonio, TX B.F.A. Illustration
65
Port City Review
Issue 07
Faerie of Savannah Ink on paper, digital coloring with Adobe Photoshop Ben Batchelder Brookline, MA B.F.A. Illustration
67
Port City Review
A Monstrous Surprise Illustration and drawing Dee Harder B.F.A. Illustration Cheverly, MD
Issue 07
69
Port City Review
Invierno Adobe Photoshop Carolina Chicango Quito, Ecuador B.F.A. Illustration
Issue 07
Behind the Prosperous Gouache Daihonghan Wang Hefei, Anhui, China M.F.A. Illustration
71
Port City Review
Issue 07
Left: Angel Olsen - Concert Poster Adobe Photoshop, illustration
Above: Stranded Digital painting
Alexandria Hall Savannah, GA B.F.A Illustration
Erika Torres Lima, Peru M.F.A. Illustration
73
Port City Review
Issue 07
Early Morning Adobe Photoshop
La Fantastica Digital illustration, Adobe Photoshop
Kelsey Smith Cumming, GA B.F.A. Illustration
Ruaida Mannaa Barranquilla, Colombia M.F.A. Illustration
75
Ocean Pollution Photoshop Daihonghan Wang Hefei, Anhui, China M.F.A. Illustration
Issue 07
Midnight Reflections Adobe Photoshop Kelsey Smith Cumming, GA B.F.A. Illustration
77
Port City Review
A New Kind of Woods Ink on bristol, Photoshop Phoebe Rothfeld Chico, CA M.F.A. Illustration
Issue 07
Elegy Pen and ink, gouache, digital Calvin Laituri Wayland, MA B.F.A. Graphic Design
79
Port City Review
If Tomorrow Digital illustration, Adobe Photoshop Will Cordell McKinney, TX B.F.A Illustration Crow’s Company Digital illustration Will Cordell McKinney, TX B.F.A. Illustration
Issue 07
81
Port City Review
The Hanging Stranger Digital illustration, Adobe Photoshop Will Cordell McKinney, TX B.F.A. Illustration
Issue 07
83
Port City Review
Issue 07
Mooncake Package Design Pen, pencil, Adobe Photoshop
Jealous Adobe Photoshop, traditional textures
Qianwen Tu NanChang, JiangXi, China M.F.A. Illustration
Krista Knudtsen Decatur, GA M.F.A. Illustration
85
Port City Review
Frankie’s Hot Dogs Adobe Photoshop, Illustrator, and InDesign Savannah Walker Tampa, FL B.F.A .Graphic Design
Issue 07
COVE Mixed media, digital photography, graphic design/illustration Ty Davis Miami Beach, FL B.F.A. Graphic Design
87
Port City Review
Untitled I Printmaking with digital color
Thoughts Digital collage, hand-drawn type
Jenn Carroll Westminster, MA M.F.A. Illustration
Lindsey Peterson New Castle, PA M.F.A. Graphic Design & Visual Experience
Issue 07
89
Port City Review
Issue 07
Daughter Of Necessity Digital illustration, Adobe Photoshop
Memoirs of a Geisha Watercolor, Adobe Photoshop
Alex Escobar Rochelle, IL B.F.A. Illustration
Mruna Mistry Ahmedabad, India M.F.A. Illustration
91
Port City Review
Momotaro Digital illustration Jenna Ward Wichita Falls, TX B.F.A. Illustration
Issue 07
93
Port City Review
Issue 07
Held
Write Me Adobe Photoshop Krista Knudtsen Decatur, GA M.F.A. Illustration
95
Port City Review
Natural Love Styrofoam and wood Nick Metz Hillsdale, NJ B.F.A. Painting Bee Shelter Industrial design Maria-Alejandra Icaza Panama City, Panama M.A. Industrial Design, M.A. Furniture Design
Issue 07
Decaying Donuts Scupley and mixed media Nick Metz Hillsdale, NJ B.F.A. Painting
97
Port City Review
The Art Room Paper, gel pen, marker Carly Johnson McKinney, TX B.F.A. Motion Media Design
Issue 07
Altered Book Found book, wire Gabrielle Stratmann Okatie, SC B.F.A. Fibers For Your Time Acrylic on print Samuel Scheper Guilford, IN B.F.A. Painting
99
Port City Review
It’s Fun to be Happy Ceramic form lamp Alexandria Hall Fayetteville, TN B.F.A. Illustration Banana leaf plates Ceramic plates Neha Patwari Durgapur, India B.F.A. Illustration
Issue 07
Rasgueo Birch wood, nickel Strings, Metal Joshua Blair Cheshire, CT B.F.A. Graphic Design Sharona Table Bent wood, brass Kellyé West Asheville, NC B.F.A. Furniture Design
101
Port City Review
Painted Flamingos Paint pens on paper Julia Schoel Decatur, AL B.F.A. Animation
Issue 07
103
Port City Review
Pool-House Statue Gouache and paint pens on cold press board Julia Schoel Decatur, AL B.F.A. Animation
Issue 07
Forbidden Forest Gouache and India inks on cold press board Julia Schoel Decatur, AL B.F.A. Animation
Urban Jungle India Ink on cold press board Julia Schoel Decatur, AL B.F.A. Animation
105
Port City Review
JJ Acrylic paint on paper Gabrielle Stratmann Okatie, SC B.F.A. Fibers
Issue 07
Hidden Oil on canvas Elise Aleman Savannah, GA B.F.A. Painting
107
Port City Review
Helplessness III Oil on panel Shuyang Zhou Beijing, China B.F.A. Painting
Issue 07
109
Port City Review
Heart Oil, natural pigment on silk Jia Zeng Xiamen, Fujian, China B.F.A. Painting
Issue 07
Room II Oil and ink on canvas Jia Zeng Xiamen, Fujian, China B.F.A. Painting 1 Etching Mengjia Lu Suzhou, Jiangsu, China M.F.A. Painting
111
Port City Review
Issue 07
Counter clockwise from left: Spirit Poured Multiple Blood, Fish and Water Mono print Shayla Wigand Dublin, OH B.F.A. Painting
113
Port City Review
Issue 07
Left: All Talk Acrylic on canvas
Above: Feminine Dust Acrylic on canvas
Emily Tillman Ormond Beach, FL B.F.A. Painting
Anna Windham Smyrna, GA B.F.A. Animation
115
Port City Review
Digital
To fully appreciate these pieces, visit theportcityreview.com
The Shape of Brutalism Motion media Roach Su Taipei, Taiwan M.A. Motion Media Design
INGSOC Propaganda Motion media Roach Su Taipei, Taiwan M.A. Motion Media Design
Issue 07
On the Way Home Animation Youyang Li Harbin, China M.F.A. Graphic Design
Pattern Recognition Motion media Marcelo Meneses Cayey, Puerto Rico B.F.A. Motion Media Design
Blue Apron Brand ID Motion media Yushan Chang Tainan, Taiwan M.A. Motion Media Design
117
Port City Review
Roundtable Rivals Motion media Julia Schoel Decatur, AL B.F.A. Animation
New Rules Motion media Molly Hoskins Hampton, VA B.F.A. Motion Media Design
Drinks Motion media Aainamthip Janyachotiwong Bangkok, Thailand B.F.A. Illustration
Issue 07
Atlanta Science Festival Motion media YiChi Chou Taoyuan, Taiwan M.F.A. Motion Media Design
Kurosagi Corpse Delivery Service Opening Titles Motion media Hunter Scully Florence, KY B.F.A. Motion Media
119
Port City Review
Issue 07
121
Port City Review
Index of Artists NAME PAGE
Hall, Alexandria
74, 102
Batchelder, Ben
Helow, Ethan
16, 22, 36
Aleman, Elise
109
Blair, Joshua
103
Carroll, Jenn
Castiglione, Jemma Chang, Yushan
Chicango, Carolina Chou, YiChi
Cordell, Will Corin, Julia Davis, Ty
DeFreitas, Marie Drake, Kaily
Escobar, Alex
Gamelgaard, Jacquie Glover, Amanda
Gonzalez, Gabrielle
Gonzalez-Varas, Carla
69 90 14,
119 72
121
82-85 60 89
39,48-52, 62 41, 42, 43 92
20
56-58 25, 37 28
Harder, Dee
Hoskins, Molly Hunt, Clara
Icaza, Maria-Alejandra
70
120 51
98
Janyachotiwong, Sainamthip 120 Johnson, Carly
100
Kelly, Grant
21, 35
Khan, Xueer
Knudtsen, Krista Laituri, Calvin
Larose, Jordan Li, youyang Lu, Mengjia
Maaya, Robin
Maize, Maggie
Mannaa, Ruaida Meitzler, Tilleen
41
87, 96 66, 81
13, 18, 33 119 113
26, 27
46, 55 47, 77 46
Issue 07
Meneses, Marcelo
119
Stanziola-Mirrop, Kendra
19
Mistry, Mruna
93
Su, Roach
118
Metz, Nick
Mitchell, Kaitlyn Nelson, Sophie
Noriega, Raquel Pahwa, Komal Patwari, Neha
Pedroza, Yaniurka Peterson, Lindsey Rader, Kayla Roa, Daniel
Rothfeld, Phoebe Sanders, Emily
Scheper, Samuel Schoel, Julia
Scully, Hunter Smith, Kelsey
98, 99 45 24 29
53, 59 102
9, 15, 17 91
64, 67 11, 20 80
44 101
105-107, 120 121
77, 79
Stratmann, Gabrielle Tillman, Emily Torres, Erika
Tu, Qianwen
Walker, Savannah
Wang, Daihonghan Ward, Jenna West, Kellyé White, Erin
Widjaja, Shannon Wigand, Shayla
Williams, Gracie
Windham, Anna
Wingard, Savannah Zeng, Jia
Zhou, Shuyang
101, 108 116 75
87
88
73, 78 94
103 32
30, 31, 32 115, 166 54 117
10, 12
112, 113 110
123
Port City Review
Issue 07
How to Submit
Currently enrolled students may submit to Port City Review beginning in April of every school year. Works are accepted on a rolling basis from April until mid-November. The submission process is free to students and handled entirely on-line through theportcityreview.com. Students may submit as many entries as they’d like to any category. A panel of student jurors from a variety of majors evaluate the works each fall, and a student designer compiles the entries and designs the journal. For more information, email studentmedia@scad.edu
125
Port City Review
Issue 07
Student Media
In addition to Port City Review, SCAD’s office of student media publishes four Savannah campus websites dedicated to student news, music, fashion, sequential arts and illustration. scad.edu/studentmedia
127
Port City Review
Issue 07
SCAD prepares talented students for creative professions through engaged teaching and learning in a positively oriented university environment. scad.edu
129