CANVAS Volume 14 Issue 2

Work by Rachel Ankney Jerilyn M. Arthur Nathan Bilancio Becky Boyle Gabrielle Cheikh Gatis Cirulis Bailey Cook Brandon Ehrlich Anne M. Fiala William Fillmore Marta Finkelstein Erin Goedtel Bridgett Henwood Margaret Hubert Sena Huh Jo Anders Johnson Sunae Kang Robert Kolhouse Joshua Kraus Seungwon Lee Sara Lowthian Emma McClure Samuel Mellas Christine Novotny Heidi Peck Adams Puryear Molly Quanty Katya Reka Sarah Robinson Avery Olund Smith Kevin Steele Marine Tempels Kimberly Waite Alexander Weinstein Samuel J. Winter Rachel Wolfson

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“ The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.”

—Vladimir Nabokov

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Dear Reader, A blank page can be intimidating to anyone attempting to fill it. Whether the goal is to create a story, a drawing, or a class essay, something about the void that begins each process can feel overwhelming.

Yet it’s with great excitement rather than intimidation that we at Canvas begin each semester with no idea of what the pages of our next magazine might look like. Thanks to the creative fervor with which IU artists persist in filling blank pages with poems, unexposed rolls of film with images, and canvases with paint, there’s never cause to doubt that we’ll be able to fill an issue of Canvas with vivid and engaging pieces.

This Spring 2011 issue features a new selection of student work, artist statements and contributor interviews. We hope you’ll enjoy yourself as you turn these art-filled pages. And may you join us in anticipation of the daring images and colorful language clamoring to become visible in each future issue.

Canvas Spring 2011

Editor's Letter

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Director AJ O'Reilly Editors

Join Want to shape the next issue of the magazine? Have creative programming ideas to help strengthen IU’s art community? For more information on how you can get involved with Union Board’s Canvas Creative Arts Committee today, email our director at canvas@indiana.edu.

Kimberly Doty Assistant Daniel Harting Designer Dever Thomas Assistant Directors

Blog The Canvas Creative Arts Committee has found a new outlet for spreading the joy of creativity. Visit the Canvas blog at www.ubcanvasblog. com for inspiring images, quotes, and information about art events in the community. If you’re interested in contributing to the blog, send us an email at canvas@indiana.edu.

Submit Canvas is now accepting submissions for its Fall 2011 issue. We accept all forms of art and written work and are always looking to expand upon the variety of our content. Please visit www.ubcanvas.com for more information and guidelines.

Thanks Canvas would like thank Shelly Keasling from World Arts Printing for her assistance and support in the production of this issue. We’d also like to give thanks to our submitting artist and writers for providing quality material that we’re excited to share with you, our readers, whose support has been integral in making Canvas the magazine that it is today. Thank you all!

Kristen Broyles Brianne Eby Bridgett Henwood Tricia Hussung Liz James Ali Martin Dianne Osland Selections Committee Kristen Broyles Kimberly Doty Daniel Harting Bridgett Henwood Tricia Hussung Liz James Ali Martin AJ O'Reilly Dianne Osland Dever Thomas

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Canvas is published twice a year by Union Board. Each piece of published work is the property of the author or artist and may not be reproduced without his/her permission. The views represented in the magazine are not necessarily those of Canvas, Union Board, the IMU, or Indiana University.

Editor's Choice Canvas gives editor's choice awards to the best written and visual work submitted to the magazine each semester. For this issue, we present this honor to Alexander Weinstein for his short story, "Saying Goodbye to Yang" and to Jerilyn M. Arthur for her photography work.

This award serves to recognize the high level of craft and creativity with which they represent their chosen fields and to thank them for sharing their exceptional work.

18 – 31 32

Joshua Kraus Alexander Weinstein Interview

83 12 95 92 86 98

Nathan Bilancio Gatis Cirulis Brandon Ehrlich Katya Reka Kevin Steele

87 88 – 89 42 – 43 50 – 53

Metalsmithing 44 10 – 11 82

Anne M. Fiala Interview Sena Huh Sunae Kang

Painting 84 – 85 93 – 94 34 – 37 62 , 65 33 14 – 15 6 – 9

96 – 97 54 – 57 46 – 49 20, 23, 26

Poetry 45

68 – 69

Bailey Cook Erin Goedtel Anders Johnson Christine Novotny Marine Tempels Samuel J. Winter Rachel Wolfson

Photography

Fiction 60 – 67

Graphic Design

78 – 81

Becky Boyle Bridgett Henwood Emma McClure Samuel Mellas Heidi Peck Sarah Robinson Avery Olund Smith

40 – 41 72 – 77

Rachel Ankney Interview Jerilyn M. Arthur Gabrielle Cheikh Jo Interview Sara Lowthian Molly Quanty Interview Kimberly Waite

Sculpture 58 – 59 90 – 91 13 70 – 71 16 – 17 38 – 39

William Fillmore Marta Finkelstein Margaret Hubert Robert Kolhouse Interview Seungwon Lee Adams Puryear

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Rachel Wolfson

Heavy Sky Oil on MDF

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Rachel Wolfson

Blue Oil on MDF

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Rachel Wolfson

Car Wash Oil on MDF

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Rachel Wolfson

Car Wash Oil on MDF

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Each human has his or her own unique finger shape. I wanted to express my own identity by creating a ring that only I can wear.

Sena Huh

What inspires you? I’m inspired by the smooth contour lines of the human body that evoke feelings of elegance and sophistication. I’m also inspired by simple and fresh works and ideas that excite me.

What does this piece mean to you?

These pieces allowed me to experience a new technique and to get outside of my original creative box. I’m glad that I was able to pursue my new ideas and create pieces that I’m satisfied with.

One Person Ring Copper, Plaster

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The X-Ray Brooch Series was inspired by the human body.

I wanted to emphasize the importance of the inner part of our body which can be forgotten in everyday life. Therefore, I created these wearable pieces that can always be observed.

Sena Huh

X-Ray Brooch Series Copper, Enamel, Photo Decal, CZ

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Caught in Your Glaze

Droplets of mayonnaise drip down your chin.

The lettuce slips out of sandwich entirely, landing with a plop on your lap. I need you to be eating spaghetti: noodles spinning, sauce-spots splattering, meatballs escaping the rim of your plate.

Say to me, I love soup. Demonstrate with trembling hands the unsteady spoon, the slurping breath, the coughing— Oh dear. I’ll be here when your pop-tart shatters into a constellation of crumbs.

I’ll cast our horoscope: Yours says, Tomorrow we’ll be together. Mine says, Thank God, everyday, for tacos.

Emma McClure

Caught in Your Glaze

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Margaret Hubert

Emotion Study Cedar, Cloth, Wire, Pigment, Stones

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Samuel J. Winter

Our Back Yards Oil on Canvas right And The Rockets, Acrylic and Oil

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I try to depict personalities and psychological states of the mind through the female figure, which can be seen as an extension of myself. I convey idiosyncrasies of the individual via an expressionistic mannerism.

Seungwon Lee

Identity Crisis, Enlightenment Porecelain Ceramic

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What inspires you? Psychology; human emotions/personalities and human behavior in a social context; Abstract Expressionism, Surrealism, and contemporary art.

When you are not making ceramics, what are you doing? As an extremely social being (always craving people and social gatherings), I am hanging out with friends and eager to meet new different people. I strive to gain knowledge of different fields of the world (psychology, philosophy, science) in order to broaden my horizons and incorporate different subjects into my artwork. In general, I enjoy learning and exploring.

I am always craving new information and discoveries.

What is the greatest lesson you’ve learned? In order to make something yours, you have to take the initiative to strive to catch it (it doesn’t happen by itself, you have to make it happen!)

Seungwon Lee

Mother Nature Earthenware Ceramic

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One morning, we’re sitting around the table eating Cheerios — my wife sipping her tea, Mika playing with her spoon, me suggesting we go apple picking over the Editor's Choice

weekend — when Yang slams his head into the cereal bowl. It’s a sudden mechanized movement, and it splashes cereal and milk all over the table. Yang rises back up to a fully erect position, looking serene as though nothing odd just occurred, and then he slams his face into the bowl again. Mika, of course, thinks this is hysterical.

She starts mimicking Yang, bending over to put her own face in the milk, but Kyra’s pulling her away from the table and whisking her out of the kitchen so I can take care of Yang.

Alexander Weinstein

Saying Goodbye to Yang

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At times like these I’m not the most clearheaded. I stand in my kitchen, my chair knocked over behind me, at a total loss.

Shut him down, call the company, shut him down, call the company? By now the bowl is empty, milk dripping off the table, Cheerios all over the goddamned place, and Yang has a red ring on his forehead from where his face has been striking the bowl. A bit of skin has pulled away from his frame over his left eyelid. I decide I need to shut him down. The company can walk me through the rebooting process. I get behind Yang and yank his shirt from his pants as he jerks forward, then I push the release button on his back panel. The thing’s screwed shut and won't pop open.

“Kyra,” I say loudly, turning towards the doorway to the living room. No answer, just the sound of Mika screaming upstairs and the concussive thuds of Yang hitting his head against the table. “Kyra!”

membrane beneath. There’s no time for me to run to the basement. I grab a butter knife from the table and attempt to use the tip as a screwdriver. The edge, however, is too wide, completely useless against the small metal cross of the screw, so I jam the knife down the back panel and pull hard. There’s a cracking noise and a piece of flesh-colored Bioplastic skids across the linoleum as I flip open Yang’s panel. I push the power button and wait for the dim blue light to shut off. With alarming stillness, Yang sits upright in his chair, as though something is amiss, and cocks his head towards the window. Outside, a cardinal takes off from the branch where it was sitting. Then, with an internal sigh, Yang slumps forward, chin dropping to his chest. The illumination beneath his skin turns off, giving his features a sickly ashen hue.

I hear Kyra coming down the stairs with Mika. “Is Yang okay?”

“What is it?” she yells back. Thud.

“Don’t come in here!”

“I need a Phillips head!”

“Mika wants to see her brother.”

“What?” Thud.

“Stay out of the kitchen! Yang’s not doing well!” The kitchen wall echoes with the muffled footsteps of my wife and daughter returning upstairs.

“A screwdriver!”

“I can’t get it! Mika’s having a tantrum!” Thud.

“Great, thanks!”

Kyra and I aren’t usually like this. We’re a good couple, communicative and caring, but moments of crisis bring out the worst in us. The skin above Yang’s left eye has completely split, revealing the white

Alexander Weinstein

“Fuck,” I say under my breath. Not doing well? Yang’s a piece of crap, and I just totally destroyed his back panel. God knows how much those cost. I get out my cell and call Brothers & Sisters Inc. to get some help.

Saying Goodbye to Yang

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Jo

Kurt 400 ISO Black and White Film

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When we adopted Mika, three years ago, it seemed like the progressive thing to do. We considered it our one small strike against cloning. Kyra and I are both white, middle-class, and have lived a comparatively easy and privileged life; we figured it was time to give something back to the world. It was Kyra who suggested she be Chinese. The earthquake had left thousands of orphans in its wake, Mika amongst them. It was hard not to agree.

My main concern—one I voiced to Kyra privately, and quite vocally to the adoption agency during our interview—was the cultural differences. The most I knew about China came from the photos and “Learn Chinese” translations on the placemats at Golden Dragon. The adoption agency suggested getting Yang.

“He’s a Big Brother, babysitter, and storehouse of cultural knowledge all in one,” the woman explained. She handed us a colorful pamphlet—China! it announced in red dragon-shaped letters—and said we should consider. We considered. Kyra was putting in forty hours a week at Crate and Barrel, and I was still managing double shifts at Whole Foods. It was true, we were going to need someone to take care of Mika, and there was no way we were going to use some clone from the neighborhood. Kyra and I weren’t egocentric enough to consider ourselves worth replicating, nor did we want our neighbors’ perfect kids making our daughter feel insecure. In addition, Yang

Alexander Weinstein

came with a breadth of cultural knowledge that Kyra and I could never match. Yang had completed grades K through college in China, had witnessed national events like flag raising ceremonies and ghost holidays.

He knew about moon cakes and sky lanterns. For two hundred more we could upgrade to a model that could teach Mika tai-chi and acupressure when she got older.

I thought about it. “I could learn Mandarin,” I said as we lay in bed. “Come on,” Kyra said, calling my bluff, “there’s no fucking way that’s happening.” So I squeezed her hand and said, “Okay, it’ll be two kids then.”

He came to us fully programmed; there wasn’t a baseball game, pizza slice, bicycle ride, or movie that I could introduce him to. Early on I attempted such outings to create a sense of companionship, as though Yang were a foreign exchange student in our home. I took him to see the Tigers play in Comerica Park. He sat and ate peanuts with me, and when he saw me cheer, he followed suit and put his hands in the air, but there was no sense that he was enjoying the experience. Ultimately these attempts at camaraderie, from visiting haunted houses to tossing a football around the backyard, felt awkward—as though Yang were humoring me—and so, after a couple months, I gave up. He lived with us, ate food, privately dumped his stomach canister, brushed his teeth, read Mika goodnight stories, and went to sleep when we shut out the lights.

Saying Goodbye to Yang

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All the same, he was an important addition to our lives. You could always count on him to keep conversation going with some informative fact about China that none of us knew. I remember driving with him, listening to World Drum on NPR, when he said from the backseat, “This song utilizes the xun, an ancient Chinese instrument organized around minor third intervals.”

Other times, he’d tell us Fun Facts. Like one afternoon, when we’d all gotten ice cream at Old World Creamery, he turned to Mika and said, “Did you know ice cream was invented in China over four thousand years ago?” Admittedly, his delivery of this info was a bit mechanical—a linguistic trait we attempted to keep Mika from adopting. There was a lack of passion to his statements, as though he weren’t interested in the facts, but Kyra and I took this to be a result of his being an early model, and when one considered the moments when he’d turn to Mika and say, “I love you, little sister,” there was no way to deny what an integral part of our family he was.

Twenty minutes of hold-time later, I’m informed that Brothers & Sisters Inc. isn’t going to do a thing to replace Yang. My warranty ran out eight months ago, which means I’ve got a broken Yang, and if I want telephone technical support it’s going to cost me thirty dollars a minute now that I’m post-warranty. I hang up. Yang is still slumped with his chin on his chest.

I go over and push the power button on his back, hoping all he needed was to be

Alexander Weinstein

restarted. Nothing. There’s no blue light, no sound of his body warm-ing up. Shit, I think. There goes eight thousand dollars.

“Can we come down yet?” Kyra yells.

“Hold on a minute!” I pull Yang’s chair out and place my arms around his waist.

I realize this is the first time I’ve actually embraced Yang. While he has lived with us almost as long as Mika, I don’t think anyone besides her has ever hugged or kissed him. There have been times when, as a joke, one of us might nudge Yang with an elbow and say something humorous like, “Lighten up, Yang!” but that’s been the extent of our contact. I hold him close to me now, bracing my feet solidly beneath my body, and lift. He’s heavier than I imagined, his weight that of the eighteen-year-old boy he’s designed to be. I hoist him onto my shoulder and carry him through the living room out to the car.

My neighbor, George, is next door raking leaves. George is a friendly enough guy, but completely unlike us. Both his children are clones, and he drives a hybrid with a bumper sticker that reads IF I WANTED TO GO SOLAR I’D GET A TAN. He looks up as I pop the trunk. “That Yang?” he asks, leaning his large body on his rake so that I have to wonder if he’s going to break the thing.

“Yeah,” I say and lower Yang into the trunk.

“No shit. What’s wrong with him?”

“Don’t know. One moment we’re sitting having breakfast, the next he’s going haywire. I had to shut him down and he

Saying Goodbye to Yang

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won’t start up again.”

“Jeez. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say instinctively, though, as I answer, I realize that I’m not. My legs feel wobbly and the sky above us seems thinner, as though there’s less air in the world. Still, I’m glad I answered as I did.

A man who paints his face for Super Bowl games isn’t the type of guy to open your heart to.

“You got a technician?” George asks.

“Actually, no. I was going to take him over to Quick Fix and see—”

Jo

“Don’t take him there. I’ve got a good technician, took Tiger there when he wouldn’t stop digging holes. The guy’s in Kalamazoo but it’s worth the drive.” George takes a card from his wallet. “He’ll check Yang out and fix him for a third what those guys at Q-Fix will charge you. Tell Russ I sent you.”

Russ Goodman’s Tech Repairs Shop is located two miles off the highway amongst a row of industrial warehouses.

The place is wedged between Mike’s Muffler Repair and a storefront called Stacy’s

Nude 400 ISO Black and White Film

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Second Times, a cluttered thrift store displaying old rifles, laptops, and steel bear traps in its front window. Two men in caps and oil-stained plaid shirts are standing in front smoking cigarettes. As I park alongside the rusted out mufflers and oil drums of Mike’s, they eye my solar car like they might a flea-ridden dog.

“Hi there, I’m looking for Russ Goodman,” I say as I get out. “I called earlier.”

The taller of the two, a middle-aged man with gray stubble and weathered skin, nods to the other guy to end their conversation.

“That’d be me,” he says. I’m ready to shake his hand, but he just takes a drag from his stubby cigarette and says, “Let’s see what you got,” so I pop the trunk instead. Yang is lying alongside my jumper cables and windshield washing fluid with his legs folded beneath him. His head is twisted at an unnatural angle, as though he were trying to turn his chin onto the other side of his shoulder. Russ stands next to me with his thick forearms and a smell of tobacco, and lets out a sigh. “You brought a Korean.” He says this as a statement of fact.

Russ is the type of person I’ve made a point to avoid in my life: a guy that probably has a WE CLONE OUR OWN sticker on the back of his truck.

“He’s Chinese,” I say.

“Same thing,” Russ says. He looks up and gives the other man a shake of his head.

“Well,” he says heavily, “bring him inside,

Alexander Weinstein

I’ll see what’s wrong with him.” He shakes his head again as he walks away and enters his shop.

Russ’s shop consists of a main desk with a telephone and cash register, across from which stands a table with a coffee maker, Styrofoam cups, and powdered creamer.

Two vinyl chairs sit by a coffee table with magazines on it. A door stands open to the workroom. “Bring him back here,” Russ says. Carrying Yang over my shoulder, I follow him into the back room.

The workspace is full of body parts, switch boards, cables, and tools. Along the wall hang disjointed arms, a couple knees, legs of different sizes, and the head of a young girl, about seventeen, with long red hair.

There’s a worktable cluttered with patches of skin and a Pyrex box full of female hands.

I notice that all the skin tones are Caucasian.

In the middle of the room is an old massage table streaked with grease. Probably something Russ got from Stacey’s Seconds.

“Go ‘head and lay him down there,” Russ says. I lay Yang down on his stomach, and position his head in the small circular face rest at the top of the table.

“I don’t know what happened to him,” I say. “He’s always been fine, then this morning he started malfunctioning.

He was bending over from the waist again and again.” Russ doesn’t say anything.

“I’m wondering if it might be a problem

Saying Goodbye to Yang

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with his hard drive,” I say, feeling like an idiot. I’ve got no clue what’s wrong with him; it’s just something George mentioned I should check out. I should have gone to Quick Fix. The young techies there, with their polished manners, always make me feel more at ease. Russ still hasn’t spoken.

He takes a mallet from the wall and a Phillips head screwdriver. “Do you think it’s fixable?”

I ask.

“We’ll see. I don’t work on imports,” he says, meeting my eyes for the first time since I’ve arrived, “but, since you know George, I’ll open him up and take a look. Go ‘head and take a seat out there.”

“How long do you think it’ll take?”

“Won’t know till I get him opened up.”

“Okay,” I say meekly, and leave Yang in Russ’s hands.

In the waiting room I pour myself a cup of coffee and stir in some creamer. I set my cup on the coffee table and look though the magazines. There’s Guns & Ammo, Tech Repair, Big Brothers & Sisters Digest—I put the magazines back down glumly. The wall behind the desk is cluttered with photos of Russ and his kids, all of whom look exactly like him. There are a couple autographed dollar bills, and, buried among these, a small sign with an American flag on it and the message THERE AIN’T NO YELLOW IN THE RED, WHITE, AND BLUE. “Psh,” I say instinctually, letting out an

Alexander Weinstein

annoyed breath of air. This is the kind of crap that came out during the invasion of North Korea, back when the nation changed the color of its ribbons to blue.

Ann Arbor’s a progressive city, but even there, when Kyra and I would go out with Yang and Mika in public, there were many who avoided eye contact with us. Stop the War activists weren’t any different. It was that first Christmas, as Kyra, Yang, Mika, and I were at the airport being individually searched, that I realized Chinese, Japanese, South Korean, didn’t matter anymore; they’d all become threats in the eyes of Americans. I decide not to sit here looking at Russ’s racist propaganda, and leave to check out the bear traps at Stacie’s.

“He’s dead,” Russ tells me.

“I can replace all his insides, more or less build him back from scratch, but that’s gonna cost you about as much as getting a used one.”

I stand looking at Yang, who’s lying on the massage table with a tangle of red and green wires protruding from his back. Even though his skin has lost its vibrant color it still looks soft. Like when he first came to our home, I think. “Isn’t there anything else you can do?”

“His voicebox and language system are still running. If you want, I’ll take it out for you.

Cost you sixty bucks.” Russ is wiping his hands on a rag, avoiding my eyes. I think of the sign hanging in the other room. Sure, I

Saying Goodbye to Yang

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think, I can just imagine the pleasure Russ will take in cutting up Yang.

“No, that’s all right. I’ll just take him home.

What do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” Russ says. I look up at him.

“You know George,” he says as explanation.

“Besides, I can’t fix him for you.”

On the ride home I call Kyra.

She picks up on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me.” My voice sounds ragged.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I say then add, “Actually, no.”

“What’s the matter? How’s Yang?”

Jo

“I don’t know. The tech I took him to says he’s dead, but I don’t believe him—the guy has a thing against Asians. I’m thinking about taking Yang over to Quick Fix.” There’s silence on the other end of the line.

“How’s Mika?” I ask.

“She’s good. She’s watching a movie right now … Dead?” she asks. “Are you positive?”

“No, I’m not sure. I don’t know. I’m not ready to give up on him yet. Look,” I say, glancing at the dash clock, “it’s only three. I’m gonna suck it up and take him to Quick Fix. I’m sure if I drop enough cash they can do something.”

“What will we do if he’s dead?” Kyra asks.

“I’ve got work on Monday.”

Portrait Digital Photography

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“We’ll figure it out,” I say. “Let’s just wait until I get a second opinion.”

Kyra tells me she loves me, and I return my love, and we hang up. It’s as my Bluetooth goes dead that I feel the tears coming.

I remember last fall when Kyra was watching Mika. I was in the garage taking down the rake when, from behind me, I heard Yang. He stood awkwardly in the doorway, as though while Mika was being taken care of he was uncertain what to do.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

On that chilly late afternoon, with the red and orange leaves falling around us—me wearing my vest, and Yang in the black suit he came with—Yang and I quietly raked leaves into large piles on the flat earth, till the backyard looked like a village of leaf huts. Then Yang held the bag open, I scooped the piles in, and we carried them to the curb.

“You want a beer?” I asked, wiping the sweat from my forehead.

“Okay,” Yang said. I went inside and got two cold ones from the fridge, and we sat together there on the splintering cedar of the back deck, watching the sun fall behind the trees and the first stars blink to life above us.

“Can’t beat a cold beer,” I said, taking a swig.

“Yes,” Yang said. He followed my lead and took a long drink. I could hear the liquid sloshing down into his stomach canister.

“This is what men do for the family,”

Alexander Weinstein

I said, gesturing with my beer to the leafless yard. Without realizing it, I had slipped into thinking of Yang as my son, imagining that one day he’d be raking leaves for his own wife and children. It occurred to me then that Yang’s time with us was limited.

Eventually he’d probably be shut down and stored in the basement—an antique that Mika would have no use for when she had children of her own. At that moment I wanted to put my arm around Yang. Instead I said, “I’m glad you came out and worked with me.”

“Me too,” Yang said, and took another sip of his beer, looking exactly like me in the way he brought the bottle to his lips.

The kid at Quick Fix makes me feel much more at ease than Russ. He’s wearing a bright red vest with a clean white shirt under it, and a nametag that reads HI, I’M RONNIE! The kid’s probably not even twenty-one yet. He’s friendly to me, and when I tell him about Yang, he says, “Whoa, that’s no good,” which is at least a bit sympathetic. He tells me they’re backed-up for an hour. So much for quick, I think. I put Yang on the counter and give my name.

“We’ll page you once he’s ready,” Ronnie says.

I spend the time wandering the store. They’ve got a demo station of Championship Boxing, so I put on the jacket and glasses and take on a guy named Vance, who’s playing in California. I can’t figure out how to dodge or block though, and when I throw out my hand, my guy on

Saying Goodbye to Yang

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the screen just wipes his nose with his glove.

Vance beats the shit out of me, so I put the glasses and vest back on the rack, and go look at other equipment. I’m playing with one of the new ThoughtPhones when I hear my name paged over the loudspeaker, so I head back to the Repairs counter.

“Fried,” the kid tells me. “Honestly, it’s probably good he bit it. He’s a really outdated model.” Ronnie is rocking back and forth on his heels as though impatient to get on to his next job.

“Isn’t there anything you can do? He’s my daughter’s Big Brother.”

“The language system is fully functional. If you want, I can separate the head for you.”

“Are you kidding? I’m not giving my daughter her Brother’s head to play with.”

“Oh,” the kid says. “Well, um, we could remove the voice box. He can still talk to her, there just won’t be any face attached. If you want, we can recycle the body and give you twenty dollars off any digital camera.”

“How much is all this going to cost?”

“It’s ninety-five for the check-up, and voice box removal will be another hundred and fifty. You’re probably looking at about three hundred after labor and taxes.”

I think about taking it back to Russ, but there’s no way. When he’d told me Yang was beyond saving, I’d given him a look of distrust that anyone could read loud and clear.

“Go ahead and remove the voice box,” I say, “but no recycling. I want to keep the body.”

Alexander Weinstein

George is outside throwing a football around with his identical twins when I pull in. He raises his hand to his kids to stop them from throwing the ball, and comes over to the low hedge that separates our driveways. “Hey, how’d it go with Russ?” he asks as I get out of the car.

“Not good.” I tell him about Yang, getting a second opinion, how I’ve got his voice box in the backseat, his body in a large Quick Fix bag in the trunk. I tell him all this with as little emotion as possible. “What can you expect from electronics?” I say, attempting to appear nonchalant.

“Man, I’m really sorry for you,” he says, his voice quieter than I’ve ever heard it. “Yang was a good kid. I remember the day he came over to help Dana carry in the groceries. The kids still talk about that fortune telling thing he showed them with the sticks.”

“Yeah,” I say, looking at the bushes. I can feel the tears starting to come again. “Anyhow, it’s no big deal. Don’t let me keep you from your game. We’ll figure it out.” Which is a complete lie. I have no clue how we’re going to figure anything out.

We needed Yang, and there’s no way we can afford another model.

“Hey, listen,” George says. “If you guys need help, let us know. You know, if you need a day sitter or something. I’ll talk to Dana—I’m sure she’d be up for taking Mika.” George reaches out across the hedge, his large hand coming straight at me. For

Saying Goodbye to Yang

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a moment I flash back to Championship Boxing and think he’s going to hit me.

Instead he pats me on the shoulder. “I’m really sorry, Jim,” he says.

That night, I lie with Mika in bed and read her Goodnight Moon. It’s the first time I’ve read to her in months. The last time was when we visited Kyra’s folks and had to shut Yang down for the weekend. Mika’s asleep by the time I reach the last page. I give her a kiss on her head and turn out the lights.

Kyra’s in bed reading.

“I guess I’m gonna start digging now,” I say.

“Come here,” she says, putting her book down. I cross the room and lie across our bed, my head on her belly.

“Do you miss him too?” I ask.

“Mm-hm,” she says. She puts her hand on my head and runs her fingers through my hair.

“I think saying goodbye tomorrow is a good idea. Are you sure it’s gonna be okay to have him buried out there?”

“Yeah. There’s no organic matter in him.

The guys at Quick Fix dumped his stomach canister.” I look up at our ceiling, the way our lamp casts a circle of light and then a dark shadow. “I don’t know how we’re going to make it without him.”

“Shhh.” Kyra strokes my hair. “We’ll figure it out. I spoke with Tina Matthews after you called me today. You remember her daughter, Lauren?”

“The clone?”

Alexander Weinstein

“Yes. She’s home this semester; college wasn’t working for her. Tina said Lauren could watch Mika if we need her to.”

“I thought we didn’t want Mika raised by a clone.”

“We’re doing what we have to do to make things work. Besides, Lauren is a nice girl.”

“She’s got that glassy-eyed apathetic look.

She’s exactly like her mother,” I say. Kyra doesn’t say anything. She knows I’m being irrational, and so do I. I sigh. “I just really hoped we could keep clones out of our lives.”

“For how long? Your brother and Margaret are planning on cloning this summer.

You’re going to be an uncle soon enough.”

“Yeah,” I say quietly.

Ever since I was handed Yang’s voice box, I feel as though time has slowed down.

The light of the setting sun that evening had stretched across the wood floors of our home for what seemed an eternity. The sounds have all become crisper as well, as though, until now, I’d been living my life with earplugs. I think about the way Mika’s eyelids fluttered as she slept, the feel of George’s hand against my arm. I sit up, turn towards Kyra, and kiss her. The softness of her lips makes me remember the first time we kissed. Kyra squeezes my hand. “You better start digging, so I can comfort you tonight,” she says. I smile and ease myself off of the bed. “Don’t worry,” Kyra says, “It’ll be a good funeral tomorrow.”

In the hallway, on my way towards the

Saying Goodbye to Yang

30

staircase, the cracked door of Yang’s room stops me. Instead of going down, I walk across the carpeting to the doorway, push it open, and flick on the light switch. There’s his bed, perfectly made with the corners tucked in, a writing desk, a heavy oak dresser, and a closet full of black suits. On the wall is a poster of China that Brothers & Sisters Inc. sent us and a pennant from the Tigers game I took Yang to. There’s little in the minimalism of his décor to remind me of him. There is, however, a baseball glove on the shelf by his bed. This was a present Yang bought for himself with the small allowance we provided him. We were at Toys R Us when Yang placed the glove in the shopping cart. We didn’t ask him about it, and he didn’t mention why he was buying it. When he came home, he put it on the shelf near his Tigers pennant, and there it sat untouched.

Along the windowsill, sits Yang’s collection of dead moths and butterflies as though ready to take flight. He collected them from beneath our bug-zapper during the summer, and placed their powdery bodies by the window. I walk over and examine the collection. There’s the great winged Luna Moth, with its two mock eyes staring up at me, the mosaic of Monarchs’ wings, and a collection of smaller non-descript brown and silvery gray moths. Kyra once asked him about his insects. Yang’s face illuminated momentarily, the lights beneath his

Alexander Weinstein

cheeks burning extra brightly, and he’d said, “They’re very beautiful, don’t you think?”

Then, as though suddenly embarrassed, he segued to a Fun Fact regarding the brushfooted butterfly of China.

What arrests me, though, are the objects on his writing desk. Small matchboxes are stacked in a pile on the center of the table, the matchsticks spread across the expanse like tiny logs. In a corner is an orangecapped bottle of Elmer’s that I recognize as the one from my toolbox. What was Yang up to? A log cabin? A city of small wooden men and women? Maybe this was Yang’s attempt at art—one that, unlike the calligraphy he was programmed to know, was entirely of his own creation. If this is the case, then there was much more to Yang than his programming manual could ever have told us. Tomorrow I’ll bag his suits, donate them to the Goodwill, and throw out the Big Brothers & Sisters poster, but these matchboxes, the butterflies, and the baseball glove, I’ll save. They’re the only traces of the boy Yang might have been.

The funeral goes well. It’s a beautiful October day, the sky thin and blue, and the sun lights up the trees, bringing out the ochre and amber of the season. I imagine what we must look like to the neighbors. A bunch of kooks, burying their electronic equipment like Pagans. I don’t care. When I think about Yang being ripped apart in a recycling plant,

Saying Goodbye to Yang

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or stuffing him into our plastic garbage can and setting him out with the trash, I know this is the right decision. Standing together as a family, in the corner of our backyard, I say a couple parting words. I thank Yang for all the joy he brought to our lives. Then Mika and Kyra both say goodbye. When it’s all over we go back inside to have breakfast together. We’re sitting eating our cereal when the doorbell rings. I get up and answer it. On our doorstep is a glass vase filled with orchids and white lilies. A small card is attached. I kneel down and open it.

Didn’t want to disturb you guys. Just wanted to give you these. We’re all very sorry for your loss—George, Dana, and the twins. Amazing, I think. This from a guy who paints his face for Super Bowl games.

“Hey, look what we got,” I say, carrying the flowers into the kitchen. “They’re from George.”

“They’re beautiful,” Kyra says. “Come, Mika, let’s go put those in the living room by your brother’s picture.” Kyra helps Mika out of her chair, and we walk into the other room together.

It was Kyra’s idea to put the voice box behind the photograph. The photo is a picture from our trip to China last summer.

In it, Mika and Yang are playing at the gate of a park. Mika stands at the port, holding the two large iron gates together. From the other side, Yang looks through the hole of the gates at the camera. His head is slightly

Alexander Weinstein

cocked, as though wondering who we all are. He has a placid non-smile/non-frown, the expression we came to identify as Yang at his happiest.

“You can talk to him,” I say to Mika as I place the flowers next to the photograph.

“Goodbye, Yang,” Mika says.

“Goodbye?” the voice box asks. “But, little sister, where are we going?”

Mika smiles at the sound of her Big Brother’s voice, and looks up at me for instruction. It’s an awkward moment. I’m not about to tell Yang that the rest of him is buried in the backyard.

“Nowhere,” I answer. “We’re all here together.”

There’s a pause as though Yang’s thinking about something. Then, quietly, he asks, “Did you know over two million workers died during the building of the Great Wall of China?” Kyra and I exchange a look regarding the odd serendipity of this Fun Fact, but neither of us says anything. Then Yang’s voice starts up again. “The Great Wall is over ten thousand li long. A li is a standardized Chinese unit of measurement that is equivalent to one thousand six hundred and forty feet.”

“Wow, that’s amazing,” Kyra says, and I stand next to her, looking at the flowers George sent, acknowledging how little I truly know about this world. •

Saying Goodbye to Yang

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Editor's Choice Interview What was the inspiration for “Saying Goodbye to Yang”? This story came out of a photo/fiction collaboration with a student in IU’s MFA photography program, Yang Chen. He had given me a number of strange photos which had a photo of him in a black suit superimposed over his childhood photos from China. The Yang in the suit appeared so surreal and stern, an emotionless figure present in these childhood photos of joy—that I immediately saw this older Yang as a kind of robot—an automatronic child, almost capable of joy but not quite.

Do you have a favorite short story?

That’s a hard call. I’ll have to name a couple: The Distance of the Moon

by Italo Calvino; The Dream of the Consortium by Stephen Millhauser; Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius by Jorge Luis Borges; Sonny’s Blues by James Baldwin.

What advice can you give other fiction writers? I think one of the biggest challenges that writers ultimately have to face is the issue of self confidence—feeling your work is good enough, that what you’re doing has meaning, that it’s okay to write the stories you want to,

Alexander Weinstein

etc. When you add in the incredible amounts of rejection that comes with seeking publication, you’re looking at the need to create a very strong core, a place where it ultimately doesn’t matter if you’re accepted or rejected—you write because you love to write, you write because you feel awful if you don’t write, you write because the stories are pushing their way through you.

Perhaps it takes a couple hundred rejections to find that place—perhaps it’s possible to simply grasp that freedom from the start and keep it alive. Either way, the secret is to get to that place where you’re writing not for publication, not for praise, not for fame—but for the sole fulfillment of having told the story well. After all, writing and the creative process, like all the things we do, are just ways to pass our lives. Given that—the sooner one can reach the state of freedom from self criticism, the better— since ultimately it’s all a form of play. Serious play, perhaps—but play all the same. I’m still working on getting there.

Interview

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This piece arose from an internal conflict I had about the environmental harm caused by following my passion. By creating a painting that discourages the same release of toxic paint into our water system that is simultaneously required for its creation, I hope to not only illustrate a self-criticism, but also a more universal conflict about not always being able to do what is best in life.

Marine Tempels

PLEASE DO NOT POUR TURPS, medium, or paint chips down the sink! Thanks! Oil on Panel

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Anders Johnson

The Information Age Acrylic, Oil, Collage, and Video Tape on Panel

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As a kid, I went to a lot of museums and was always attracted to the size and power of large-format history paintings. I loved the characters and the virtuosity, but I was always apprehensive to approach them because I thought they might fall on me. As I’ve gotten older and pursued art, large-format history paintings have been demystified, gone out of fashion, and grown ripe for reinterpretation. I’ve recycled those historic sizes and made paintings that address age-old themes in the context of contemporary Americana. Getting through airport security and suffering a concussion while playing football are both themes that, for me, capture America’s vulgarity and vitality.

Anders Johnson

Artist Statement

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Anders Johnson

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Brain Down Acrylic, Oil, Collage, and Exacto Blades on Panel

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Adams Puryear

22 x 136 x pink Plaster, Ceramic, Mixed Media

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Molly Quanty

91257 4x5 Large Format Photography

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I wanted to invent characters that viewers could play with. Each viewer can create his or her own story as to why these people were sent to prison.

21655, 73155, 11264 4x5 Large Format Photography

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Katya Reka

Heart Murmur Letterpress Print left oxo Letterpress Print

Artist Statement, Page 99

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Anne M. Fiala

Roadside Study #1 Steel

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The Djinn

Becky Boyle

It was our intent to run ourselves into darkness, indistinct eraser-ash in the pages of your minds.

When the day came that Allah built up the walls around paradise and sculpted man from clay, he also swept up the scattered scraps of angel-light—smokeless flame—and blew it into our shapes: we are the end of all fires, black shadow skeletons, acrid tastes of soured thought and tangled dreams. Be careful where you step in the world, or where the sparrow-shudders of your mind may lead.

In the wastes where the ashen sands turn over in dustbin dervishes, or through murky forests, where the spindle-spokes of needle trees loom over you, or way out on oceans flat like Sahara land, we wait for you. Like bad dogs, we attack the black holes yawning open in your head, the eddies and currents that course through you in the depths of night. We are no one and no thing, save the snatch of whispered doubt caught behind your ears. We thrive free of form or physical ground, but there is one thing we fear: the day when our confidence grows too great, and we look in the mirror to see your faces, solid and human, forever knotted into our own.

The Djinn

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Gabrielle Cheikh

Blind Temptation Archival Inkjet Print

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Resilient children — children who have overcome being introduced to grown-up issues at an early age — have similar methods of coping. They tend to be extremely creative and have a sort of ‘magical thinking’ through which they are able to process the things they’re being introduced to.

I want to create fictional environments where these children go to explain or cope with the things that are happening around them.

I aim to show how these resilient children become less vulnerable in the face of life’s adversities.

Gabrielle Cheikh

top War Archival Inkjet Print Knowledge Archival Inkjet Print

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Gabrielle Cheikh

Untitled Archival Inkjet Print

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Gabrielle Cheikh

The Cupcake Archival Inkjet Print

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Kevin Steele

Paper Birdcage #1, Paper Birdcage #3 Collapsible Book right Paper Birdcage #2 Collapsible Book

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Kevin Steele

Lunacy Letterpress Book

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Kevin Steele

Precision/Constraint Pleated Paper Book

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Editor's Choice

Jerilyn M. Arthur

Describe your artistic style. Overtly political —especially feminist — artwork is notoriously niche and that sort of elitism is totally unproductive.

I want my photographs to be approachable to the general, un-art-educated public, but still have a strong purpose. In essence, I want my grandma to think they’re pretty pictures while simultaneously making my gender studies major roommate ask questions.

Still Life with Burnt Bra Large Format Color Photography

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What inspires you? I love drawing inspiration from the history of art.

Moreover, I tend to get pretty heated about women’s issues, as well as class and race concerns, and I try to push this energy into my work as much as I can.

Jerilyn M. Arthur

Still Life with Iron Large Format Color Photography

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Jerilyn M. Arthur

Still Life with Bed Large Format Color Photography

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Jerilyn M. Arthur

Still Life with Lysol Large Format Color Photography

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I use the figure as the main character in my work because it’s accessible to viewers. Employing the figure as a surrogate for myself allows me to relate my own fear and insecurities regarding confinement, restraint, and limitation. And it is through the exploration of these sculpted moments that I attempt to find clarity on life's unforgiving nature. Whether it is the bliss and enlightenment that comes with acceptance or the desperation and anxiety that comes from struggling against life's mercilessness, it is the tension between these two divergent sensations that I am attempting to illuminate.

William Fillmore

Revelation Mixed Media

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On the way to the funeral we stopped at a gas station so Terry could buy some cigarettes. We had already been to two other stations before this one, but they didn’t carry Tijuana Smalls. Terry said he preferred smoking Tijuana Smalls because their nicotine content was supposedly higher than any other cigarette. I’m pretty sure he just liked them because no store actually carried them.

“They don’t sell them neither,” Terry said, climbing back into the car. “Let’s try the Cerillos up the road.”

“Don’t you think we should be getting there?” I said.

“We’ll just try one more. If it’s a bust I’ll settle for some Dunhills.” I knew that wasn’t true.

Terry took off his sunglasses and put them on the dash.

Then he licked his fingers and used them to massage his eyelids. I pulled out of the station.

It was a terribly hot day; the kind of hot that makes you regret buying a car with leather seats. I was sweating through my suit, and me and Terry both were beginning to stink. I asked Terry to look for a bottle of spray deodorant I knew I had in the glove compartment, but he laughed, thinking it was a joke. He thought a lot of things were jokes.

“Terry, I’m serious, we smell like shit. Just check for me, I know I’ve got one in there.”

He laughed again but did what I asked. Then more laughter.

Joshua Kraus

Mute

61

“I can’t believe you still have this,” Terry cackled.

“You find the spray?” I said.

It took him awhile to answer. “It’s your Pluto,” he said finally. “I really can’t believe you still have this.”

I looked over at him. He was holding a small lump of faded yellow plastic and grinning as if he had been reading my diary.

“It’s your Pluto,” he repeated. “But it looks like it’s been soaking in a batch of teeth whitener.”

“I don’t think that’s mine,” I lied. “I don’t even remember —" Terry interrupted me. “Don’t miss the Cerillos, it’s your next turn.” The grin was gone from his face.

I put on my signal even though the road was empty and pulled into the Cerillos.

The station had four pumps, but three had “out of order” signs scotch-taped to their dispensers. Across the street from the Cerillos was a building painted head to toe in bright pink. It said, “Lorraine’s Diner: We have bitchy waitresses.”

“Hold on partner,” Terry said. “I’ll be right back.”

He got out of the car and went into the station shop. I took the opportunity to look in the glove compartment for the spray bottle. There were papers and receipts and a manual for a different car. There was a shoelace and some gum wrappers too, but no spray. I looked under the seats and in all the cup holders. Then I went around to

Joshua Kraus

the back of the car and looked in the trunk.

Jumper cables.

“Shit,” I muttered.

I closed the trunk and leaned against the hood. They don’t have his cigarettes, I thought. No one has Tijuana Smalls. It’s a bullshit brand for bullshit smokers.

I kicked a small rock and watched it skip a few feet.

The only reason people chose Tijuanas as their brand was because they knew no place sold them. In college, the kids who smoked Tijuanas were always the ones who didn’t know how to ash their cigs. They could get away without smoking, and still get their backs clapped by the four-pack-a-day saints.

I looked behind me at the shop. I could see Terry waving his arms at the cashier like a mad sign language interpreter. I slid off the trunk and headed over, meeting the rock I had kicked a few paces ahead. I decided to leave it alone for the time being. God it was hot.

“I don’t want to have to call the cops,” I heard a man say as I opened the door.

It was the cashier. He was talking to Terry.

“I should be the one calling the cops,” Terry yelled. “You’re trying to cheat me. I should call the cops on you, you old fuck.”

“What’s happening, Terry?” I said.

Terry turned to me and then back to the cashier, then to me again.

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62

“I asked him for some Tijuanas, and he said he had some, but then for no god damn reason he backed out of the deal.”

“What deal? Your friend is crazy,” said the cashier. He looked shaken, ready to flee.

“You told me you had Tijuanas,” Terry screamed, turning back to the cashier. “You said you did and then backed out. I call that a broken deal.”

I told Terry to go back to the car, that I would get his cigarettes. He shook his head.

“Terry, get back in the fucking car. Do it now.”

Terry took a last look at the cashier, this time his expression more desperate than angry. Then he looked at me.

Christine Novotny

“I don’t trust you, Pete,” he said. “You let Pluto rot.” Then he left.

I asked the cashier what happened, but all he said was that my friend was crazy and I needed to leave.

“Can I at least buy a pack of Dunhills then?” I asked. “He’s grieving you know.”

“Are you blind?” the cashier said. “We don’t carry any cigarettes here. Now please go.”

Back in the car Terry was cupping the Pluto in his hands and making baby faces. He didn’t seem to notice me, and I didn’t care. I started the engine.

“Wait, where’s the cigarettes?” he said, dropping the Pluto. “The bastard swindled you too?”

I made this for You Watercolor on Paper on Board

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“No, Terry, he didn’t have them. You must have misheard what he said.”

“He was fucking senile then.”

The man couldn’t have been more than forty, I thought. “Maybe,” I said. “Anyway, try not to think about it.”

We left the gas station behind and headed west. The sun was now at our backs and I was able to swing the visor up. The sky switched from letterbox to widescreen in one smooth motion. I thought about turning on the radio, but decided against it. It could be playing anything; too unpredictable.

“I remember when you got that Pluto,” Terry said suddenly. “It was Christmas, you were seven. Mom wanted to buy you a Goofy doll because you’d always say 'gawrsh' whenever she got mad at you. You thought that was so funny. But mom was so goddamn spacey, she bought you a Pluto instead. I think she thought they were the same thing.”

He laughed and slapped his knees, like he was mocking the very motion.

“When you opened the present and found Pluto, I’ll never forget, you got so angry.

You threw it at the wall and started crying.

And then mom went, ‘gawrsh I’m sorry Pete.

Ah-hyuck!’”

“I don’t remember that,” I said.

Joshua Kraus

“Sure you do. I remember it, and I was two years younger than you. The dent’s still in the wall where you threw it.”

“Okay Terry, whatever you say.”

I slowed the car and merged into the right lane. I was looking for a mile marker, number twenty-eight.

“It’s the first turn before the light,” Terry said.

“How do you know?” I said. “You’ve never been here.”

“Sure I have,” he answered. “I come here all the time.”

I took the first turn. The road narrowed and the pavement quickly dissolved into thick gravel. Terry said something, but I couldn’t hear it. There was a sound like someone vacuuming shards of bone, and it drowned out everything else. I looked for a road sign, but if there was one it was covered by tree branches. I stopped the car.

“What’s up?” Terry said.

“This isn’t right,” I said. “I’m turning around.”

“Yeah it is, you just haven’t gone far enough.”

He had never sounded less confident.

I cocked my head awkwardly over my right shoulder and started backing up.

“Pete,” Terry started.

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64

I stopped the car again.

“Terry,” I hissed, and put my face close to his.

“This is the wrong way. You know this is the wrong way. So stop fucking around. I need you to think about what today is. Do you know what today is?”

Terry looked at me the way a defendant looks at a witness who’s about to rat him out. Then he turned away and opened the glove compartment.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“Checking for that spray you said you wanted. You need to calm down.”

“It’s not there,” I said. I wanted to shake him.

He rummaged around for a bit before offering a halfhearted “can’t find it.” Then he leaned back in his seat.

We made our way back to the main road, and I spotted the mile marker a couple minutes later. There was a turn shortly after. It led to a parking lot.

“This is it,” I said.

Terry shrugged his shoulders. “Well I don’t know where the service is. This place is really big you know.”

“I’ll ask someone,” I said. “I’m sure there’s a receptionist.”

Joshua Kraus

“You can’t be sure though, you never can,” he said vaguely, refusing to elaborate.

I parked the car and we walked toward the lobby. Behind the building were graves.

They stretched so far into the distance that, at a certain point, the headstones became one out-of-focus clump of speckled grey, like a misshapen wall.

There was a receptionist in the lobby. She was drinking something out of a Styrofoam cup and had her back to a small TV. It was playing Tiny Toons with the volume on mute, which I found strange. Terry laughed.

“Keep your voices down,” snapped the receptionist. “This is a place for fragile people.”

She continued to drink whatever it was that she was drinking. We have bitchy waitresses, I thought, and walked up to her desk.

“Can you tell me where the Holcomb service is being held and how to get there?” I said.

“That one already started,” she said. “Do you know the family?”

“We are the family,” I said. “Where is it?”

She put her cup down and stood up.

“My mistake, sir. You just leave through that door there on your right and follow the

Mute

65

Christine Novotny

Soldier Watercolor and Acrylic on Paper on Masonite

66

signs to ‘plot number four.’” She beckoned us to the door and then pointed ahead. “It’s a two minute walk, very scenic.”

I thanked her, and we left. Terry hustled up alongside me.

“Tiny Toons man,” he said. “This whole day is a cartoon.”

I nodded.

“I always thought cartoons had it right,” he continued. “The characters never age.

I mean, how many cartoons have you seen where they grow up? A show can be on for ten years and the baby is still a baby and the teenager’s still a teenager.”

“And the crippled old grandma is still alive,” I added.

“Right. But I like it that way, you know? It’s Peter Pan type shit.” His voice softened a little, his monologue grew less manic. “If you’re young you’re always young, doesn’t matter what happens.”

“It’s a cartoon Terry,” I said. “You read too much into things.”

“No I don’t, that’s your problem, not mine,”

Joshua Kraus

he scolded. “Seriously Pete, every cartoon does this. It means something.”

“Not all of them do it,” I said. “Just the one’s you’ve seen.”

But he wasn’t paying attention anymore. He was looking past me at a group of people huddled together, a few hundred feet in from the path.

“That’s it,” I said.

“You think?” he said.

“Come on.”

We walked toward them, cautiously at first; a pair of rookie cops called to our first crime scene. The mush of bodies jerked and trembled with the same rhythmic sobbing.

Only a few people looked at us. Me and Terry pushed through the assembly, Terry settling next to his wife. She glared at him with big wet eyes.

“Sorry, babe,” he whispered. “Traffic.”

I stood next to him and looked at the casket.

It was small, about the size of a ukulele case.

Father Bennett was standing in front of it, his hands clasped and hanging at his waist.

Mute

67

He looked at me and nodded gently, then turned to Terry.

“Mr. Holcomb, I’m sorry but we have already finished the sermon and the Lord’s Prayer. Before we lower the casket, is there anything you would like to say?”

Terry hesitated. “What do you mean, Father,” he said.

Father Bennet walked up to Terry and forced Terry’s hands into his own.

“Is there anything you want to say to your son before we bury him?”

Terry let his eyes drift from Father Bennett’s face to the casket next to him.

Then he let out a strangled laugh, so high pitched it was barely audible.

“It’s not like he can hear me,” Terry said.

At this, his wife turned to leave, but not before catching my gaze and shaking her head, as if to say, “you weren’t supposed to let him do this, Pete.”

be counted on for anything. But I just mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

Terry watched her go. She’d break into a jog every few steps to hasten the escape, her head wobbling like a loose screw. When she made it to the pathway Terry’s eye’s returned to the scene. He saw the faces pleading with him to understand, felt Father Bennett’s warm grip tighten. We let him stand there for a minute, on the coattails of realization I thought would never come.

At last he said, “I guess I shouldn’t have forgotten about him.”

Then he turned to face me. The expression he wore was unlike anything I’d ever seen him try on; a messy portrait of childish confusion and unbearable pain.

“I shouldn’t have let him rot.” •

I wanted to tell her that it wasn’t my fault; that her husband couldn’t be counted on to piss when he needed to—couldn’t

Joshua Kraus

Mute

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Nathan Bilancio

101 Actions Application Digital

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101 Actions Application is an iPad calendar application that allows the user to organize, save, and learn about 101 tips on living a healthier life.

Nathan Bilancio

101 Actions Application Digital

Artist Statement, Page 99

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Robert Kolhouse

Continued, Detail White Stonewear and Underglazes

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Robert Kolhouse

Continued White Stonewear and Underglazes

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Kimberly Waite

What I'd Do For One Year of Payton Manning's Income Archival Digital Print

73

This work was created out of my experiences growing up in a blue-collar town. The imagery I am building spawns from a mix of personal experience, stereotypes, and statistics based around lower income households of the working class. The American dream is no longer to become rich; rather, it’s to reach the socioeconomic status of the “middle class”. In a country where the lower class is increasing drastically and the higher class is gaining power, this seems like an impossible goal.

Kimberly Waite

To Work, Or To Work... Archival Digital Print

74

How would you describe your artistic style? I try to push the boundaries of mediums and find it difficult to place my work in a single category.

Recently I have been layering drawings and textures on top of my photographs, which causes my work to appear more illustrative and graphic than most straight photography.

What inspired your work in Canvas?

This work was created through my experience of growing up in a blue-collar town. The imagery I am building spawns from a mix of personal situations, stereotypes, and statistics based around lower

Kimberly Waite

Jerry Springer and Jesus Archival Digital Print

75

income households. Each piece expresses my interpretation of an issue that surrounds growing up or living in the lower tier of society.

What do these pieces mean to you?

This work is a sign of my familiarity within the working class. These images spark many my emotions of dealing with my childhood as well as my current struggle of distance from the comfort zone of bluecollar society. Each image is full of personal content that was formed through my emotion and experiences.

Kimberly Waite

Lunch Break Archival Digital Print

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Kimberly Waite

Red Light, Green Light Archival Digital Print

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Kimberly Waite

3:45 p.m. Archival Digital Print

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Sara Lowthian

Bird Bath Archival Digital Print

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What does this work mean to you? This work initially started by thinking about my own personal health and the need for medication. I greatly dislike having to take medication daily, but the thought of not having it scares me, and I’m sure other people have similar fears. My fear is that eventually these medications are going to fail or somehow will no longer be available if the FDA takes them off the market. So, is it possible for our society to reduce the number of prescriptions taken overall? I hope that people become more dependent on a healthier lifestyle, “functional medicine,” and search for a solution to their problem before popping a pill.

Describe your artistic style. My mode of expression is through still life photography. I enjoy the process of organizing inanimate objects in a way to produce a coded art form. Within the composition and the placement, I am able to create symbolism and meaning with the juxtaposition of objects.

These images are inspired by the Dutch ‘Vanitas’ paintings from the 17th century. The use of symbolism along with elements of lighting and composition have been adopted from the paintings.

The images speak of mortality, health, futility of life, addiction, and consumption.

What inspires you? Everything around me is inspiring: current events, other artists, and the world around me. I read the news to stay up to date and gather ideas for possible topics. Some favorite artists of mine that I am looking at currently are Michiko Kon, Prince V. Thomas, Laura Letinsky, Carl Kleiner, Richard Prince, and the list goes on.

Sara Lowthian

Interview

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When did you start exploring photography? In High School I took more of an interest in the arts. I knew that I wanted a career of some sort in the field, but was unsure what direction to go. I hadn’t thought to pursue photography until I enrolled in a photo class in college.

My professor told me I had a talent for the medium and encouraged me to add it as my major.

Sara Lowthian

Liptor Archival Digital Print

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Sara Lowthian

Blind Archival Digital Print

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Sunae Kang

Egg Ring Silver, Enamel

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Coffee House

I want to put your talent in a bottle And let it out when we’re alone.

I could spill your mocha voice Your sliding fingers Your golden gravel words Or steep myself in your ruby chai tea.

I’d steal your confidence And stop it up in a glass (now there’s no need to be nervous when you’re playing for one.)

Liquefy that glance you give me And drip it back into your eyes so its static shock can exist here, too.

I’ve seen your hands on her neck, and I think I can make the same notes If I could capture that half hour essence and slip it in your drink.

We can share the last sip.

Bridgett Henwood

Coffee House

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Artist Statement, Page 99

Bailey Cook

Well-Known Smile Acrylic left Lean Don't Leap Acrylic

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The Kenyan Mask, a Gift from a Former Partner I’m always opening up my dresser drawer to see him resting in darkness, no light to buff the glossy black.

His eyes are closed, his thick lips pursed I take him out, I put him back.

His ponytail beard flips from red to black.

It’s a beard, which you, my dear, could not have grown.

You’d wanted to grow a crop of human hearts for transplants, studying BME. Oh, engineers— You’d have cut me into tiny parts to study my throat and lungs and heart because you wanted to know what made me tick.

Back then I had a filing job behind a desk in African studies. You visited once.

You didn’t speak Urdu, Swahili, or French.

We looked at one another across the chestnut desk.

In December, you gave me a birthday box.

When I ripped off the paper, green and gold I saw him there. He didn’t see back.

His eyes were chiseled, woody black.

His chin was painted black and gold.

He seemed relaxed, so I relaxed. I closed the box and laughed and you had tried so hard, you stared at me. I put him in my dresser drawer.

I have him still. I wish you knew I laughed, my dear, but not at you.

Sarah Robinson

The Kenyan Mask, a Gift from a Former Partner

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Gatis Cirulis

7 Letterpress Monoprint

88

Design influenced by client's strong ties to New Orleans. Color scheme inspired by traditional Mardi Gras color palette.

Logotype was hand-lettered. Symbol developed as variation on the fleur-delis, incorporating peppers to portray product's zesty flavor.

Brandon Ehrlich

Pepita's Condiment Packaging Inkjet Print

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Cover redesign of three John Steinbeck novels. Illustrations created with Adobe Illustrator and Photoshop. Inspired by posters from the 1930s and the paintings of Grant Wood.

Brandon Ehrlich

Steinbeck Book Covers Inkjet Print

Artist Statement, Page 99

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Marta Finkelstein

Please Don't Look at Me... Ceramic right Why, God? Why? Ceramic

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Poetry is an ugly child dressed-up, made-up, and spray-tanned by its awful parents for the pageant circuit.

I tear off her covers and she blinks into my gilded sneer. She is obedient to the frills, the mascara brushes, the curling iron. The epitome of coif and poise, she will lose. Not miserably, but enough to invoke the judgment of the orange-skinned, fork-tongued moms in heat. My palm cracks across her face. Blonde extensions fall to the ground, scarlet bits of scalp sharing with my nails a smooth shade of blood. She is put to bed with dull eyes.

She shreds her dress and smears lipstick across her face. She pounds the walls of her cage, thrashing against the hoses as if they contained poison instead of spray tanner. She smolders and struts when announced. The grinning host asks her what she wants to be when she grows up and she snarls contempt. They stare, moved by the brilliance of her body electric.

The wild little slut wins and the mothers congratulate me, their beady eyes burning with lust. I am their blue-ribbon sow. She crawls into bed that night with eyes swollen shut.

Heidi Peck

Poetry is an ugly child dressed-up, made-up, and spray-tanned by its awful parents for the pageant circuit.

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Erin Goedtel

Untitled Oil, Acrylic, and Airbrush on Canvas

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Erin Goedtel

Rodeo Princess Oil and Acrylic on Canvas

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Color Over

Walking away left gummy shreds that waved Behind us like the manes of horses And hearing the viscous strings Snap put a blunt sickness in my stomach Like a rancid mud reeking against The tissue, all bloat and circumstance Horse-faced and heavy we went In opposites: direction, depth, and guise In mirrors: bathroom, bedroom, and funhouse In bottles: Pepto, perfume, and absinthe Standing in droves remembering A pumice scrape, a heap of chalk, Coughing up ghosts to God Doggerel and grim, pasty and blacked out I wrote and you painted But I made sense of it In gravity and mineral all you managed Was to color over death Like autumn

Samuel Mellas

Color Over

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Rachel Ankney

Self-Portrait #1 Inkjet Print

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Growing up as a redhead I hated my light skin, freckles, and bright red hair. But even though my skin color is a shade of pink with orange spots, I’ve learned to love it for its imperfections.

I was inspired to take selfportraits of my unique body by showing colors, lines, and shapes. They may not be what society views as perfect or beautiful, but I have learned that you can express beauty in many different ways.

Rachel Ankney

Self Portrait #2 Inkjet Print

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Going Home

The night dims around me; I don’t know how soon I’ll go home to find my bed alone with crickets’ croon. Still—I’ll go home.

Rain falls against the city: buildings, bustle, all early morning mirage— my heart’s the only one awake. Monsoon, and I’ll go home.

Green shutters haunt my dreams, and floorboards slant, like a child again I sleep in the afternoon: I’ll go home.

At three, her words make architecture in my mind, her voice still a low voice, foundation notes. She plays the bassoon, I’ll go home.

I’m learning the trees surrounding me by sunset. Through these strange halls, by autumn hewn, I’ll go home.

Alone beside your untried face, I close my eyes because I cannot leave. Avery, you say, look at the moon—I’ll go home.

Avery Olund Smith

Going Home

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Artist Statements

Page 44 Anne M. Fiala Roadside Study #1 Throughout my travels, I have found myself intrigued with unique designs of the electrical tower. Utilizing simple geometry, these tall and intricate structures are often overlooked or despised within a landscape. In my own reflections, I have found them beautiful and precious. It is because of these towers that we are able to obtain our standard of living. Despite race, nationality, and culture, these structures connect us. Like us, they combat and absorb everything life throws at them in order to stand tall and carry on.

Pages 70–71 Robert Kolhouse Continued Every decision I make in creating a figure is considered with the understanding that I can never know what it is like to be female. I am not attempting to take ownership of the female form through this work; rather, I am working with cyberfeminist theory to create a powerful female form through the use of technology as opposed to the introduction of common masculine traits.

Pages 90–91 Marta Finkelstein Please Don't Look at Me… Why, God? Why? The world is filled with curious beings who want to explore and embrace their own sexuality. Yet, there are others who wish to quash that curiosity and call it "evil". My work strives to show how terrible and harmful sexual oppression can be.

Pages 84–85 Bailey Cook Well-Known Smile Lean, Don't Leap I am very interested in the transformation of feminine form and pose through the decades. Well-Known Smile and Lean Don’t Leap were inspired by my grandma in the 1940s, while other works of mine have been inspired by my aunt in the 1970s and myself in the present. The poses of all the women are stiff and angular; they’ve been juxtaposed with broad and wild brushstrokes to give each woman movement and presence.

Artist Statements