CANVAS
Creative Arts Magazine Spring 2014 Volume 17, Issue 2
About CANVAS
Editor's Choice
Canvas Creative Arts Magazine 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 or her permission. The views represented in the magazine are not necessarily those of Canvas, Union Board, the Indiana Memorial Union, Indiana University, or the Board of Trustees.
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 Rachel Baxter (pg. 41-44) for her artwork and Kate Schneider (pg. 18-20) for her poetry. 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.
For questions or to submit for the Fall 2014 issue, contact: canvas@indiana.edu
Dear Reader We hope your time spent with the work on these pages is valuable and beneficial. These featured artists chose to labor over transpiring their individual ideas into meaningful work. We strive to fill the pages of this magazine with premiere art from Indiana University to acknowledge the incredible work by students and to engage readers in a creative dialogue. Our hope is that you enjoy the Spring 2014 edition of Canvas and that it inspires you to create and grow. Anna Teeter Editor
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Written Work
Visual Work Kayla Dunscombe Caitlin O’Hara Parick Hennig Kathleen DeBrota Sarah Ostaszewski Sunetra Banerjee Rachel Ankney Natalie Beesley Kathleen Garrison Alice C. Knipstine Barton Girdwood Rachel Baxter Anna Schink Zackery Worcel Donny Gettinger Linda Tien Zachary Carlisle Davidson Tiffany Street Franny Cook
14 16 22 23 24 25 30 31 33 36 38 42 46 50 51 52 54 60 61
Chris McFarland Vincent Pontillo-Verrastro Evelyn Walker Seth Daulton Sara Bradley Hannah Helton Anne Carney Raines Michelle Winchell Paige Mostowy Adam Reynolds Kyleigh Garman Kelly Marie Novak Kristy Hughes Devin Balara Adam Rake Megan Cowans Tai Rogers Victoria Kidwell
62 66 68 69 70 74 75 76 77 78 79 82 84 86 88 89 90 92
Ellis Bernstein Kate Schneider Tori Ziege Sarah Friedline QT Caldwell Jordan Bryant Sam Harvey Karen Heminger Erin Shaw Olivia Graham A. C. Riffer
13 18 26 34 40 48 49 58 64 72 80
Selections Committee
Assistant Directors
Katy Davis Hannah Garvey Jordan Lickliter Jocelyn McKinnon-Crowley Laura Miller Heidi Nuest Claire Repsholdt Kate Rolli Richkard Saint-Victor Mitchell Sigmund Anna Teeter Eric Van Scoik
Kate Rolli Mitchell Sigmund
Publisher
Director
World Arts Printing Inc.
Victoria Stevens
Editorial Staff Anna Teeter
Design Staff Katy Davis Eric Van Scoik
“
The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake.
”
Kurt Vonnegut
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coloring books Ellis Bernstein
coloring books are not childish but We the collective We that We that We were taught to listen to once We outgrew coloring books We say that coloring books are childish We also say that trees aren’t to be climbed lemonade stands aren’t to be built and hide and seek isn’t to be played but We’ll put all that to the side because We have been taught to make a clear and concise argument
but i need to tell you something there is something so enchanting so addicting so rewarding that I feel when i push just the right amount of color in between lines when i make just the right blend of purple and orange to get brown when i use the hatchback technique that my grandmother taught me for filling in empty spaces with color i need to tell you that We should take back coloring books that We shouldn’t call them childish because they aren’t childish We is childish.
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Kayla Dunscombe
Roommates Oil on Canvas Fragments (opposite) Mixed media on paper
Caitlin O’Hara
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Huddersfield Holiday Digital photograph
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Self Portrait in Tokyo Digital photograph
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My Grandpa’s Hand Kate Schneider
In and out of sleep, for the first time it seemed, she lay down. My grandma watched other people work. The quiet drip of a drug wove through her body, half her body still, half her brain still twitching, half her face gone slack. Sleep, falling into a dark garden. Falling away from the stripes that the blinds made on her sheets the sound of trolleys and the quiet drip of a drug, the quiet hum of blood in one ear.
The next morning she told my mother, slowly, like a secret one of her hands is not her hand anymore. Out of sleep, the room scrubbed light she told my mother one of her hands is not alone. His hand is in her hand. And my mother set the plastic cup and straw on the nightstand between them she lay her hand next to that hand to feel him too only to brush against.
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Camping Kate Schneider
From the belly of our tent, from the shroud of shared breath, of teeth, crowded,
stomach and fur stuck together, four heavy paws, one broken neck.
I snuck out: fresh. The walls opening like leaves I left his body, rosy-creased.
One drop of blood doesn’t make a sound. Two drops of blood don’t make a sound.
Outside the bushes were so dark, huddled like women, older than me.
Why does my blood not make a sound? My hand rose up like air. Quiet blood
They moved together, Shh Shh so I was quiet, Shh.
on one finger, jewel tipped: a fish-eye its lens, sliced from itself.
My insides tangled like the fox we saw earlier on the side of the road,
Box of Teeth Kate Schneider
I go into my mom’s room blind, feeling the soft gaps of dark between her bed, a lamp, that basket. Her whole world coughed up in black chalk around me. Downstairs someone runs water and stacks plates. I press into the still quiet of her room and follow my hands to her dresser where she keeps a box of my teeth.
I don’t know how I know this. She keeps it rolled up in a ball of stockings, like a bundle of nerves, each baby tooth pulsing inside and I will have to peel back the layers over and over, the thin film stuck like cobwebs.
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Patrick Hennig GO$$IP Pen, drip coffee, espresso
someone special Pen, chapstick
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Kathleen DeBrota Me, Myself, and I Digital photograph
Sarah Ostaszewski
Recline Oil on canvas
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Sunetra Banerjee
Weaving & Me Hand-woven cotton yarn, loom
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My First Panic Attack Tori Ziege
The soldier: shot with color, bleeding into a framework of memory— the picture so bright he has to close his eyes. An officer— big, loud and breathing— says, “Soldier steady. Soldier empty.” And then he dissipates. The soldier climbs inside of me. He ventures down the bunkers formed in my lungs. And in these tunnels he feels overwhelmed. And he feels endless. But I don’t feel him. Sometimes, I do feel. Footsteps on my diaphragm, a welcome mat, allows civilians to march on by --hope throbbing in my chest. The guard has taken rest. Set up establishments, will you? A house over here, a fort over there. Constructing walls, that the soldier feels. And he’s beating, beating, beating— but I don’t hurt. The civilians cut an edifice of genuine consequence, carving holes anew. As I spin them fantastical stories; the less real, the more true. And I try, try, try-- but the residents laugh at every word I write, and wear familiar faces. Their words wounding, the echo of guerilla warfare. How pathetic is their home? How shabby, the crude hand that crafted it. And as their criticism floods, I begin to stagger. Gleefully, the soldier aches. Because within his ears, the memory I hear is the pain of housing people in your heart.
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Something like Lying Tori Ziege
We are learning how to hit the ground. “Not to fall,” says the instructor, “because falling implies helplessness.” He shows us with his body, “Smack, smack.” He hits the floor with a lapping sound, like water on tile wall. It comes in waves, “smack, smack.” His arms, “Smack, smack.” The noise excites me like little nymphs tickling my brain. “HIT,” he bellows. I’m not so concerned with the falling, or the getting up. But laying there after the “smack!” tucked in by gravity. My eyes are heavy and the room, so dim. It’s hard to see anything ordinary. We continue to fall; hit, smack, hit, smack. Onto our backs. We hold a steady position and the instructor tells us about falling to the side. I roll unto my stomach and see an out-ofthe-ordinary white bug. Dexterous to the
count of eight, a tail. Transfixed I watch it crawl, wearily, between a crack in the mat. Everyone around me is standing up now. “What are you looking at?” growls my partner, stern, out the side of her mouth. “I don’t know…” I mumble. The bug is zig-zagging across the arch of her lip. *** After class, the hallways are dimmer. Dark like the clouds that loom outside. The streets are warm, there, and broken by rain, though it must be two in the afternoon. Two, stroking the clock gently. “That’s it,” it coos with a sinister urge, one that I feel in the leaves, wet and transparent, sticking to the ground like adhesive tape. The lines on the gym mats swerve between images of the road. My legs feel sandy and take on the weight of my eyes. I try to look down and evade
passing figures, but I keep meeting their gaze in the sidewalk. Pairs of eyes poking through the cement, raw and uncomfortably open. “Let me tell you,” they beg. “No thanks,” I mutter, quickly hurrying on. “You can’t!” they warn but I am running now, pushing through the trees like revolving doors. The birds nesting above cough and grow angry like screaming sirens; I slip in a puddle but I can’t remember how to fall. I only remember how to lie. *** The next thing I see is the face of a girl with a small nose. “She ran through the emergency exit,” she smirks, turning to a campus security guard. Their features are floating above me, becoming entangled: an enormous ear,
Canvas Creative Arts Magazine
half a unibrow. “What are you looking at?” I don’t know. The white bug is massaging my fingertips. After the incident, I go to my dorm because that’s the thing to do. My thighs are hot from walking and steam rolls off me in the shower. I stand there and watch different sets of feet come and go. Water droplets hit me like stories I’ve never heard. My hands play and are mesmerized. I talk to the wrinkles in my palms. “You are going to go to the doctor,” they predict. “No, you’re wrong.” “You have an illness.” “Okay,” I listen, because my head is tingling. The doctor’s otoscope turns like a lighthouse. Cotton balls float in the sky, and if I reach I can touch them underneath my eyelids. The doctor turns his head to the side, allowing me only
half a disgruntled expression. “I can’t see anything wrong with her,” he whispers to the nurse “She feels unwell,” she shrugs. Head on, his smile is spidery and writhing, “Why don’t you go home and get some rest?” “Okay,” I answer, because my bed can’t talk to me. Through the window, I see spring wilt backwards into winter. The flowers freeze and dust collects on the bushes. With their nails, people carve messages into my headboard. “You’ve missed three assignments,” notes one. “The professor is going to fail you,” writes another. I pick up my computer and try to explain. I print the paper for my fiction class and turn it in to my teacher. “It’s beautiful,” she states “But it’s real,” I plead. I made up this story, because it’s the truth.
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“ ...but I keep meeting their gaze in the sidewalk. Pairs of eyes poking through the cement, raw and uncomfortably open. �
Rachel Ankney
Goldwill Archival inkjet print
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Natalie Beesley
Grub-In-The-Tub Archival inkjet print
Rachel Ankney Heel Archival inkjet print
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Kathleen Garrison Fore Mannequin feet, acrylic sheet, sterling silver tube, plastic wire
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Disconnect Sarah Friedline
we went to a church where there were no pews just chairs set side by side so you could be sure which was your own separate little island of Christendom and mine was the square between my mother and father like Alsace-Lorraine between Germany and France and it was Valentine’s Day we went home in separate cars my mother and I a silent couple in a Volvo my father a silenter single in a pickup and on the way he stopped at the drugstore to buy my mother some nail polish and long after my mother had left and taken all her clothes and given away her wedding jewelry I was still using that nail polish to seal the knots on the bracelets I made so they wouldn’t come undone and the beads in falling away from each other become all disordered
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Quarry Heidi Peck
Off of Old 37, a thick three miles of forest filled with mid-twentieth century ziggurats and moss-covered abyss separates us from a defunct quarry. The boys and I go barefoot, my girl stays shod as we scramble through the moonless July night. We emerge, skin raw and covered in ticks upon a cauldron of ink buoyed with felled trees and the remains of a submerged car. I am the first to disrobe, the boys hesitating with chivalric valor as my girl strips to sweat-slick Willendorf nudity and leaps some number of feet into the apparently infinite deep. The boys follow and I, paralyzed by laughter, root to the ground like a nymph.
Alice C. Knipstine
Morning Walk Oil on panel
My husband called my thighs ‘saddle bags’ before I lost 47 pounds Collage
Barton Girdwood
It’s like being lost. If somebody just put the average person out in the woods, now find your way home. He’s gonna have to be pretty strong to find his way out of the woods, but along the way he’s going to be bruised a lot. And I’ve been bruised a lot. Digital photograph
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It makes me wish I was born now, instead of before. With what I know now what I would show them. Digital photograph
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Nuzzling
Socks’ Nonconsent
That vale between your pectorals, How many birds have found solace there? With fairer cheeks warm against the muscle. How many more will find it? Until the one that refuses to let up, To place on her clothes, And bound into another’s life. Perhaps love is always in transition, This instant of blissful contact Between the bounds.
It is a great shame about socks: Forced into pairs, Only ever wanting to be alone. Of course, too comes the raping with the feet, But that is a separate issue.
QT Caldwell
QT Caldwell
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Ashtray QT Caldwell
Roommate’s mad because we used her ceramic bowl as an ashtray. She asks, Don’t y’all understand art? But isn’t that the way with all things, I think, How all vessels run their course in the world, End up carrying something’s dust somehow? Better than to turn to dust yourself. Yet of course that day comes too…
Rachel Baxter Once Was Rust, woodcut, pastel, on fabric
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Impulse (left) Rust, woodcut, pastel, on fabric Strange Miracles (right) Rust, charcoal, spray paint, pastel, on fabric
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Rift (left) Woodcut, charcoal, spray paint, on fabric Ash (right) Woodcut, charcoal, smoke, spray paint, on fabric
Captured Flux (opposite) Rust, woodcut, charcoal, pastel, on fabric
Anna Schink
Canvas Creative Arts Magazine
I was sure I would turn a corner and see you there Silver gelatin print
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Untitled Silver gelatin print
Sestinas are for Lovers Jordan Bryant
He read my freckles like braille with his fingers before using his lips to read the fortune etched in my palms. He said there were stories I didn’t know, stories in skin that I could never write and his truth crept my spine like a chill.
When the morning woke me I do not know but I felt a strong compulsion to write, although not in cursive or type but in braille. I wanted to capture the way you felt in my palm the way your words gave me chills, the way your taste feels on my lips.
That night I felt the same chill and little bumps rose like braille on my skin and I couldn’t write. So I chewed the skin off my lips and asked my sores what they knew about feeling fires with delicate palms.
I poke out an ode to your bottom lip, The pouty one that knows the right way to kiss me chills. I can’t believe I never thought to write about how our love feels in my palms in a way both seen and felt; in braille.
I once warmed my frosty palms on the fire to fight the autumn chill. The flames beckoned, I couldn’t say no to the message written in ashy braille on the logs that were parted like lips and I burnt my hand, the one on the right.
In braille, there are no palms nor lips, just fingertips that know a word’s warmth and a lovers’ chill.
He slept soundly to my right his heart beating beneath my palm and I kissed his skin with quiet lips. I pulled the quilt up to block the chill, wondering what our love looks like in braille and hoping it’s possible to know.
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Sundays Sam Harvey
I don’t remember much of the Catholic church, just snatches of sermons and dark cherry pews. The holy water always tasted suspiciously like tap and I never knew whether to cross my chest from left to right or right to left. But now, standing at the counter of a drug store on a crisp Christmas morning, the cashier, a man with dyed blue hair and burn holes in his work shirt, lifts up a gallon of milk with both hands into the light and I suddenly remember one Christmas morning years ago when Father Munshower held up a just-christened little baby boy, just like that gallon of milk, or maybe more like a sacrificial heart, waiting to have its conviction won over by post-mass pastries.
Zackery Worcel Collage With Woman (left), Beliefs (right) Black felt tip pens
Donny Gettinger Boys Will Be Boys Steel
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Linda Tien
Abscessus Auctus Apathiaitis (left) Balsa wood, spackle, watercolor, latex, epoxy Apscessus Impotentia Sensusitis (right) Foam, cardboard, spackle, watercolor, latex, expoxy
Zachary Carlisle Davidson
tHE CitY 0f 城洲 (previous) Screenprint
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mEtA-BrAnDHEAD Digital
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Pretty City Streets Karen Heminger
Pretty Little City With its bright white lights Swept the streets Of gritty men ‘Cus they deemed Poverty A sore sight To see & I wonder if they sleep well (up)on their beds so high While others have but winks of sleep (to stretch) ‘cross Several restless nights The sign’s no longer welcoming They tell me to go home But that patch of grass Outside your office Was the only one I’d known
Now they read “Keep off Courtyard” And the beds of charity are full They tell me to be still now As they bombard me With their hypocritic rules But I can’t help to Shift in seats Since my hind Houses only sores So I’m wandering your streets now Not sure which way to go Because it seems at every turn I take My bones feel just as cold For they say that God has blessed us That in his favor we are seen That there is no need to worry That we are just as equally free
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But I cannot help to wonder If their maiden tongue is lies When the only use for homeless youth Are as rich men’s alibies They say it’s Innocent until proven guilty And that labor Brings dreams to bloom Yet I find that mine Are wilting With whittled hands Upon a broom For now I’m the king of the castle But it is a room for two With the lock upon the outside And the key belongs to you
So don’t act surprised To see me yelling from the rooftops While I’m screaming to myself When I was the only one Who seemed to hear my cries for help So I’m flying through the sky now You see finally I’m free & I cannot help but to smile up At that gentle concrete As it raises both arms To swiftly welcome me To the only home I’d ever known Pretty little city streets.
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Tiffany Street Untitled #5 (left) Untitled #3 (right) Photography
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Franny Cook
Alice Claire (left) Kathryn Susan (right) Tintype photography
Chris McFarland
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Our first home Photography
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In memorandum Photography
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Springtime Erin Shaw
Calendula oficialis is a perennial plant despite what many people think. But every spring, with my plastic shovel and his metal spade, my father and I would decorate our sidewalks with golden sunbursts. My father is a man with rough hands and bifocals hanging from a string around his neck. A man that lectures with good intentions finances, car maintenance, internet safety— his demonstrations of love inseparable from his tedious speeches. When the school year started we put away our shovels, side by side. Trading in horticulture for history, I got lost in textbooks with all the answers, but none of his certainty. By the time the last brown leaf fell, and the sky remained closed in a callous gray I told him, I don’t know who I want to be. He said, “Marigold, you’ll figure it out again in spring.”
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Measuring Womanhood Erin Shaw
Come here baby. Climb up on my cellulite thighs so I can rite of passage you with, the oppressive limits of your pony-tail, There’s a secret scale within each woman: on one side shame, on the other happiness and any person who doesn’t give a damn about you will make that scale tip towards defining you by your body and dismissing your mind like the uprooted worm after a rain, murdered by ignorant feet. I bought my first low cut t-shirt because I had yet to taste the world— flattered by the gentlemen, their wolfish collars and elastic fingers, eyeing me like a conclusion. I used to listen when they told me to cling to my seersucker dreams then go marry a White Man so my life could fold up nice like an origami crane.
After he pulled out of me and whispered with his hot liquor breath so thick and close to my ear I can still feel it like a cloud hovering when the lights go out and I’m alone, and after I ran outside in the February slush to vomit, I confessed like I was the guilty one. Like the fact that I have breasts and smooth calves is enough to make me the one to blame. The system is backwards and all that gets me is a bunch of mothers telling me to not drink, fathers telling me boys will be boys, doctors telling me to be more careful, officers asking me what I was wearing, friends telling me regret does not equal rape and every atom in my body, a voice muzzled and vibrating.
Vincent Pontillo-Verrastro
Canvas Creative Arts Magazine
Thoughts on fertility detail II (left) Wood, burlap, paint, acrylic, sterling silver, cotton Thoughts on fertility detail I (right) Wood, latex, paint, steel, cotton
Thoughts on fertility Wood, latex, paint, sterling silver, burlap, gold, acrylic, muslin
Evelyn Walker
Canvas Creative Arts Magazine
Ready (left) Steve (right) Collage
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Seth Daulton
Excavation Charcoal on paper
Sara Bradley
Lucy Digital photograph
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Obtuse Digital photograph
Portmanteau Olivia Graham
I’m being followed in florescent settings by engulfing endorsements Feeling morose so tail-spin into the nearest dilapidated strip mall Watch the duogenarians get bulging eyes and ecstatic tremors in the back-alleys and abandoned storefronts with the newest fetishized smartphone the newest digital album for ‘those two songs’ newest infantile erotica, non-reciprocated pleasure. Consummation through consumption. Without a recent book to clutch and maybe without a brain, too, I’m destined to fulfill the ephemeral, bipolar prophecies of the post-internet era: where viral videos are the only way to hegemony, to my Warhol-promised fifteen milliseconds of fame. So then could you repeat that again? Like in English? Buy windshield fluid that doesn’t freeze. Buy Orajel and copacetic and your daughter the newest gaming console so she knows you care. This is an amnesiac culture with events only as applicable as their clickability. And there’s no end to this millennial lugubre, to the 1990s nostalgia that devours you ironic-shirted chest, the same nostalgia that will devour your children for an era you’ll never know because you’re too engulfed in a false illusion of time about people from an era you never knew.
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Do you feel me? Can you see me? Your connection’s wonky. We’re trapped in an illusion of being completely in-control created by advertisers for continued, unassuming consumption, and all the technology will never aide in the ongoing battle against re-clutching two point seven ounces of inquisitiveness from the yellowing couch cushions. This is what my dad saw 1500 miles from the Wisconsin border, speeding on a schizophrenic skyway. The creation of futuristic technology is probably only in pursuit of medieval barbarism. So share this fist-fight on Worldstarhiphop.com; it isn’t real until it’s a simulacrum on a Midwestern news-feed. Modern slavery with Ethernet-cable cuffs. Can you love me like my father felt when he saw the Connecticut shoreline, St. Elsewhere’s halation illuminating the American psyche? Do you feel that addictive-entertainment abscess swelling and swarming and seeping into your sebaceous glands? A romantic American Cladogenesis: the indisputable death of verbosity and the ability to enunciate. All you can do is move around the world as it’s marketed towards your hopes and fears and predictable actions.
Hannah Helton
Lois crouched in the tree, unmoving, blind. Then suddenly, a pair of yellow eyes shone again Copper, silver, brass, book covers, paper, ink, thread, enamel, paint
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Anne Carney Raines
The Adventure of the Yellow Face Oil on canvas
Michelle Winchell
Canvas Creative Arts Magazine
Invisible Cities Collograph, paper, book board
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Paige Mostowy Mother and Daughter 2 channel audio installation, 4 transparent photographs mounted in custom light boxes, mixed media
Adam Reynolds Public bomb shelter, Haifa. Photography
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Kyleigh Garman Landscape brooch #1 (left) Paint, sand, acrylic, seed beads, sterling silver Landscape Ring (right) Paint, sand, foam, seed beads, acrylic
Follow the Poppy-Lined Path A. C. Riffer
Little bells of flowers creating no Sound. Butterfly wings pinched together for further Examination. Life made bizarre by bulbous poppies And I want no other story. No other lead Than what you have read.
I am not your poppy I am not the infantile woman you read I am not here to fulfill your story The metamorphosis meets flesh suddenly and no More silence for these flowers they bend further And I think it is time for a new lead.
I do tend to read Into things. It is a curse, but no One could accuse me of following without a lead. Further off the path, further into the wild, further. And is that not the warning of all stories? Am I not your poppy?
One who can do more with sanguine smiles, a lead To command more than fear from poisonous poppies One who can find a new path. Further Into the uninhabited and wouldn’t that be a good read? Picking fruit without permission for things that have never been. No Aimless wandering in the wild, instead a story
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Of new convictions, and new morals, a story That does not condemn its leads To save others, they can save themselves first. No Staying on the ground when the poppy Can lend you wings. Doing rather than reading, Embracing rather than running further And further into the known. Further Into the familiar, stray instead to a new story. A new adventure, for I am done with reading This one. It is too much of the same, the lead Wants me to wilt without him. That’s PoppyCock he is not worth the time, the rhyme, no, not worth much at all. No I demand all that the stories tried to deny me, a leader who goes further Farther off the path, poppies lighting ways like stars, well-read Monsters. Excuses drying in throats, no more no.
Kelly Marie Novak
Canvas Creative Arts Magazine
Fragments from Utopia: Preikestolen I (left) Fragments from Utopia: Preikestolen IV (right) Silver, reclaimed wood, resin, found stone, vintage red wool sweater
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Fragments from Utopia: Preikestolen V (left) Silver, reclaimed wood, resin, found stone, vintage red wool sweater Blue (right) Silver, deer antler, tree bark, air mail envelope, copper
She Woke Me Up Again Monotype
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Kristy Hughes
This Rain Monotype
Devin Balara
Florida Snowflake Paper, wood
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Pool Sweet Pool Steel, screen, thread
Adam Rake The Dry Salvages: “The Whine in the Rigging” Intaglio monoprint
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Megan Cowans
Contrary Parallels 2 Archival inkjet print
Tai Rogers
Canvas Creative Arts Magazine
Curriculum Vitae: Mullet Key (left) Curriculum Vitae: Mullet Key detail (right) Ceramic Mapping My Course detail Ceramic, wood, graphite
Victoria Kidwell
Corrections Digital photograph
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