editorial
Film
FQntQs~
b'y Sand,Y Sneed and Lewis Goans
In recent years, there has been a movement from print media to visual communication-predominantly the film media. We have laid our books down and turned to televiSIon and films for a good portion of information as well as enjoyment. Unlike other phases of communication which date back to ancient times, film is less than 100 years old. It has originated and expanded before us; it has changed our mudern age just as the age has developed it. Filmic communication is the growth of industries, the birth of a new art form, an expansion of the communication process, a massive entertainment outlet, an aid in technical advancement-it is all these and more. In the wake of this tidal wave of visual communication, colleges and universities all over the country have begun to incorporate film history and film making in their curriculums. The film programs in departments of cinema. are located communications, theatre, art, and broadcasting, among others. Here at the University of Tennessee, the film history and theory courses are in the department of Speech and Theatre, while the courses involving film making and film editing are in the departments of Art and Broadcasting. In the history and theory classes, emphasis is placed on the analytical viewing of films and familiarizing the student with various technical aspects of the industry. The film making courses allow the students to try their own hands at the art. Film is also present in many other places on campus. Education has a media division; libraries have
a non-print section; there is a Photographic and Film Service in the University Extension Division; many other departments have full series of films relating t o their respective subjects. However, at present, UT offers no opportunity for a major in the area of filmic communications, with the exception of the College Scholars Program. Three students are enrolled as "film majors" through this program, but many more students have expressed an interest in a film major. Growing interest is reflected in the crowded film classes, especially in the film making area where classrooms are often overflowing and the availability of equipment is limited. Last year, a University Committee on Film Studies was formed under the leadership of Dr. Ralph Norman to study the extent of film interest and film possibilities on campus. At the conclusion of its the committee will present its research, recommendations for the direction of film study at UT. The decision will be based on the needs of our school and a study of the programs which have been tried at other schools. To have an effective film program, a University must be prepared to cover all phases of film history; production, criticism and uses. Without such an integrated program, film studies would be inconclusive. Weare calling for such a film curriculum at UT. In the past, it was possible for film studies to be limited. But now, film making and film studies can hardly be ignored. Film is the medium of the future and we are shaping the future today.
Fall 1974
hoenix
The front cover was designed by Maxi Chan, a graphic arts major from Hong Kong. After becoming proficient at Chinese painting, he designed many professional posters and logos. He came to UT last July after working as a designer for the H. K. Marklin Advertising Agency in Hong Kong.
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interview The Dean of the New Journalism .. .The KandyKolored Tangerine-Flaked Streamlined Baby . .. pop sociologist. .. The Purrphouse Gang . . .43-years old ... The Electric Kool-aid Acid Test ... Ph.D. in American Studies at Yale .. Radical Chic/ Mau-Mauing the Flak Catchers .. .the Washington Post/the New York Herald Tribune . .. soon to be released book and topic of discussion The Right Stuff. .. ice cream suit ... ... It's white and expensive and so ch ic and he is actually wearing it. And there he is sitting right there in a chair in the Campus Sheraton Inn and he's wearing the famous Tom Wolfe ice cream suit. All of this kept running through my mind when I first laid eyes on the honcho of pop journalism. Tom Wolfe was actually here in Knoxville to give his speech on class conflict; and I was about to get my chance to apply everything I knew about his technique ... the New Journalism technique of saturati on reporti ng. I was going to be at Wolfe's side for one entire day. Nine hours of watching persons wrack their brains to ask questions worthy of an answer from college
Tom Wolfe This writer's hero comes dressed in whitewho else, but author/ journalist Tom Wolfe wearing his . Ice-cream suit . .. in Knoxville!
by Zack Binkley Phoenix 2
chic's atomic secular guru - Tom Wolfe. To a journalism student interested in magazine writing, Wolfe is a bona fide goldplated hero. He personally lifted magazine feature writing from the doldrums of Sunday newspaper magazine supplements to a fine art. Wolfe's first big break came when he went to work for the Washington Post with a double assignment: reporting Latin American news and writing humor. After leaving the Post, he free-lanced magazine and newspaper articles before joining the New York Hera/dTribune's Sunday magazine staff. During this period of working on journalism's lowest denominator he started developing his New Journalism style. It gave him a chance to experiment with unconventional techniques such as writing the word "hernia" 56 times in an opening paragraph "just so people would turn the page to see how th is wou Id end up. In those days, the trick was to get readers to keep turning the pages," Wolfe said. The subject of these articles were just a little ... off-beat. The "hernia" article was about the Las Vegas scene (the word "hernia" repeated over and over was to give the reader an idea of the rhythmic sound in a casino). Other articles were about Carol Doda, the first woman to have silicone implants in her breasts {titled
when he told me he had written the "button" artic le as a putdown on the whole idea of persons needing the status of suits with buttons which really button. So why does he have buttons which really button? I never found out because I didn't ask him. Honestly, I was so nervous about being in my hero's presence that I couldn't ask him anything at all! You must understand that Tom Wolfe is considered one The first thing I did of the best profile writers in when I saw Tom Wolfe at the journalism. You must also motel that day in October was understand that I intended to to check out his clothes since cover him the way he would he felt strongly enough to cover someone : by doing write a magazine article on voluminous resesrch and by the subject. The famed trailing him closely ice cream suit was coordinated throughout his visit. That, with a lavender shirt with a basically, is saturation blue polka-dot tie. He also reporting ... and no one wore blue checkered socks with does it better than Wolfe. But he takes this type of ... white wingtips! I reporting a step further by immediately fell in love with trying to "enter" the the shoes because I can't ever subject's head. I had read remember seeing white his book, The New wingtips. Journalism, several times But most important: the and I understood all of three white buttons on the this, much like you can sleeve of this exquisitely understand theories in a tailored suit really buttoned! textbook. But doing it is a I can't tell you how relieved totally different thing. The I was to find this out ...to whole idea is to try to find out that Tom Wolfe was "blend into the wallpaper" in that fascinating class of and hang around the subject men whose sleeves really long enough to know what button up. he is thinking. The trick to The first disappointment of the day followed, however, this is that you can rare ly ask the subject questions or even make him aware you are arou nd. " ...Often you feel as if you've put your whole central "The Woman Who Has Everything") and "The Secret Vice" (about real buttonholes) . " ... There are just two classes of men in the world, men with suits whose buttons are just sewn onto the sleeve , just some kind of cheapie decoration, or- yes! - men who can unbutton the sleeve at the wrist because they have real buttonholes and the sleeve really buttons up. Fascinating! "
nervous system on red alert and turned it into a receiving set with your head panning the molten tableau Ii ke a radar dish, with you saying, 'Come in, world" since you want ... allofit. .. " And that's what I was tryi ng to attempt- radar dish the foremost radar dish. So I listened and watched. People asked him so many questions that many of mine were answered anyway. But none of them were very revealing of Tom Wolfe the person. It was after I had been with him for about three hou rs that I realized h is answers to those questions were straight out of his boo ks. He hadn't given an original answer all day! Doubts started creeping into my mind. First I doubted if I could write a story on him at all. After three or four hours of trailing him I had heard nothing new and nothing exciting. I was getting this overwhelming feeling that Tom Wolfe was actually ... bland. Bland!! How can this be? Just look at the stuff he writes: The Electric Kool-A id Acid Test, about Ken Kesey and the Merr Pran ksters- they were the original hippies. And Radical Chic about a real Leonard Bernstein party in the Big Apple where all of these incredibly chic persons are host to the incredibly chic Black Panthers
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., .and Wolfe chewed them all to pieces in his articles. How could he be bland? He's wearing his ice cream suit and he is saying witty super-intelligent words of wisdom ... but he's said them all before and he wears that suit everywhere. By dinnertime I was beginning to get frantic. What if I don't get into his head? Maybe I should quit journalism school and go back to being a travelling roach clip and rolling paper salesman. And nothing improved during dinner except Wolfe's clothes. He had changed into an even more chic canary yellow suit with vest, a beautiful gold stickpin ... and blue suede Guicci loafers. He tal ked to the 25 people gathered to watch him eat about such subjects as Cas Walker, his try-out with the old New York Giants as a pitcher ... you get the idea. This wasn't the type material which is Ii kely to win a reporter the Pulitzer Prize. Earlier in the day, one of Wolfe's old Yale buddiesRobert Drake of the English Department- had said that ((only God knows what Tom Wolfe thinks." And after more than seven hours of trailing Wolfe I was convinced that I
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a mental notebook and filing it into a mental file cabi net. And he probably has the most monstrous mental drawers in the business. That is why Tom Wolfe is bland - because he is a radar dish constantly scanning. He just recedes into the wall and lets everyone else be interesting. Not merely lets them be interesting, but causes them to be so. When I asked him the last question at 12 :30 a.m., he stammered for the first time all day. I merely asked hi m who he was; and his reply: "I don't know, I've never confronted it. . . " Well, I think I know. Tom Wolfe is only a pen name. And th is guy who goes arou nd wearing the flashy ice cream su its and says h is name is Tom Wolfe ... is only a spot on the wallpaper. •
wasn't God. I was beginning to think that all of this stuff he had said about blending into the wallpaper and observing so you can get into the subject's head was pure crap. But at 11 p.m., a few of us went over to Wolfe's cousin's apartment (she is a student here) and got loose ... had a few drinks and Cazort! It happened. Wolfe was just sitting around, hardly saying a word, but everyone in the room was immersed in the most beautiful conversation. Interesting, enlightening conversation ... about tu rni ng England into a Disneyland because everything there is so quaint- but the government and the country is a mess . I was sitting almost beh ind the drapes sipping scotch when it came at me Ii ke the Cannonball Express gone out of control on its way down Pike's Peak! To keep from d istracti ng everyone by pulling out pencil and paper and writing it all down - I started scribbling notes on my hands, pants leg ... anything that a Bic pen will write on. Here's what I found out::: Tom Wolfe has spent so much of his life practicing his profession of blending into the wallpaper that he has become wallpaper. Everywhere he goes he blends and absorbs - soaking up everything everyone says, jotting it into
Photographs by Joe Willis
poetrlJ
The Therapy Line 1951 In a hall of white are they Standing in a therapy line. Except for settlement camp My first real job; in line The ambient ill and relatives Wishing they were dreaming. Suddenly an elevator opens, To issue a strong survivor. Survivor waves, smiles to the line, And rolls to a sunlit street. Thus, my education begins. Why his blood is green! Why Take his tumor right away? John, looking-old, leans back Puffing on a thin brown cigar. "Not only to delay death," he says, "To humanize a time ofliving": Morris swings on a subway strap And talks about prostates, as a Toughy gal listens in puzzlement. "This enzyme belongs in semen, Not the blood"; puzzlement indeed For I now fear to think. Christmas day of sixty three, Ellie and I take our two boys To the big tree standing Right outside the cancer ward. Patients in a wheelchair row, As chattering children quietly watch The old and young embrace again Just with their eyes before they part . will our child-dreams be ending thus? Now, can I hope for me and mine, Standing in a therapy line?
raDlses LXXIV the leaves dragged me with them as they fell gold and ruby (an occasional rare emerald) i lay buried the fall-pharaoh under the magic trove.
-Valerie B. Menefee
at the site when the rain has driven the leaves from Eden insects must clamber clawing at the mud over there, that shuddering grunting mantis in Lilliput wrenches the earth's breastplate whiktinywmkcrs~umbk
- Paul W. Wigler
hauling water
- Paul Roden
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Retrospect IV Solitude Yesterday, I saw a crane alone, one-legged standing in the marsh. He was silver and evening and he balanced, peering down into the water that caressed his bony leg, like an old man watching for God.
-Marla Puziss
Yesterday was a symphony of ordinary thingswhole dismal days of rain, crickets heard quietly over traffic, wind whispering through the tops of tall pines, Grandmother at the piano on Saturday afternoon. The sounds are no longer clear but echoes linger, faded and torn by time, and memory recreates, in tantalizing fragmen ts, the dream of innocence.
-Jan Berly
Vegetable Silence To sit at supper doing nothing Watching the radio silence, The curtains stilling their smug wa ves To watch me committing nothing;
(Untitled)
Things vanish in the making. Once started, they are never the same. To sit between nothing Doing less is not to be there at all.
The mountain, curled inside granite, sleeps through winter. Along its curved backbone Naked forests stand silent under snow.
The dinner never recognizes me. The vegetables, like old friends, Steam in conversation While I witness from frantic nothingness their peculiar silences.
-Quentin Powers
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-Marla Puziss
photogroph,Y
,Harry Weill
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Butch Gaut
David Miller
Gerin Choenire Sabourir Phoenix 8
Dav id Miller
Butch Gaut
Joe Willis Phoenix 10
eSSQ'y
Yoknapatawpha Revisited by Tony Powers The legacy of William Faulkner At first glance there is little conflict with itself." to distinguish Oxford, Faulkner's work accomplishes Mississippi, from an ordinary the old alchemist's dream: Southern college town. At its the transmutation of lead center stands a traditional into gold. co urthouse, white and It is fifty years si nce massive, topped by a silver Faulkner's first work, a small cupola and surrounded by volume of poems entitled The stately oaks, with a statue of Marble Faun, was published. a Confederate soldier on its As his work sli ps into Ii terary South lawn. Nielson's history and Oxford and the five-and-ten-cent store, South seem rapidly now to "founded in 1839," faces catch up with the twentieth Dino's Pizza across the square century, there are some in this town which, while especial values in the complex enmeshed in the of his mythical tapestry Rowan Oak: The Faulkner home in Oxford, Mississippi. modernization of the fo r the you ng cou nty seventies, still looks back with pride to its past. On one corner Southern reader, both black and white. farmers in their work clothes, in from Taylor and other small Faulkner's work is imbued with a powerful historical sense, communities in the low country of the south or the hill farms a feeling for how the present grows from and still contains of the north of Lafayette County, loiter and taciturnly chew outgrowths of the past. Nowhere else, perhaps, can the reader tobacco and watch the passersby, while on another corner a find so vividly portrayed the forces that fashion a section of group of young blacks are gathered. the country and the elements of an historical identity. If you asked any of these what made Oxford different from In outlying areas of Lafayette County and in the Delta any other small town, most likely "Ole Miss" would be his country near Batesville, Mississippi, Faulkner often hunted in reply, referring to the quietly traditional University of the unspoiled remnants of the wilderness wh ich once covered Mississippi on the city's edge. most all of North America. From his own experiences and "What about William Faulkner," you ask. "Did you know from the tales he heard around the campfires, he garnered the him?" basic materials for what is often consi dered the finest "Oh that writer fellow. Yeah, I've heard of him." evocation of the wilderness, in all its beauty and terror, in But to a world-wide audience, William Faulkner has made American literature. And in Go Down, Moses and a number of Oxford and Lafayette County familiar as Jefferson and short stories, he explores the meaning of the wilderness Yoknapatawpha Cou nty. And yet it is not exactly Oxford experience and the consequences of the wi Iderness' either, for Faulkner, by a process he called "sublimating the destruc tio n. The independent small farmer, a fast-vanishing part of the actual into the apocryphal" made over details and legends of Southern landscape, is another chief element of the Lafayette and neighboring counties into a saga of the South, Yoknapatawapha cycle. Faulkner knew these people; he and , most important of all, a saga of the "human heart in
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路 .. from the tales he heard around the campfires, he garnered the basic materials for what is often considered the finest evocation of the wilderness, in all its beauty and terror, in American Literature.
sometimes admired and sometimes was appalled by the actions which grew from their fierce independence. The Hamlet moves most directly into this world of the Varners, The Tulls and the Ratliffs, in chronicling the rise of unscrupulous Flem Snopes. Today, near Taylor, one still finds Varners and Ratliffs inhabiting the same land, though in very different circumstances. And with Flem Snopes, whose name
originated the term "snopesism" for any unprincipled self-interest, Faulkner's concern with the beginnings of the "New South" becomes evident. Faulkner and his friend Phil Stone warily watched in the 1 920 's and 1930 's what has become infamously known as "the rise of the rednecks" with the accession of James K. Vardaman and Theodore Bilbo on the state level and Joe Parks and later governor Lee Russell in
William Faulkner Illustration by Harry Kirk
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Oxford. These events find expression in the fiction as Flem Snopes moves from the cou nty to Jefferson and eventually takes over Bayard Sartoris' bank just as Parks took over the bank by Faulkner's once controlled grandfather. Some in Oxford still speak of these people and events in hushed tones, for now the descendant~ of the "rednecks" are the pillars of the community. Still Faulkner does not fall back into an easy traditionalism in the face of this onslaught, but instead subjects the old traditions to a most painful scrutiny . Indeed, some of the most superb drama of the Yoknapatawpha novels came as the descendants of the old Southern aristocrats face the truth of the past, of the inhumanities of the Old South to the black and the poor white, having to hate a part of the country they would rather love. Faulkner's racial views may now seem somewhat outdated; he was basically a grad ual ist, believing change had to come from within, not be forced from without. But his black characters, especially those such as Rider and Lucas Beauchamp of Go Down, Moses, often throb with that warm life of humanity that makes great characters of any race. Faulkner's legacy is these things and much, much more. His saga of a land in chaos, of a land refashioning itself above the bones of its past
Some in Oxford still speak of these people and events in hushed tones, for now the descendants of the "rednecks" are the pillars of the community.
contains a high drama and often a Twainian comedy seldom found in modern literature of any region or country. Oxford is not now as unaware of its most famous son as once it was. The University of Mississippi now owns Rowan Oak which, next to Ole Miss athletics, is Oxford's main tourist attraction. Many from throughout the world visit the home for a gli mpse of the rooms where the author composed many of his masterpieces, where even his desk and ancient portable typewriter are preserved, and the walls of his office still sport the outline of A Fable in crayon and pencil. Further recognition of Faulkner at
the Un iversity is seen at the Ole Miss library. Stand ing beside the post office where his inefficiency once cost him his job, it bears a quotation from his Nobel Prize acceptance speech. But he would also be proud that black and white students may today stroll together before that library in seemi ng illustration of his hope there expressed that man's spirit might someday prevail. Leaving Oxford's square in the twilight, in that fading gasp of August light that was something extraordinary to Faulkner, you suddenly seem to feel the presence of something there, of Oxford blending into jefferson, the real scene becoming the imaginery.
Oxford Courthouse and Confederate Statue: These structures often appear in Faulkner's novels and stories as symbols of continuity with the past.
There, on that residential street you imagine Emi Iy Grierson peering Ii ke an unearthly idol from an upper story window. And from that sidestreet cafe emerges young joe Christmas and Bobbie Allen. Suddenly comes the hammering of hooves around the square and Luster the young black shouting "Gret God! Hush! Hush!" to Benjy the idiot boy who is howling, and jason Compson runs from a store to reverse the wagon's direction around the Confederate statue. Is it real, you wonder? One of Faulkner's characters once said that sometimes "there is a might-have-been which is more true than truth." This, perhaps, is one .•
Ole Miss Library: This quotation, from Faulkner's Nobel Prize acceptance speech, represents the growing recognition of Faulkner in his home town and throughout the country.
Photographs by Tony Powers
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art
Catherine Waller Etching 7 3/4" x 11 3/4"
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The print as an art form is different from other media in two ways: it has to be done indirectly (in reverse of the final image desired); and there is no singular, original art work to be considered. That is, each print is a "multiple original" that has passed through several states of change. The print is usually done in small, limited editions of less than one hundred on special papers. I mages are individually in ked and each print is hand-pulled from a of potential printing multitude surfaces. Whether a mark is made on wood (woodcuts and wood engravings), stone (lithographs), metal (etchings and engravings), fabric screens (serigraphs), or a combination of these, the artist must be both sensitive to his working materials and aware of the high craftsmanship required in printing techniques. This century, as no other, has seen printmaki ng receive its cred it as an independent art form which has broadened its appeal to an ever-increasi ng audience who are interested and stimulated by this visual phenomenon. The prints in this issue seek to meet and perpetuate this tradition. -Basil Companiotte
moking morks
Bill Loy Mezzotint Actual Size
..?,:l7:: ,,
~iY,'
'1 It'.
Nel Gammon Lithograph 10 3/8" x 13 3/8" Phoenix 15
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Sandra Lee Starck
Catherine Waller
Lithograph
Litho-etching 17 3/4" x 23 3/4" Phoenix 17
fiction
Periwinkles by Kathleen Lyles
It was a small town, and on its edge was another world into which you walked through an iron gate. Above the gate was a sign with a picture showing a man, surrounded by children. Words beneath the picture said, " 'Suffer the little children to COme to me ... for of such is the kingdom of Heaven.' THE CHRISTIAN CHI LOREN'S HOME-est. 1933." With that introduction, it was understandable that the Cottages, nestled on hillsides beneath pines, should try very hClrd to look Ii ke normal homes. They affected flesh-pink paint, brick trim, and azalea bushes; the window screens had to be backed by screws and held in place because they had so often been pushed out. From the gate, and running past these cottages, was an aSphalt road. At one point, before passing on to a field, it stopped to spread and form a parking lot. Beside this lot, a sidewal k led amiably between two cottages and branched out to both. The sidewalk ran along a nearly always green lawn. On the other side of the sidewalk, a brick planter hugged one whole . side of a pin k stucco building.
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There was a girl, who sitting on her bed, could rest her elbows on a window sill and stare, straight in the eye, the periwin kles which grew from the planter. The flowers were so thick and wild, they would have seemed Ii ke bushy weeds, had it not been for their starry-eyed pink blossoms. There was talk of digging them all up, and planting some more refined-looking plants. She wouldn't have put it past them - she loved the peri wi n kles. Mornings were nice, for then she would look through the periwinkles to the sidewalk and see everyone go down to breakfast. "Go . down"- the dining hall was in a little space between hills. First, small boys from the cottage across the road. They were very noisy, and the girl would scowl at them from her window behind the periwinkles, because they always' grabbed leaves from the flowers on their way past. The little girls would clang down the fire-escape of the cottage next door with their hard little heels. A lot of squealing- but at least they didn't pass her window. Months before, she had written a short poem: From the window .that I see the flow'rs,
Illustration by Phoebe Hittler I see you in the morning; And the rain blows in and soaks my bed When clouds burst without warning. And usually she would sit on her bed, looking out the window until the boy to whom she had written those words passed by her window, singing or whistling softly. When he appeared, her heart would be in her throat; his hair was wild and curly, he was too skinny. He walked as though he was going nowhere. She would call out to him, and each time, as though he hadn't expected it, he would turn and squint toward her window; she would run out the door and walk down to breakfast with him. The boy was rather like a forbidden friend. He was always in trouble, usually misunderstood. The girl believed that the adults felt threatened intellectually by him, and so mistreated him, although she did realize how difficult he could be. There was an old fat cook who always warned her that he would mean nothing but trouble to her; she said she ought guard her purity against boys like that because he knew "too much of the world." She always told the boy these thingi, and he
usually replied "Jesus Christ!" He said these words in little bites, and she loved to hear him say it, though she didn't think it quite right to do so. Together, they were scornful of the strange and stern rules the Home enforced. But more than that, he was amused by the religion that was supposedly the support of the Home, and he totally rejected it. She had to grant him the discrepancies she could recognize, but could not yet let go completely. This Church was somehow too closely tied to the only home and secu rity she had ever known. He would never accept the rules and religion silently, and his outspokenness often caused him to be disciplined. She was almost never reprimanded, for she silently and calmly obeyed the rules. The doubts in her mind were still only formless embryos. She listened openly and eagerly to the boy tal k about things which to her almost seemed sacrilegious. He knew and appreciated many different philosophies and religions. She would ask, "And are you a Buddhist? .. Pantheist? .. " or any other topic of the day and he would always say no. He seemed strong to her; able to live without something else, without a
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god - that was frightening. She stored away all the exciting knowledge she gained from him, and thought him far wiser than any teacher she had ever known. Then he would also tell her funny stories of the pranks he had pulled. He would hide in the dining hall when the cooks were locking up at night. Then after they had gone, he would unlock the door and let some other boys in. They had some fine banquets. And then, there was the sneaking off at night. .. and getting drunk .... She had no desire to get drunk, but al ways thought of "gentle mischief"- the pranks which were exciting and rather harmless. One afternoon, they sat talking on the planter by her window. (It was a stolen moment - a girl and boy talking alone in the afternoon would constitute "courting," wh ich was forbidden, except on Friday nights, and then only for those sixteen and older.) She touched some periwinkle petals lightly with her fingertips and pouted, "Yeah, but you know girls can never do any of that stuff. They watch us a hundred times closer than they do you guys. They don't even care what you do, except get drunk." He had just been telling her about sneaking into the pool after midnight. "Well, they do watch you pretty close," he said and his smile cracked. "They're afraid you'll get pregnant." She made a face. He went on, "But if you know how, you can get away with anything. You could even go swimming if you wanted to." "Sure," she laughed. "With them?" She nodded toward her cottage. "They'd start squealing and giggling even if they did have the nerve to go." "Well," he said, looking at her intently, "Would you go?" She knew that if she said yes, he'd offer to take her and she couldn't back down. And to say no would be silly. "Of course I'd go," she said, trying to sound indifferent. "I'll take you ... oh, I bet you won't go. Tonight?" He was half sneering, a periwinkle stem in his mouth. "See if I don't." Nothing would happen if she went with him. "Anyhow," she admitted reluctantly, "I'd feel safe with you." "I'll tap on your window at 1 :30. If you don't get up," he said, kicking her bare foot, "I'll come in and get you!" With that he started down the walk and was singing by the time he got to the first azalea bush by the little girls' cottage. She looked after him and was pretty sure she wouldn't do it. It wasn't so much the swimm ing. But if she were caught sneaking out with a boy in the middle of the night- that was enough to blemish her name forever and ever. Amen. She thought about Hester Prynne. That's about what she would
Phoenix 20
have to do. Wear a scarlet letter. She watched his back disappear into a grove. "You gotta be kidding," she said, In her small room she waited in bed, curtains apart) moonl ight for a sheet. She heard his steps and sat up before he even had to tap. He seemed pleased that sh e wasn't asleep. She grabbed the towel which lay on her bed and quietly trembling, made her way through the TV room, down a bare, slick hall, and out the back door. He was standing there, smiling most wickedly, and she thought how powerful he really was, to attract her to him Ii ke this. He wore no shirt, and noting her sh orts and shirt, said, "You swimm ing in that?" "Got my bathing suit on underneath," she replied, knowing very well she'd leave all her clothes on. She didn't want to rebel completely. Girls and boys were not allowed to swim together. In fact, there was a high fence wi th a plastic covering all around the pool so the boys couldn't see the girls in their bathing suits. She couldn't recall a boy ever having seen her in one since she had developed - and she was sixteen now ... It was a warm, sweet, heavy night. They had to walk down a hill to the pool, and on the way they slid on the pine needles which were scattered about. Once she nearly fell, but he caught her arm. Along the 路way, there were few and scattered spotlights by trees and roof eaves, She had always guessed that it was to make prowlers easily seen, but she almost laughed out loud when she thought she knew why they were really there. At every significant point - the dining hall, the bargain basement (a misnomer- it was a small old building, not a basement, filled with donated hand-me-down clothes which the children could seldom wear), the playground - she nearly turned back. But each time, a mere glance at his smiling, all-knowing face would be enough to goad her on. Finally, at the wide asphalt road which spread down t he largest hill, she knew she was really going to do it. Everything but her determination was pushed from her mind. She was elevated above fear of being caught; she was at the point at which it no longer mattered. She knew this was an inevitable adventure. At the bottom of the h ill was a small wooden house. The maintenance man lived there. There was a large machine shop full of auto repair and gardening tools several yards from one side of the house, and on the other side - the pool. The girl looked at the fence and through some c racks could see the water glinting. The boy whispered, "Over to the shop- to get a ladder." She followed him over to the building; it was full of junk and
she wondered how they would ever find a ladder in that mess. He led her to the back, which was piled with painting supplies. Light slipping around from the front of the building showed empty and partially-filled paint cans, drooling the flesh-p in k campus color. There were planks and scaffolding leaning against the shop side. She saw a ladder behind them and .rolled her eyes. They began moving the junk from around the ladder. It was fairly easy, but once her foot hit an empty can and the sound shot right through her, past her, and right into the house nearby. The boy froze for a moment, then smiled nervously. Together they lifted the ladder out of the debris; he led her past the shop slowly, and past the house more slowly. They went around the pool to the bathhouse that opened into the pool. They leaned the ladder against the bath house, once on the roof, she felt as though she were escaping a concentration camp. If she stood, they might spot her, so she lay flat against the gravel of the roof. He did the same, so she thought it must be the right thing. He looked around them before pu lIing the ladder up. They lowered the ladder down onto the concrete poolside. She looked at the pool from the roof. It was a still blue velvet sheet, even more beautiful because it was forbidden. Why were such lovely things wrong to have? By the pool, she smiled at herself in disbelief. The boy sat on the side, then lowered himself into the water. She did the same, after sprin kl ing some of the water over herself. Her body cut smoothly into the water, noiselessly, and was soon covered and warm; she melted into the water, and was aware of only the beautifu I things which touched her there. The boy was floating lazily on his back; tall pine trees outside the fence towered high; light from a spotlight some ways up a hill beyond the pool danced across the water. The girl felt strangely powerful and excited by her ability to glide soundlessly through the water. She briefly pretended that to make the slightest sound was to be discovered and to perish. She was escaping across a moat; she was a princess, ever grateful to this strange knight for rescuing her. The strange knight suddenly grabbed her ankle, and her start seemed so loud, that she was sure everyone on the grounds must have heard it. To cover her momentary discomfort, she spit a mouthful of water into his face, and then swam swiftly to the side underwater. They never touched again in the water, nor did they speak. The night was a blanket over them, and the water was a cushion of soft diamonds, for the moon and stars, as well as
the spotlight played on the water. When everything was the softest, most quiet, and yet most brilliant, it was time to leave. She finally said, "Let's go," and stepped up the ladder of the pool. The only noise was the water dripping off them back into the pool. Out of the water, the girl hugged herself. It was cold. She found her towel and waited for the boy's nod, then started up the ladder. On the other side, she jumped off the ladder, skipping two rungs. The ground was hard and stung her feet. She wanted to leave the ladder by the bath-house; he offered to take it back alone, but she didn't want to miss anything and helped him. Then they started back. Wal king back, she nearly burst. A smile stayed about her mouth; she couldn't help thinking of everyone asleep. For a moment, the boy was the only person she could think of who seemed wiser than herself. He towered over her as always - seeming even more magnificant as he sm"iled indulgently at her pleasure. She was laughing to herself, "I've done it- I really have!" She was carrying her shoes, and her shirt clung to her body, and drops of water formed on the ragged edges of her shorts to flow down her thighs. She felt invulnerable; she felt that if her housemother caught her right now, it wouldn't matter- she couldn't be hurt. And if they never found out, any of them, she had a strong secret, a strange sort of charm, lodged in her breast, that could protect her against them. It somehow rendered them ridiculous, and she could laugh when they fancied themselves stern. Back on the porch, she first checked the door to see that it was still unlocked. When the knob turned freely, she looked back at the boy who squinted, even though he was standing quite close to her. His hair was beginning to dry, and curl inconsistently. The girl shivered a bit and wondered - What was the fitting thing to say at the end of an adventure? She looked down at their bare feet. Hers were short and flat, his were very bony and his toes were long. Finally, she looked up and said, "Thank you." He smiled in answer and moved his head closer So hers. She didn't want to kiss him, so she quickly turned to go in. His lips met her right shoulder blade, and then he whistled softly down the wal k. A spotlight poured some light. through his hair, and his curls glinted gold. I n bed, she did not reflect long, but fell asleep. The next afternoon, she sat on the planter outside her window, by the peri win kles, smiling. She held a glass of ice water from which she drank, and spat mouthfuls of water into the faces of her flowers .•
Phoenix 21
photog(oph,Y
Ron Harr
Karen Petrey Phoenix 22
Dolly Berthelot
Rodney Creel Phoenix 23
poet(~
Monday Morning (Prelude) The eye will wear itself out into darknessSo I've been living it up in the light-life-style Of poets doomed to many exorcisms of stereotypicality And long have I been stuck in the muddy repetitions of my past excursions Thru the pastorals and urbanities of modern verse: I have sung too far along of ambiguities In the images I've seen in graveyards like fields of rows ripe with harvest And cities like pig pens of politicians and other satisfied swine ... A poet abandoned by myth in a marsh of comic books and fairy tales which childlike I have been chasing in inspired reverie: Until one sleepless morning after I regarded my image in some mirror And saw not some Socrates proudly dissatisfied But a dissatisfied pig: I am blind (1) Therefore let oboes sing of my oblivious ambiguity: Announce the arrival of one cowardly would be poet Exiled longingly from the city like a leper Eaten alive by the open sores of too many half-baked poems: Unhealed wounds running like an old man's mouth with memories -Constipatience in the circles under my eyes I see Standing before the mirror one unshaven alone To face up to this fact and facade: Yawns reveal my cavities and I smileI try to keep up a straight face before the humanity I meet Composed and singing while I workDreading the day by everyday of living (And living it up in the night or height oC, )
I recognize nothing I notice around me With onerous many a cumbersome self-deconception In all my maelstroms, (dreaming lustifully of femalestroms) My humor has left me holding a bag of old tricks of the trade That no longer amaze much less decieve the ordealer of this struggle To see beyond the reflection of my own vanity .... (2) Enclosed then and enchained by these devices of unloveless Facing perfunctory that stubbled semblance of my everyday minor maladjustices I readily upset this crippled man in a mine field (Who writes advertisements and sings at a local bar on the side)
Phoenix 24
Destroyed by random explosions of laughing gas While a pedestrian world watches in stitches Unable to respond to the bleeding cries of pain: "Existence has got me over a barrel of monkeys" (-A stand up comic who asks politely for a chair?) But what most of that laughter I may attribute to mere injustice I console myself in the vanity of my reflection: Then and there a chill rocks my corpus entirely And yet the heater has long been burning Indicating with cold logic that therefore These are fears that shake me loose -Trembling before my own shadow in weakness "What a way to start your day .... " (3) I have too readily lost my form in discontent Still I can't help but smile at myself Some failure in the successpool of America Falling again on another mine: Possessions have long ago won my desires And given me these crutches of principalAs well as the practical life- to stand by .... Ahd so with this day I begin another week To which I dread its end (lessness) ... I find no grace in the life I have (been) chosen (for) Where my eye invests its delight in some opaque mania That I cannot quite put my finger on yet As my memory slips and I fall into another reverie While around me spins a web of mispiraling deceptions Of petty doubts piled on doubts: Where is all the promised courageWhere the friends and wife to encourage me? Daily I tell myself there's still more to this Than meets my mirrored eye .... (I have more than often sliced myself shavingAnd wonder at each incidental if that intimation of death will (be )head me from its own temptations Or return me to my ordeal as poet In which there is nonetheless no dearth of vanity.) I could use any immoral support offered When these gospels shift to gossip: In the darkness then one night I sat alone I could no longer see even the hand before my facade To discover or determine with either hope or confidence Whether I at least have my own blood on my hands .... (I have fmally decided To grow a beard ... ) ....
-Richard J. Corsini
Phoenix 25
feature
Arrowmont a
fine arts and crafts school in the foothills of the smokies
by Eric Forsbergh In the midst of a huge well-lit studio, a woman in her early forties works a small piece of silver with a punch and hammer. Her eyes are intent upon her work. fhe table at which she is sitting is cluttered with tools, wire, sheet metal scraps, gems, and other materials which spill out of fishing tackle boxes. When she is done, she will have a superb ring- an aquamarine in a geometric silver setting. In an adjacent studio, a young man stands at a long workbench covered with blocks of wooa, and with the help of a saw and sandpaper, builds an abstract sculpture four feet tall. The wood blocks are cut in curves and, from a distance, the sculpture is a waterfall frozen in wood. 1 his is not a professional artists community, but the Arrowmont School of Crafts in Gatlinburg, Ten nessee. The woman working on the ring is a housewife from southern Oh io, and the young man is a senior art major getting two hours credit from UT. Any person with a week or two in the summer and a moderate amount of money for tuition and board can go to this school in most any area of crafts, and come away with a learning experience unsurpassed. The school is recognized as one of the three best craft schools in the country, a reputation which is well deserved.
LCked between the mountain ridges surrounding Gatlinburg, the grounds of Arrowmont are almost on top of the commercial district of the city. The school has large fields and wooded areas around it, making up some seventy acres, so there is nothing to distract the student from hard oork and concen tration. The new building is the craftsperson's dream, with its many studios. There are patios, lounges and a number of offices. The central hallway is most impressive, with high ceiling and a huge stone pillar which supports the building. The exterior lines are long and graceful. The other buildings are old farmhouse style, and house the dormitories and cafeteria. The instructors and students are not segregated, but share the sleeping and eating facilities alike. Arrowmont dates from 1912, when the sorority Pi Beta Phi established a Settlement School in Gatlinburg, offering formal education to the local people. Because the people of the Smokies had developed crafts to such a high degree, the school was soon involved wth this work. As a result, a
Phoenix 26
photographs by Sandy Sneed
cottage industry was born and today this locality has the largest cottage industry in weaving in the United States.
In 1925, a shop was opened in Gatlinburg to sell these local crafts. The Arrowcraft Shop, as it is called, grew enough to financially support crafts classes taught at the Settlement School. In 1945, the Related Arts and Crafts Department of the College of Home Economics at UT combined forces with Pi Beta Phi to offer craft workshops in the summer, using the facilities of the Settlement School. The project eventually grew to such proportions that in 1970, the Arrowmont School of Crafts was formally founded, and a craft complex building with 38,000 square feet of floor space was constructed. Since then, the school has grown rapidly. Many of the courses are offered for school credit. Art classes are now taught, not from the point of view of form and design, but from that of the technicalities and processes which are used for so much modern art. Along with art, there is a variety of craft classes taught at Arrowmont--ceramics, weaving, wood construction, spinning, jewelry making, textile design, stitchery and others. Taught are the most ancient as well as the most modern crafts, from spinning to electroforming, in which a sulfuric acid bath is used to electrically plate a metal onto an organic form which later dissolves. An idea of the overall activities on any summer weekday can be seen from a sample of the classes given during the second week of August. I n the first part of the main building is a sky-lit hall where exhibits are always on display. The studios lie on both sides of the hallway. and have ample space and
light. The first studio is occupied by two classes--Beginning Wood and Advanced Wood. The instructor is Joseph Falsetti, a professor at the University of Tennessee. He said, "Arrowmont is the best th at I've seen, e specially in terms of space an d the immediate environment." Another positive aspect, he said, is the feeling of no relative position or rank between the student and the instructor. One of the students in the class is Sherwin Feingold, an electrical engineer from Florida. I n his mid-forties, he has come to Arrowmont sessions for five years, and is typical of the many people well-established in other careers who begin the learning of crafts. His construction is a three-dimensional representation of sine waves. His wife is also attending Arrowmont in a jewel ry course.
The adjacent studio is for jewelry making. The instructor is Dane Purdo, a professor from Lawrence University in Wisconsin. The courses are Begin ning and Advanced Jewelry; the work approaches what might be termed as microcraftsmanship. It is a world of miniature drills, neddlenose pliers, punches and awls. Silver is the material most often used, along with turquoise. As with all of the courses, the students vary greatly. In this class there is a young woman who is confined to a wheelchair. Every day she and a friend drive the forty mi les from Knoxville to attend classes. The class in textile design is given in the studio across the hallway from jewelry design. It is here that silk screening, batique, and textile printing are taught. The instructor is Kirsti Rantanen, profess ional textile designer and professor at the
Phoenix 27
School of Industrial Design, Helsinki, Finland. Her students take most of their designs from nature, using such motifs as leaf patterns, birds in flight or tall grass in a breeze.
OutSide is a smaller building almost tucked under the eaves of the new building. This houses the courses in weaving and pottery. Weaving holds an eminent place here, for it was the weaving products of the Gatlinburg area which generated the interest to create the school. There are four weaving instructors on the staff. One is Ted Hallman, who teaches weaving at California State University. He says that weaving is a highly technical and complex craft. The designs must be drafted on a large sheet of paper beforehand. The loom must be "dressed" (an expression for setting up the warp), and this requires much patience. The school is equipped with approximately fifty looms, so there is no shortage of facilities. The pottery classes are equally well-equipped. The instructor, Ann Van Aken insists that her students know not only the methods of creating a piece from clay, but that they be familiarized with the field of chemistry. Various elements, such as iron, cobalt and manganese are mixed into a compound to be glazed onto the clay. An error of even one gram in the calculations may make the difference between a pot with good color and one with radiant color. All forms of pottery are taught in this class, from the primitive raku to the modern techniques, so that the student is able to learn the art from its very beginning. Of the staff at Arrowmont, one of the most hardworking people is the school's director, Mrs. Marian Heard. She has, since 1945, shaped all of the efforts which have become
Phoenix 28
Arrowmont today. As one of the pottery i nstruc tors, Ann Van Aken, puts it, "Mrs. Heard has done more for crafts in the southeastern United States than any other individual." Mrs. Heard is also the head of the Weaving Department at UT, and a Distinguished Professor, but it is her work at Arrowmont over the years which is her most outstanding achievement.
The standards of work and the spirit of Arrowmont make it a unique and outstanding school. The students who attend find themselves so caught up in their work that many of them often work from 6: 30 a.m. to 12:30 a.m., and would work longer except that the buildings are locked during the night. Some even take their work back to their rooms at night, provided they can carry it. Night lectures are given so that students may learn about crafts other than their 0'Ml. It is such intensive sharing of knowledge and skill which brings so many crafts students to Arrowmont. When they leave they are more often than not mentally and physically exhausted, but the learning and experience which they carry away are worth far more than the price .•
Contributors Editors
Zack Binkley
Maxi Chan
Quentin Powers
Joe Willis
Richard J. Corsini
Do,lly Berthelot
Valere B. Menefee
Karen Petrey
Paul W. Wigler
Harry Weill
Jan Berly
Ron Harr
Marla Puziss
Harry Kirk
Tony Powers
Paul Roden
Sandy Sneed
Sandra Lee Starck
Kathleen Lyles
Basil Companiotte
Eric Forsbergh
Lewis Goans
Rodney Creel
Byron McKeeby
David Miller
Nel Gammon
Butch Gaut
Bill Loy
Gerin Choenire Sabourir
Phoebe Hiftler
EDITOR
ART
Max Heine
Phil Rose
MANAGING EDITOR
PHOTOG RAPHY
Sandy Sneed
Ron Harr
NON-FICTION
EDITORIAL ASSISTANTS
Eric Forsbergh Wayne Minnich
Susan Betts Gwen Gillespie Connie Jones Tony Powers
POETRY
RESI DENT NEUROTIC
Robert Walker
John Hagey
FICTION
(c) copyright 1974 by the University of Tennessee . Rights retained by the Individual contributors. Send contrlbutlotls to Phoenix, Room 5, Communications Bldg. 1340 Circle Park Drive, Knoxville, Tennessee 37916.
U
N,VE.R
~n~- -e
nt
st;
squinted just enough to see, to be able to pick out the words "only my live .. " No! Not "live".. "love." "Only my love, I h-o-p-e w-e c-an ..... " Little Leslie Williams almost knocked over her mother's porch fern, as she jumped up from behind the swing, where she had been petting her dog, and grabbed the letter. "You old creep! You old pervert! Gimme my brother's letter. Mama says you're a nosy old bastard reading people's mail the way you do and everyone on the block knows a bout it. Just you wait til I tell! You're going to get fired! F-I-R-EO!!! You old pervert, you .... " Raymond walked off the porch, reminding himself about his casualness rule, and he forgot about Little Leslie yelling pervert, pervert, pervert, while the dog barked, and a few women stuck their heads out the windows and frowned. By 11:00, he had finished with his delivery route and was aware of the "good" feeling that he had today. He was not one of those people who has trouble pinpointing the reason for their high spirits. He knew exactly why he felt as he did. Today was the day that he had set aside for his talk with Mrs. Amos, down on Tytall Street. He knew that her name was Wanda, knew that her husband, Andy, owned the Amos Grocery, about five blocks away, knew that they had two children of school age, a nd knew that Wanda Amos did a little more than clean house and watch "Love of Life" in the mornings, after her husband was off to the store, and the little ones were on their way to school. Raymond knew all that, and a lot more. He was a "man of the U.S. government," he thought, as he headed toward the Amos residence, and had responsibilities toward these people, who waited and depended on him every day of the year for their bills, their letters from
grandpas and grandmas, their checks, and all of their daily surprises. Waiting for him, Raymond T. Spence, to deliver. Wanda Amos was surprised when she answered the door and saw the mailman waiting outside with her mail in his hand. "Oh. Mr. Spence. You could have just left it in the box. That would have been fine." Raymond paused for a second to recall the lines that he had been rehearsing for quite some time. "Mrs. Amos, there is a matter that I need to discuss with you; a matter that we need to discuss, together." Wanda Amos checked her watch and looked slightly annoyed, as Raymond continued. "You see, I have been delivering the mail to this block for about fourteen years now, and I know a lot about the area, the streets, the stores, and. . . . the people. Guess that just comes naturally though, with being a man of the U.S. mail and all. Part of the responsibility, huh, huh." Raymond pursed his mouth slightly and wondered whether Mrs. Amos thought he looked at all like Steve McQueen. "Anyhow, I get around to your neighborhood about the same time each morning, which is, like I said, part of my duty as an employee of the U.S. government." "Mr. Spence! I am only too aware of what time of morning you make your rounds and just how long you've been making them, as is every other decent family in the neighborhood, who sees you snooping and reading everyone's mail, as if it was any of your d ....." Raymond decided that it was time to exert a little discipline. "Casualness, Wanda. The key to it all is casualness," he began, as he held up a finger and squared his heels. ''There is absolutely no need to get excited. No need, whatsoever. I just wanted to inform you that Raymond T. Spence has, I repeat,
has been aware of that young fellow that comes in and out of here at approximately eleven hundred hours every Monday, Thursday, and Friday and that you need not worry, I repeat, need not worry, because your secret is safe with me and I offer my services to help you keep it a secret. Have no worries whatsoever, about Raymond T. Spence, divulging secrets or other pertinent information about that young fellow. I don't know who he is, don't want to know, make no mistake about that. And I want to make it perfectly clear that Mailm a n Spence is fulfilling his obligation and carrying out his duties to the fullest, as part of the requirements and responsibilities that come with this commission as an employee fo r the U.S. Mail Service of the government of the United States of America." With a knot in his throat, he gave a hearty salute, and marched off, wondering whether the openmouthed Mrs. Amos remembered that he had stood at attention when he said "the United States of America." When Raymond T. Spence went to pick up the mail at the post office, the next morning, he was not surprised to see a large group of citizens, who had obviously been expecting him. Raymond could not help but smile all over. He was glad he had decided to shave and put on a fresh uniform that morning, just in case this turned out to be his big day. As the postmaster approached him, he closed his eyes, tried to remember whether he had thought to wear his new blue-gray undershorts with the stars and stripes, and casually began his acceptance speech: "Governor Berry, Competent Staff, Mayor Blister, Praiseworthy Friends, and Good Citizens of This Progressive Town of Auburnville ...." .
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