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VO L . 3 , N O. 1
C E L E B RA T E S
OF PROG R AMMING
E X C E L L E N C E
Celebrate 50 years of broadcasting excellence with Georgia Public Broadcasting. This year, GPB is unveiling three new documentaries which highlight some of our state’s most fascinating people and stories.
As If We Were
Y O U
C A N
P A R T
A L L
Visit gpb.org/50th-anniversary for more information and view clips from Augusta’s Master Plan, As If We Were Ghosts and Margaret Mitchell. You can also learn more about all of the programs airing on GPB Television and GPB Radio, GPB’s award-winning newscasts, and the outstanding educational resources GPB provides to teachers and students across Georgia. worth sharing How Do You Get GPB? For a complete list of stations, programming information or GPB membership questions, visit www.gpb.org, email firstname.lastname@example.org or call GPB Member & Audience Services at 1.800.222.4788 or 404.685.4788 in the Atlanta area.
TABLE OF CONTENTS » GRAPHIC NOVELS WORTH THE TIME Photography GORAN JOVANOVIC Model NATALIA YEPES Dress MAKEN IMCHA
Three graphic novels that push the boundaries of "super."
» CREATIVE WRITING: MOSEY JO A charming story of bathtime through the eyes of a child.
» CREATIVE WRITING: ALL ALL ALL
Behind every great work of art is a story, and behind every story is a work of art. We at SCAN have always been fascinated by the power of storytelling, and have decided to dedicate this issue to the way people express their ideas, either written or visual. Whether you are a writer using your pen to explore worlds both real and unreal, an art director trying to convey an idea through art and copy or a sequential artist telling a tale through pictures, the medium is only half the message. The expression of ideas that comes from our own creativity, or our own experiences, resonates most. »
» CREATIVE WRITING: ECHOES OF THE PAST
An afternoon expedition is not what it seems.
» DRAWING INSIDE THE LINES When a simple drawing assignment takes over your life.
» CREATIVE WRITING: POETRY » MEDIUM VS. MESSAGE Debating the merits of photography and illustration in design.
» SHOWCASE Spotlighting work from Sequential Art and Arts Administration.
» WORLD TRENDS: VENICE
20 22 26
Explore and get lost in the mystique of the Italian city.
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A collection of creative poems from SCAD students.
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The impact a simple jump rope can have on a life.
ABOUT THE ISSUE
Staff Editor-In-Chief JENNIFER MESTRE Managing Editor MARK ZIEMER Art Director BRITTANY KRON Copy Editor ALEXANDRA SOWERS P.R. Director LAWREN MCCORD (NOT PICTURED)
Lifestyle Editor ALLIE JEMISON Photo Editor SEAN WRIGHT Illustrations Editor ARTHUR BALL
Web Director AZEM ODU Ad Sales Rep SHANTAY ROBINSON Ad Sales Rep ELENA VIPERA
About SCAN Magazine SCAN is the quarterly student magazine of the Savannah College of Art and Design in Atlanta. All editorial content is determined by student editors. The opinions expressed in SCAN Magazine are not necessarily those of the college. ©2010 SCAN Magazine. All rights reserved. No part of this magazine may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.
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SCAN Magazine SCAD Atlanta 1600 Peachtree St. Atlanta, GA 30309
Office » 404.253.2738 Fax » 404.897.4888 » scan.magazine @ scadconnector.com » www.scadconnector.com/scan
Contributors NATALIA YEPES
A r t i st , C ove r
Designer, Mosey Jo, All, All, All
W r i te r , M o s ey J o
Writer, The Death of an Inner C h i l d
M o d e l , D ra w i n g I n s i d e t h e L i n e s , I l l u st ra to r , M o s ey J o
W r i te r , I Wa l k B a c k
Deering Rd NW
W tN S hop Bis 17th St NW
W r i te r , Fo rg o n e C o n c l u s i o n
1460 Northside Dr Atlanta, GA 30318 404.352.7200
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P h o to g ra p h e r , C ove r , D ra w i n g I n s i d e t h e L i n e s
H a i r , C ove r
W r i te r / I l l u st ra tor, E c h o e s o f t h e Past
P h o to g ra p h e r , World Trends
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Those unfamiliar with the comic book subculture may think that all comic books are about colorful characters powing and zapping their way through the seedy underworld of some poorly lit, make-believe city. Well, those generalizations are wrong. Comics are a visual telling of drama; they are about fantasy and reality crashing together. Like traditional books, they can span all genres and tackle all topics. The following is a great selection of comics that may open a world of possibilities to new readers and avid fans alike. »
GRAPHIC NOVELS WORTH THE TIME Written by ARTHUR BALL
BONE: THE COMPLETE AMERICAN JESUS CARTOON EPIC IN ONE VOLUME BOOK ONE: CHOSEN
SUPERMAN: RED SON THE DELUXE EDITION
by Jeff Smith
by Mark Millar
by Mark Millar
This book comically follows three cousins through a mythical world of monsters, dragons and wacky times. The comic is illustrated entirely in black and white and will have you chuckling at every page. “Bone” has won several awards nationally and globally, one of which was Best Comic Book by the National Cartoonist Society.
Jesus is back and living in the American Northwest. He's 12 years old, way too young to drink, but can turn water into wine. Seriously, though, this book is deep and controversial. How should a kid react when he finds out that he is Christ? Pick up this three issue series before the comic is made into a movie; the twist at the end will boggle your brain.
Have you ever wondered what Superman would be like if he was raised in Communist Russia? If so, then, this is the book for you. Adopted by Joseph Stalin, Superman helps Russia conquer the world for the Communist cause. The only thing that stands in his way is the United States and its president, Lex Luthor.
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» FI CT I O N
Written by Kerry Burke
Illustrated by John Crews
Daddy named me Josephine, after his mother, and Mama named me Elizabeth, after her sister who died. I guess they put the names together and came up with Josephine Elizabeth — Jo Beth for short. But I’m not called by any of those names. My name’s Mosey Jo. Mama started callin’ me Mosey when I was real small ‘cause I took my time doin’ everything. I was slow to crawl, slow to walk and slow to talk. ‘Cause I’m my mama’s only child, she never knew I was slow at that baby stuff ‘till my Aunt Tedi came over and started fussin’ over me. Aunt Tedi made faces at my mama and told her to quit carry’n me ‘cause I was like a growth on my mama’s hip. My mama told her ain’t nothin’ wrong with lovin’ a chile and maybe she could stand to learn a thing or two ‘bout lovin’ babies ‘cause her baby boy Baxter is all grown and nothin’ but trouble. He comes ‘round here ever so offen. Like when he needs something. He come here lookin’ for Daddy to give him money ‘cause Aunt Tedi done kicked him out again. Somethin’ bout him breaking a mirror with a bottle, but it was her fault she made him crazy mad. He smells bad, my cousin Baxter. He smells like a greasy ashtray. Mama says he smells of the devil and all his temptation. What Daddy says bout him, I’m not saying ‘cause last time I said it, I got a bar of soap in my mouth. But like I was sayin’ before, I like takin’ my time doin’ some things.
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Baths is one of ‘em. Somethin’ I like doin’ slow, that is. Mama always knows how to draw a bath just right — not too hot and not too cold. She squirts lots of Ivory soap in the water as it rushes from the faucet. Mama leaves the washroom and I quickly undress, dropping my dirty clothes on the floor. Goosebumps wash over me, so I get in the suds real fast. I love to bathe in the Ivory bubbles. Sometimes, I scoop the suds up in my hands and decorate my head. I like to pretend that I’m Ms. Margaret from down the street. She always wears a big straw hat when she works in her garden. Mama says she talks to herself and Daddy says she see-nile. I think she’s nice ‘cause she always gives me milk and cookies when I help her weed her garden.
I hate Randy Dinkle. He’s a fat kid with orange freckles splattered all over his face and he always steps on my heels when he walks behind me in line. Every time I tell ‘im to stop or I’ll punch his lights out, he throws his big round head back and laughs with a mouth full of crooked teeth. One of these days, I’m gonna forget my manners and sock ‘im a good one, but for now, I’ll practice by stuffin’ dirty suds down the drain.
Sometimes, I like to stretch myself out in the bath. I rest my head against the back of the tub ‘till the bubbles come up to my chin. Then, with my feet, I push my toes through the suds like tulips pushin’ up the earth in Ms. Margaret’s garden, or I make believe they are puppets puttin’ on a show. Mama says I have a wild imagination and I used tell her it was her fault ‘cause she didn’t give me no sisters or brothers to play with. Sometimes, I think Daddy wishes he had a boy instead a me, so I try hard to make ‘im proud. He says I’m a tomboy. I ain't no tom...
Walkin’ down the hall, I can hear my damp feet kinda slappin’ the floor. In my room, I look under my pillow for pajamas, but they aren’t there. I look under the bed, but they aren’t there neither. Then, there are heavy foot steps in the hall and I can tell it’s Daddy. He comes in my room, taking my pink pajamas with ice cream cones on them from the knob of my bedroom door before picking up my stuffed giraffe off the floor. I wiggle my jammies on and let Daddy throw me like a sling shot onto the bed. He leans over and kisses me. His face is scratchy with salt and pepper prickly hair, but I don’t mind ‘cause I love the way he smells. My daddy smells like Christmas — like all those needles and pinecones on a tree.
“Mosey! I know you’re wrinkled worse than a prune. Get yourself outa that there tub and off to bed.” “Yes, ma’am!” I holler. I pull the chain on the stopper and feel myself being sucked down the drain. When all the water is gone, I scrape the leftover suds down to the end of the tub and mash them into the drain’s open mouth. Whenever I do this, I think of Randy Dinkle playin’ Chubby Bunny with marshmallows at the school lunch table. One of these days, he’s gonna throw up!
After I dry off, I wrap my towel round me like a cape. I am Super Woman. Wonder Woman. I am … “Mosey?” “I’m goin’ …”
“G’night, Mosey Jo,” he says in his tired end-of-the-day way. “G’night.” I fall asleep holding my giraffe in my arms and picture what real giraffes look like lopin’ cross the plains of Africa. »
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» N O N - F I CT I O N
All, All, All in together girls
Written by Shantay Robinson | Photo by Sean Wright
Even today, as a thirty-one year old woman, I find two ropes turning to God’s beat every once in a while and I am apt to jump in. Double Dutch is a way for girls to bond on the block or at the playground. We jump for the course of the game and when the rope gets curled up and goes back in the bag, we go our separate ways. But when we come back together, the fun that we had sends a sensation through us when we embrace. Here in the South, it’s rare to find women jumping Double Dutch; sharing together a few moments to release from their innards the stresses of the world. When I find them, we all have a good time — we bask in the collective amazement of still being able to move to that beat. Years since Double Dutch was a daily routine, I remember the days as a young girl when my house was the central location for all of my cousins and friends to gather. For the most part, my girls and I were located in the New York City area, all except for cousin Keni, who traveled the globe with her military family to lands across the sea. I don’t think those girls jumped DoubleDutch in Japan, where Keni’s father was stationed during the teen years of her life. If they did, I’m sure Keni would have come back strapped with the know-how. When we got together, there was Double Dutch for hours. Every now and then my cousin Keni would visit my family’s home in
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Brooklyn from whatever part of the world she was living in at the time. I knew how to jump, but I don’t think I ever tried to teach Keni. And if I did, I don’t think she got the hang of it because when she was around, we didn’t do much but talk. We’re the only two people in my family who are the same age, so it was hard for me to play the role of mentor. Maybe she would have accepted my lead. Maybe she did already. I wish I had taken that four months difference between us to heart. I should have taught Keni how to jump. I’m not sure why Double Dutch hasn’t caught on in other parts of the country by now. Keni spent many of her formative years in the South, but I don’t have any recollection of her jumping at all. They do play sports in the South. Softball and baseball, those were the pictures that my mother showed me of her. Bat in hand, dressed in full uniform, looking like she was ready to swing. Perhaps the competitive nature of softball made her look so happy in the annual pictures they sent to us. As a high school student in Georgia, I wasn’t jumping at all. I had trouble with my weight. The food to exercise ratio wasn’t really working out for me. Keni, who was in Japan, had also gained a lot of weight around the same time. She still looked good, but I could tell that she was inactive and without my hours of play, I had become inactive, too. As a teen, softball seemed a little
immature, especially for a girl, but Double Dutch never dies. Jumping rope certifies swag for all ages. I should have taught Keni how to jump. With the skill of jumping Double Dutch comes a certain amount of admiration from the boys. As they didn't take the time to learn it themselves, the boys gave us respect for the jumping we did. But being on a military base at fifteen, the bright red lipstick to attract attention came first. Keni had stories about them, which made me tell her my secret crushes. Or was it the other way around? As we got older, my mother would relay stories from Japan about Keni getting into trouble. Her parents seemed strict, but I remember our conversations at a very young age when she said, “They’re so dense,” which made me feel a little intimidated by her. We couldn’t have been any more than eight years old. My parents had taught me all I knew at that point. I couldn’t imagine being so smart as to call my parents “dense.” Keri was also a strong girl. Her father would show off her strength by having her pick him up. She was like Bam Bam from the Flintstones. I guess I always was a little intimidated by her. The same people she called dense are raising her children today. Keni died in July of 2009. My sister woke me up from my sleep to tell me that Keni, who was in the hospital, had fallen on the floor and died. I couldn’t believe it. It didn’t make any sense for her to just die like that. Maybe if I had taught her how to play Double Dutch, she would have jumped into another life, one away from the boys and trouble. And maybe she wouldn’t have had a heart attack. She didn’t fall to the floor and die. She had a heart attack. Keni stayed sedentary for two years after the birth of her second child. As I stepped outside from time to time to have a cigarette, she’d be outside of her house smoking, too. We’d wave to one another and, at times,
one of us would walk the distance from her house to mine and talk about the plans that she had to make her life better. Towards the end, there wasn’t much that she had to say. When she moved back in with her parents, she seemed to lose her zeal for life and sat there day in and day out, taking care of her young daughter and son. Yeah, she played softball as a child, but as an adult, softball teams are far and few between if you’re not part of a corporate league — and Keni was far from corporate. Double Dutch is a game that is easily accessible and fun. All we needed was a telephone cord to play. Or we could have spent the ten dollars for two ropes and played. Maybe if Keni felt the rush from the rhythm of jumping rope she would have called me up to play Double Dutch later in life. Maybe if she learned to jump rope she would have exercised more, and a thing like a heart attack would not have happened at the tender age of thirty. Keni's death happened so unexpectedly, but it certainly didn’t happen by accident. I question some schools for not allowing kids to have recess. What will children grow up to be like if they don’t learn to play at an early age? Will they continue to engage in recreational activities or will they become sedentary, allowing all that they consume to be the death of them? On the day of Keni’s funeral, there was a lot family around consoling her parents and siblings who were devastated by her death. In good spirits, the game of Double Dutch was mentioned and, just like old folks who wanted to prove that they still had it, we took to the streets to jump rope. The sandals came off and skirts were tucked between legs and we went at it. The delight in her daughter’s eyes, when her aunt carried her into the rope to jump the day of the funeral was inspiring. She wanted to jump with everyone once she got a taste of the rhythm. I wish Keni could have seen it. Maybe if I had offered Keni a taste of the rhythm she would have been here to see it. » FA L L 2 0 10
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Written and Illustrated by Hilary Smith
like vintage things, antique things. Beautiful, obsolete, old things. My insides tingle when I touch peeling paint on fragile walls and trace the spider web cracks in worn glass. I have a collection of rusty nails, just because I find their colors beautiful. And every time someone gives me flowers, I hang them upside down and let them dry, so I can put them back in the vase and they’ll last forever. It’s almost like I can preserve time by living in a past that has already passed — it’s my own reality away from reality.
Most people my age think I’m weird, but Casey and Laurie share my taste. Casey is a photographer. His portfolio is full of things I love, mostly castles and churches from his trips to Europe. Laurie is a writer. She gets inspiration for her ghost stories by taking walks through old buildings and spending hours in antique stores. I like exploring and collecting, sometimes journaling in my own shorthand as I go. I have yet to find a career that uses my unique hobbies. Maybe National Geographic will find me worthy … It’s nearing the end of summer and I’m yearning to go on another excursion before Casey leaves for France and Laurie goes out of state to school. I think I’m suffering from exploration withdrawal. I call my friends and we set the date. Laurie is psyched. “This is just the inspiration I need,” she tells me. “I’ll finally have a cure for this stupid writer’s block. You’re an angel.”
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The three of us inspect the front of the house. It is between two equally empty looking houses, but this particular one seems to be the oldest of the three. The walls are eggshell white, with blue shutters and brown shingles covering the roof. The porch is wooden and falling apart; a fire hydrant is chained to one of the pillars holding up the awning. The mailbox is missing and there are big red Xs spraypainted across most of the trees in the front yard. Laurie approaches the front door, which appears to be hanging on with only one hinge. A car slows to a stop in front of the house. Laurie ducks behind the banisters of the porch, further covered by shrubbery. Casey and I plaster ourselves against the side of the house hoping that we are skinny enough to be hidden by the trees in the front yard. The car continues on. It was only following the rules of the road, stopping for the stop sign we hadn’t seen. “Maybe we shouldn’t hang around the front,” I suggest. A hint of a walkway leads around to the back of the house. Remnants of a stepping stone path are visible under the long blades of grass and tall weeds. I lead the way, careful to step over the kudzu creeping in from the neighboring yard. Casey stumbles along behind me, now holding his camera by the strap so if he were to fall on his face, he wouldn’t crush it into his chest. “Case, you might want to get a picture of the front door. It has a keyhole for a skeleton key!” Laurie mentions excitedly as she skips after us. Something catches in the tread of my boots, so I lean against the side of the house to balance myself and get the object out. The culprit is a silver clip-on earring with a lacelike pattern and some sort of green rock in the center. I can make something out of it if I clean it up and pull off the clip-on piece. It’s big enough to be a necklace pendant.
“Actually, I would like a picture of that door,” Casey heads back in the direction from which he came. “The idea is not to be seen,” I remind him, rolling my eyes and continuing to the back of the house. As I round the corner to the back of the house, I notice an old woman holding a watering can to the plants by the back door. I’ve never been exploring and come across an inhabitant before. Suddenly, this isn’t my excursion anymore … I don’t like to intrude. I’m a paleontologist, not Chris Columbus. I’m about to take off when she spots me. I look behind me for Casey, knowing he’d pull his classic “I’m an art student doing homework” excuse and we’d be out of there safely in seconds, but he and his camera are nowhere in sight. I am on my own, so I make up my own lie. “Sorry, ma’am. I got lost.” She raises her eyebrow. “…chasing after my dog,” I end lamely. “I thought he went this way, I guess not. I’ll be going now.” I wave to her hesitantly with my empty hand, quickly remembering that in my right is the now “stolen” souvenir. The old woman beckons me forward. “Do stay. It’s not often that I have visitors.”
then back at her again, able to focus on something else. She’s wearing a flowered frock, too big for her wire frame. I can see her veins, blue through her skin, and her silver hair, pinned into a lose bun at the top of her head, revealing again her bug-like eyes. She is creepy, but seems lonely. I feel obligated to follow her into the house. We enter the mudroom through the back door, the screen door slams shut behind me. She doesn’t remove her shoes, so I leave mine on as well. I follow her through the house. The inside of the house looks nothing like the outside. Of course, everything is dated, but it all looks new and functional. We stop when she reaches the kitchen — I can see through it into the dining room. There’s a beautiful cloth covering the table, which is set with actual silver silverware and china. My focus returns to the kitchen, where the woman is searching her drawers for something. “Do you live with your family?” I inquire. “Oh no, it’s just me.” She pulls two towels out from a drawer. “Do you like cookies? My normal response would have been “Who doesn’t?” but she is elderly and proper and, not to mention, an utter stranger. I’m already in her house, I shouldn’t be eating her poison apples, too.
I check my peripheral vision for Laurie and Casey, but I can’t see them.
“Yes, ma’am, but I just ate.”
She smiles at me. I’m locked into her gaze. Her brown eyes are so dark that it makes her pupils look dilated. I look away and
“You can just take a seat there.” She points to the dining room table. “I’ll get you some right from the oven.”
“I notice an old woman holding a watering can to the plants by the back door. Suddenly, this isn’t my excursion any more … I don’t like to intrude. I’m a paleontologist, not Chris Columbus.” FA L L 2 0 10
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“It’s okay, really.” I look around for an excuse to change the topic or even leave. I notice an old rocking chair in the living room, much like one my great-grandmother used to have. It sits beside a beautiful end table and decorative lamp. Maybe I should become an interior designer.
mom makes them. And they smell so good. “Ma’am, I just ate.”
out the kitchen window into the back yard, looking for my two friends.
She places the china plate down in front of me and puts two of the cookies on it before walking off again. “I’ll join you and we can talk.”
“At least have a cookie before you go.”
I stray into the living room and sit on the couch because I feel awkward standing. I’m careful not to brush my dirty jeans against her pristine coffee table. I trace my finger around the lace doily, which probably served as a coaster. The table vibrates slightly under my touch. Startled, I remove my hand. It’s silent for a moment and then, I can hear the quick vibration again.
She disappears again and quickly reappears with two tiny teacups filled with milk. She places one on the table before sitting down across from me in the rocking chair. I sit uncomfortably with my hands in my lap, waiting for her to make the first move. The evening sun reflects strongly in her cup, causing me to see spots.
“But I made them just for you.”
“So, you were looking around?” she asks, as if picking up a conversation from earlier.
The clip-on had been in my pocket this whole time, how had she known? I look up at her, past her eerie eyes and notice she is wearing only one earring — a polished, silver earring with a shining emerald in the center. I pull the earring out of my pocket to see that it matches, perfectly. The rust is gone and the green rock is identifiable. I drop it and the earring clatters on the china as I run for the door.
I check my pocket for my phone and then remember I left it in Casey’s car. I put my ear to the table. I can hear the vibration, like an invisible cell phone is buzzing its way across the mahogany. Then, I hear muffled voices, like I am trying to listen to a conversation from under water.
“Oh, I love your house. I love antiques. The fact that you’re still using all of this instead of displaying it is amazing to me.” I gesture to her kitchen, pointing out appliances that might not even exist in our era.
I sit up straight, as if I could hide the fact that I was behaving bizarrely.
Her frail hand reaches and places her teacup next to mine. “I meant my yard. You were looking around.”
She is back with a cookie tray covered in perfectly aligned, perfectly round oatmeal cookies. They don’t have raisins ... I always have to pick them out when my
“Oh yes, for my dog. I should be going. Buster could get miles away if I just sit around.” I fix my posture so that I can see over her head, through the doorway and
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I stood from the couch. “It’s really nice of you to offer, but I’m full and I need to go.”
She couldn’t have been expecting me. Her creep factor has just skyrocketed and I need to find an exit. “Can I have my earring back before you leave?” she asks, innocently.
I can hear the floorboards creek as she slowly follows me. I reach the back door where only moments ago I saw my friends outside. I grasp the handle and turn it. Nothing happens. But it’s unlocked.
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I look behind me to see the old woman getting closer. I search for another exit. I can outrun her if I have somewhere to go — the broken front door! I dash past her, searching each doorway as I pass it for my magical one-hinged door. There’s another flash of light and I’m blinded. “Casey! Laurie! Where are you?” My vision is recovering, but I’m still seeing spots. I have no idea how I managed to look directly at the sun when all the windows are boarded up. Were they boarded up before? I backtrack a couple of steps and realize I had seen a glimpse of a room through the hall mirror. “They can’t hear you.” “Why not?” I demand. “Because you’re not there.” The woman smiles mischievously and directs her gaze to the mirror I had passed. At this angle, I can only see what is down the hall. The dining room table is covered with a sheet, but I can see where the china sat beneath it. I walk past it and peer into the room, everything is back to normal. Back in the mirror, it’s all coated with dust; the large window facing out from the kitchen is boarded up.
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She unhooks the mirror from its place on the wall, leaving me to hold it. I turn the mirror to face the living room, and sure enough the couch, rocking chair, coffee table and end tables with twin lamps are cloaked in white sheets. Right in front of where I was sitting is Laurie’s unattended cell phone. I see another flash. I direct the mirror at it. Casey is standing at the source, with Laurie beside him. The floor is coated with dust, only two sets of footprints disturb the scene. I am nothing more than another one of Laurie’s ghost stories. »
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G N I W A DR NES I L E H T E ID
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Photography GORAN JOVANOVIC Illustration ARTHUR BALL Model JOHN CREWS Styling LAWREN MCCORD
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» PO E T R Y
I Walk Back by Yair Hoenig A voice pulled my heart down to Earth, He said: “It’s time for you to leave, because I don’t have Any remnants from what I was or what I should have been.” Both my hands held each side of my heart and tore it in two, Two moments in time, Past and Future. What has led me to an unknown mystification has become an earth with no earth, As if everything that was there mortified life At the other side of my heart stood resolute the future. “History repeats itself “he said, But the four billion population Concealed themselves in a poisoned lockdown of fear from knowledge and Acknowledgment. Sons of gods they say…
The grip of self concern as if it was exhumed from a holy particle.
by Kelvin Parker
The future shrugged its shoulders and looked back.
Instantly the results crashed head on with my facial expressions
What is this swirl of man doing? They slave themselves for hideous sickness. Eminent declaration on one who holds more death. Nausea hit the future, as if urine had gone up all the way into his throat. “No one is happy at his share”, he hissed The foundation of love on a barren kiss. Pendent on his fate, as wind to its direction, Decided the future to turn himself up-side-down. He let man go back as they are advancing in time, While they slide down the valley of Earth and what is human. A voice pulled my heart down to Earth And said: “It’s time for you to go now, Back on your feet, walk towards your past And keep on going until you won’t speak but feel”. And set the future back onto its past.
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For the moment my confidence was paralyzed, And the disbelief shattered my face with open lacerations Dried blood squirted out the wounds of my reflections On my time and effort wasted The confusion dried the moisture from my contact lenses, And they formed into rings of glass that slashed at my eyelids The more I blinked, the deeper the cuts winked The shock caused my tongue to snatch at my tonsils And in between the duel intruded my saliva That tied up the end of my throat I tried to grasp for air, But was overwhelmed with this suffocation, And all I could do was stare Immediately my soul felt the impact For the moment my spirit was ruined A knife dug a deep cut across my right cheek
The Death of an Inner Child by Toria Munoz And sharp, spiked needles rose on my arms
The windows brush, the wind breezing through the window.
Like chill bumps rising from thorns
Memories of time’s past with smells of clean clothes and mud on small shoes.
Every bone in my body began to crack
Reflecting in a small mind, time we’re losing, what do we do with these blues?
And my skin started peeling
Small hands and marriages on playgrounds, where did they go?
Like ashes burning away from a cigarette
We have the future in our hands, hands that grasped security blankets and toys
Suddenly my insides began tearing apart
with painted faces glancing low.
For the moment defeat tortured my heart
Hearing monsters and madness; but perhaps we propose that.
I rubbed my chest,
We looked good in the shoes of an outcast.
But it was too late
And punches and names; youth can be cruel.
The pain clogged my veins
Flashbacking, mind-trekking, my inner child was cool.
Causing them to burst
Then, one day, it got pushed away, and it died.
My determination was left lying in the dust
It doesn’t fully come back, no, parts of it die with getting older.
Like metal intentionally not oiled to rust
Naiveness, wonderment, and curiosity, bolder.
Then my dream was carried away in a black hearse
I killed my inner child, and it cried. »
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Medium VS. Message
Written by ALEXANDRA SOWERS Illustration by ARTHUR BALL
The use of illustration and photography is continually in debate when trying to convey a message. Art directors, authors and designers try to best convey a feeling or message through imagery. Yet, the age-old question arises: should I use an illustration or a photograph? The advent of Adobe's Creative Suite gives even the most novice designer the ability to manipulate any photograph to achieve any possible look. Some see this as the “demise” of illustration, as discussed in author Steven Heller’s article, “The Fall and Rise of Illustration: An Interview with Charles Hively.” Former creative director Charles Hively stated in the article, “I agree that photography is the most widely used visual medium and has been for some time at the expense of the handrendered art of illustration.” Hively blamed art schools for the overuse of stock photos in design and the isolation of illustration classes and programs. He added that today’s art director “fails to see the value of how a conceptual artist helps to bring a concept to fruition.” Graphic designer Adrian Shaughnessy, wrote for “The Design Observer Group” that “perhaps illustration’s current
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status owes most to its near-total eclipse by graphic design.” He opined that illustration is more of an art form with personal connotations, frequently about vivid displays of authorship, while graphic design is about the anonymous conveying of messages. SCAD Atlanta’s Illustration Program Coordinator Richard Lovell stated, “[Illustration] is based on a stylistic nuance … [An illustrator’s] work has a certain look that is appropriate to help enhance a story.” He related the differences in each art form to storytelling, observing that while both illustration and photography can be used to solve a visual problem, illustration is “visual storytelling, [while] photography is primarily capturing an instance — a real moment.” Illustration can not only stand on its own as a work of art, but can be used in a magazine, novel or design layout to enhance the written word. Matt Robertson, a fourth year graphic design student, observed that when using an
illustration in a graphic design layout, “[the illustration] is still going to have that overall feel of what that illustrator wanted to portray.” The image’s style and/or feel cannot be changed, even after manipulation. Despite illustration’s stylistic abilities, Robertson maintained that one art form does not take precedence over the other. "It’s just personal preference of whether you want photography or whether you want illustration for the look and feel you’re going for in your design.” The artwork chosen must relate to the piece, whether written or designed. While photography is the most used visual in the commercial world, this art form approaches the visual problem in a different way. Matt Jones, a fourth year photography student, asserted, “I feel like illustration and photography are two completely different things … I feel like you’re able to accomplish the same thing with both of them, it just depends on the approach you take.” Lovell observed,
Matt Jones had a different view on the subject. He stated, “I also feel like it’s the demise of photography.” He related this demise to the changes in the economy and the possible effect on his career, citing the initiatives that businesses have taken to cut costs and conduct their own photography, without the use of a professional photographer. While considering his career and the options open to him, Jones asserted, “Every single person in this department is going to come out with a BFA in photography, but the percentage of students who actually make a solid living and become a name in photography is very, very slim and very, very rare.” Though photography as a medium may be the most widely used, the photographers themselves may have to consider the work available. “When you want to state some moment in fact, I think photography is a better use because, usually, the camera doesn’t lie.” Photoshop may be implemented to perfect the image, but a photograph ultimately portrays reality. Some designers use illustration and photography together to best convey a message. Aileen Tan-Rodriguez, a fourth year graphic design student, commented: “I could use both [art forms] to give [my designs] a little oomph, whether I drew something and then used a photograph to make that humanistic drawing become life-like in a realistic setting.” The illustration, thus, embellishes the photograph and vice versa. Robin Holstein, a graduate student in sequential art, pointed out the use of photography in comics and graphic novels. He stated that in Europe, “they do actually have sequential comics, but with photographs.” This kind of graphic novel demonstrates the possibilities for the combination and collaboration of illustration and photography.
Art directors and editors can dictate the utilization or demise of illustrations or photographs. Lovell asserted, “I think because of the compressed workflow that editors and art directors have now, they have to get work done really fast and that sort of precludes a lot of illustrative styles that take more time.” He observed that the availability of stock imagery has come to push aside illustration in many respects. While he has a pessimistic view of illustration’s presence in the design world, Lovell believes there will be a resurgence of this art form. He feels that people are getting tired of seeing digitallymanipulated photography, that people “want to see more traditional-looking illustration, more painterly approaches to things.” Fourth year photography student Allison Jarek commented that “there needs to be more of a balance [between the two mediums]. I certainly wouldn’t want photography to eliminate the use of illustration.” While some strive for a balance, there will always be some sort of conflict between the two art forms.
Among the discussion of SCAD Atlanta’s illustration and photography programs was the collaborative efforts of the students and professors. Lovell described the collaboration between art forms as “a cross-pollination.” He referred to photography professor Suellen Parker, “who has sort of an illustrative mind [and] is teaching her students to illustrate through the lens of the camera,” which he called “amazing.” The illustration department also has collage classes that teach students to take photographic imagery and recompose them into illustrative forms. TanRodriguez commented: “I actually like how [professors] make us combine the two [art forms] … I like how they push us to be able to do well in both and then, in our own way, combine to two to make [the project] even better.” SCAD’s efforts at collaboration and “cross-pollination” as well as the talents and abilities of its students may level the playing field between illustration and photography — and the demise of either may be forgotten. »
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» SEQUENTIAL ART
Falynn Koch Artist Statement For a long time, I wasn’t using color in my work at all — maybe a splash here, a splash there. After I rediscovered a travel watercolor kit my grandmother gave to me, that all changed. I made myself do a postcardsized painting every day for a month, and I still try to as often as I can. A lot of people color comics using the computer, and I have done that, but since entering the SCAD Atlanta graduate program, I have been drawn toward doing things traditionally. Using a brush and nib has taught me to embrace the happy accidents that can come with paint and ink. I feel that experimenting and creating without the safety of the undo button is important; this method is frustrating and liberating at the same time. My comics and illustrations are usually about serious situations, with a humorous twist thrown in. This is really just a reflection of my personality. I’m a positive and lighthearted person who can find the amusing in the somber — like in my griffin illustrations: Typically you see the eagle and lion combination, but what about a pigeon and a house cat? This combination is still a griffin by definition, but is not as majestic. There are no rules in comics or art, in general. I’m for taking everything off pedestals and looking from a different perspective. »
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» A R T A D M I N I S T R AT I O N
Kat Reynolds Artist Statement An arts administrator is to creative organizations as mortar is to bricks. Artistic events such as theatre produtions, gallery openings, museum exhibits, symphony concerts, fashion shows and art classes are not a feat for one artist alone. In fact, a small army of designers, historians, performers and managers are required to ensure success for these events. Arts administrators are just as integral a component of creative organizations as the art itself. As theatre director and producer, I have had many opportunities to assist in building theatre productions from the ground up. From scribbling notes, to rewrites, table readings, auditions, rehearsals and curtain calls, my best experiences have been leading and administering live productions. In 2006, one conversation about tattoos catapulted a three year collaboration with Atlanta based theatre playwright and director Colleen Hammond Whitmore. In October 2009, Atlanta’s 14th Street Playhouse premiered a successful run of TATS:theexperience© filled with dancing, acting, puppetry and original music. One of our audience members even stopped me in the lobby and whispered, “I needed a tissue, and then a cigarette.” Theatre productions are a roller coaster ride — from the administrative offices to front row center. With TATS, I was thrilled to get on board the ride time and time again.
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Just as tattoo artists prepares their stations before turning on the needle, my co-writer/ producer and I prepped the script before putting pen to paper. We spent a year interviewing anyone with body art, and created characters based on those stories as well as our personal experiences with tattoos. Over the course of a year, TATS was written. We prepared ourselves to promote the show through website launches, photo and video shoots, as well as viral marketing campaigns. With audience interest peaked, the TATS team hired an excellent group of designers, musicians, dancers and actors. A grueling rehearsal schedule set in and challenged me to not only put on a director’s hat, but also — for the first time — a producer’s shield. Daily conversations urged me to make fast decisions regarding budgets, staffing, actors’ safety and ticket sales. These choices, along with hours of consultation with team members, emphasized for me the necessity for administrators in the arts. Every participant in a performing arts event has a job, and each person’s goal must lead to the same end. Administrators keep the team on a fast, and often risky, track to opening night. Behind the scenes, this play script and ultimate performance is a result of over three years of planning and achieving a mountain of artistic goals. »
Photography by RACHEL BODENSTEIN
VENICE Written by ELENA VIPERA Photos by RACHEL CHAIKOF
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If you've ever visited the Venetian Hotel in Las Vegas, you may think that you know what the real Venice is like; the real Venice is old, sinking and, sometimes, smelly and dirty. Despite these aphorisms, the city’s atmosphere, people, food and history are inimitable and a definite must-see.
Visitors to Venice must leave all convention behind as they approach the old city. No cars, scooters, bicycles or even skaters are admitted among Venice’s streets — called “calli” in Italian. The calli are so narrow that sometimes people must walk in a single-file line to get by. The only vehicles allowed in Venice are motorboats, gondolas and ferryboats. While some tourists may be wary of water travel, the beauty of the scenery can be better appreciated. Walking through the tiny streets and passages can also be quite an adventure. Every few meters, a splendid view appears before your eyes, the perfect inspiration for painting, drawing and photography. Venice is the perfect European location for those ready for a change of scenery as well as lifestyle. Venice’s academic and historic attractions are numerous. The artistic and historical values of every single component of the city are immense. Venice is not only a wonderful place to appreciate art, but also is a city that needs to be experienced by the day and with your heart. Organized schedules and a multitude of maps are not the best tools to help you experience the city and all of its treasures. Venice requires its visitors to take their time and get lost in the city’s mystique. That is the magic of Venice. »
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Editorsâ€™ choice: a compilation of the writers, filmmakers and lyricists that inspire us. Can you recognize all of them?
Storyteller Mashup Illustration by IRENE Strychalski
8 6 7 9
1. Quentin Tarantino 2. Hayao Miyazaki 3. Trey Parker, Matt Stone 4. Coen brothers 5. Orson Welles 6. Brad Bird 7. Maya Angelou 8. Dodie Smith 9. Nas
Savor a moment between classes at The Hub’s
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