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20+ ILLUSTRATED OR GRAPHIC TEXTS 14 PIECES OF TEXT-BASED ARTWORK ALL DEPARTMENTS REPRESENTED 11% OF STUDENT POPULATION 9 PERFORMED WORKS OVER 50,000 WORDS 72 STUDENTS 5 PODCASTS 423 PAGES 1 FILM

= 1 ZINE OF SELECTED WORK 1

Cole Aaronson Elizabeth Abramchuk Emily Anderson Adrian Xavier Asirot Nathan Baldwin Katherine Bernal Courtney Butterfield

Podcast p 72 Marbles p 3 Full Circle p 7 Anomalous: Lev’s Encouragement p8 Dream Tree p 11 Poems p 13 Podcast p 72

Dung Cao Mary and the Angel p 15 Olivia Carter Ekphrastic Poem p 17 Sydney Chavan When I was Sixteen p 18 Carly Cipriano The Jungle p 20 Lindsey Collison-Ris If I Could Go Back p 25 Heather Cook Passion Speech p 26 April Cooper Guardian on a lonely rock p 28 Haley Criswell An Exploration of Visually Communicating

the Detachment of People in my Reality p 30 Anonymous April 21st p 32 Sydney Deal Poem 3 p 35 Tammie Dupuis Growth Cycle p 38 Monika Elmont May you be inscribed for good p 39 Pamela Frausto Reflecting on Taxidermy p 45 Allyson Gimenez Sister p 47 Christian Glennon The Artist in the Global Studio p 49 Amber Granger Medusa p 56 Alexander Hartanov Moments p 57 Maeve Haselton Artist Statement p 62 Shasha Himel Cut-ups p 63 Whitney Hoder Poem 3 p 65 Anonymous Untitled p 66 Kia Hoehn Hourly Comic Day 2018 p 67 Alexander Hawker Podcast p 72 Nadiya Jackson Morning, Love! p 68 Quinlyn Johnson Untitled p 70 Monica Kerr The Cost of Culture p 73 Anonymous Split p 77 Natalie Luquin The Holy Trinity_ p 78 Idalis Madrigal Untitled p 79 Anya McCullough Crystalline p 80 Aspen McGlashan Lenny and Elijah p 81 Sienna Mendez somos un bosquejo (We are a Sketch) p 82 Cassidy Mitchell Liminality p 88 Afterword WAC Committee p 91

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Elizabeth Abramchuk 6

Emily Anderson Section 2

Full Circle ‌ An embrace of the heart Firm caring hands caressing compassion, Massaging out feelings of the soul.

A being grabs a rose by the thorns Bleeding and in pain, Beauty arises from the soft velvety beet red petals.

Oozing life force, Oozing into others, Oozing into the next. ...

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Nathan A. Baldwin Dream Tree

I was dancing so much, I felt like my spleen was about to fall out of my ass. It was crazy intense.

The music was carrying me. It was taking me away from the rest of everything. All the people. all the creeps. The bros, the nasty crowds of people waiting in lines that were way too long for water.

The music went on.

I let it carry me.

My eyes opened and I saw a gap in the sea of people. Their heads bobbed up in down swaying in a translucent motion. Equal. Happy. Energetic.

I carried myself over in the direction of it, strangely wanting a part of what I couldn’t quite make out. I thought I saw what was a strange section of the crowd; beaming and surrounding a corner portion of the festival.

I arrived and was greeted by a sea of smiles. People dancing and kicking their legs in the air.

Swinging their bodies from side to side and embracing each other in the joy that we all shared within the same music.

It carried us all.

I began to feel tired after a while and thought it would be best to head to one of the heavy water lines to wait for some hydration. It was getting hot out.

I climbed into the line through an open patch and found myself staring at the most peculiar of things. In the distance was a sharp and rigid object right along the left horizon, tucked behind what I thought were some walls.

Tucked in between those walls, I could make out an open area, slightly hidden and off a path from the festival. Slowly entranced by the strange object, my body began to draw near.

Dancing, and swaying my way over, the object grew larger. I began to make out strange reflections and lights bouncing around the hidden space.

I finally made it to the corridor walls and was standing in front of what I had been working my way over to. What I saw before me was incredible. I had to refocus my vision. I saw a tree filled with painted colors and broken mirror, and there was nothing alive on it beside the strange reflective essence it had when I looked straight at it. It was so perplexing, I drew nearer.

When I was only a few feet from the strange mirrors and twisted branches of color, something even stranger happened. The Tree began to glow. Getting brighter and brighter; slowly changing colors. ,

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lights and reflections began to shimmer all over me, the people around me, the vendors, the stages and the fading colors of the sky, I continued to gaze ahead and into what it thought was the most beautiful spectacle I had ever seen.

The tree was mashed with all kinds of colors.

There were variations of blue, of purple and green, but the fragments of light reflected the colors in such a weird euphoric way that I couldn’t exactly wrap my words around what I was seeing.

All I could find myself doing was staring.

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high tide someday I will stop writing about you as my first true love and instead realize you were the love that emptied me iridescent and hollow like a conch shell so that when you spoke to me you heard only the sea in response

aubade sunlight makes a pattern of warmth on your cheeks your sleepy hands reaching for me in muscle memories dark curls spilling over your eyes, mouth puckered in a dream. soon the smell of coffee, the flesh of fresh citrus, the idea of a mundane limitlessness, marveling at how could I ever have become so content?

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talking to God I carry Your big empty sky around inside me, the byproduct of growing up in whistling grasses, a scorching desert, a place with millions of stars. in my concrete cage, smelling of city living and light pollution, I drape it over me like a blanket over a parrot, confessing sins enough to erode canyons, straining to hear in those valley’s echoes some trace of You.

-Katherine Bernal

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Mary wants to disappear.

She looks at the angel before her, thinking of a painless erase of body and mind. She wanted to write her last word, but realized that having no one remembering her would be for the best. Her mother would be so happy not to have a burden anymore, and start a new life without her father.

He would feel the same, being able to go away with another woman he loves. Her friends would be relieved not having to see her, gloomily sitting near them without a word. The psychiatrist wouldn’t have to hear her cries. In fact, no one would have to take care of her, even the voices in her head. The thought brings her peace.

Mary clutches her pocket watch. It is her favorite watch, which she found in a dumpster, only to take apart, reassemble and watch it work a hundred times, feeling like a master watchmaker. In fact, it was where the angel came out of; the one hundredth time Mary assembled the watch, sudden darkness swallowed her before dim lights in her room turned on again, revealing the creature, which is now standing in the room. It has one mesmerizing eye that seem to have an entire universe in it, surrounded by a black cloak flowing to the floor. Golden smoke comes out at its feet.

The angel, upon coming out of its shell, looked at Mary and said it saw an unmoving soul, as if it had no purpose. “Well, it’s not like anyone who would take apart and reassemble such a delicate pocket watch a hundred times in two months has any purpose,” the angel commented, which confused Mary rather than irritating her. “You just want everything to be over, don’t you?” the angel asked, even though it already knew the truth.

“What does it mean that everything will be over?” Mary asks, dumbstruck.

“It means to end your life and suffer no pain.” “… Yes, I- I do-” “Do you want everything to be over?”

“Yes… But why?”

“Because I exist only to grant that wish.”

“You kill people?”

“I would call it ‘erasing one’s existence.’ It is painless. But I absorb people’s souls in exchange.”

“So… you are not the Grim Reaper…”

“My good friend takes the souls to the underworld. I don’t know what they do down there, but people remember them even when they’re gone. No one will know you exist when I absorb your soul.”

In fact, the angel only exists to collect wandering souls and give painless death for people who need it. It erases people’s existences without a trace, absorbs their emotions and knowledge to maintain its own existence. But that was in the old days, when too many people had to die from wars, diseases, and broken hearts. The angel had been sleeping in peace for years inside its pocket watch, thinking the world would be fine without it – at least, the lost souls do not haunt people now as much as in the past, and having erasing one’s existence means there would be no pain, no joy, no knowledge, and the angel may have to end up erasing existence of humanity. But Mary had accidentally brought it to life again.

Mary looks at the angel before her, thinking of a painless erase of body and mind. She looks at the pocket watch she has been clutching.

“Can I take apart and reassemble it one last time?” “…Yes, you may.” It comes as a strange question, however, some people do have last wishes before the end.

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“Do you like that pocket watch?”

“I do. It is very pretty.”

The angel looks as Mary takes apart the watch. It has never paid too much attention to the object it has been sleeping in. Although it has rusts on its fob and metal cover, beautiful wave patterns are still visible and the glass face is always shiny. A tiny light appears in Mary’s soul that only the angel can see, as she focuses on the watch like the world has disappeared. It is merely an obsession, the angel thinks. An action, a habit that keeps people going just a few more steps, but still precious, especially to a lost soul. The angel watches Mary, her delicate hands holding a tiny needle, twisting a tiny screw.

-Dung Cao

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Olivia Carter

We are always in opposition everywhere I go, endlessly conflicting and I am tired right down to my bones of the way we pretend not to see the facade blend See the way the light comes shining through the cracks The way it refuses to give up long after you have laid down to die smudge I watch the world from the safety of my skull walls of bone pressing in on every side Like a primal embrace, smothering, yet still the light threatens to shine through darken We are all dust when the fire burns out The fault lines of my skin traced in charcoal like some cruel artist determined to render these ruins of a person, an architectural failure erase

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Carly Cipriano The Jungle

I take a lot of pride in my appearance.

I’ve got hair Cheeks, too And a nose And a jaw With lips And a tongue Wouldn’t you know?

I’ve got big brown eyes from the Ciprianos and the lashes to match.

My mom gave me most everything I’ve got; she won’t let me forget it.

I have her nails, the ones that grow out like claws, And her teeth, always bared

When I was 6, I was a rabbit Awkward limbs in a sundress and sneakers I had grass-stains for breakfast, lunch, and dinner On the playground I could hop And hop And hop and hop and hop Nobody could catch me The fastest boy in class challenged me to a race Honor was on the line

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“If I win, you gotta give me a kiss” He dared “Gross. Deal.”

We spit into our palms and shook on it I had rabbit’s feet (No luck necessary) I tore across the field and left him breathless In the dust And walked away, grinning

When I was 10, I was a deer Thin and delicate, acutely aware of the space I took up I made no noise when I walked Any rustle in the trees meant there may be trouble But boy, did I love sunlight And flowers And being alone with myself But it was foggy tuesday morning when I walked to school All 4 feet, 10 inches of me.

And a truck rolled by And some men yelled out at me from across the street I didn’t look, just walked faster 10 years old and tripping over my laces (Caught in the headlights) Not as graceful as the doe I thought I was I don’t remember what they said

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Could have been anything I just had a feeling that from then on, It was open season.

When I was 13, I was a snake Or no, a rat Or maybe a fox Probably just a snake Talk about awkward and insecure and self-conscious and self-absorbed and Bright Really, truly bright.

Not sharp yet, no But bright I had a good head on my shoulders, but my body was hulking and morphing I shed my skin every day Scuttled through school, looking for my next opportunity To make a friend? To burn a bridge? To prove myself?

I wanted something so badly Something ached in those snake-rat-fox bones I found what I wanted in him, I thought And the way he looked at me (Snake eyes) I saw it every night I curled up in bed What it might feel like How he would see me He could make me feel beautiful

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I was shedding my skin for him I wanted him to unhinge his jaws and devour me And in the end, he did Only to spit me back out again He just couldn't stomach the taste

When I was 16, I was a housecat Independant, opinionated (Lazy) I knew I was smart And that meant I didn’t have to try and prove it to anyone else When I saw him, I knew that was my next move He caught me off guard, challenged me But a cat always lands on her feet We played games endlessly with one another He’s wrapped around my finger I’m wrapped around his And everyday was a competition Who would be the one to get attached first?

“Not I,” Said the kitten “I don’t even see you when I walk into a room I like to feel you watch me walk away,” He checked emails while I kissed his neck I smoked a cigarette while he traced shapes on my back In the end, I lost

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Curled up in his lap And purred

At 18, I’m a panther.

Claws out, just like mama taught me I’m a lioness. I’m a leopard. A cheetah. A lynx.

I’ve got five different types of feline to me now, Not a bit of me housecat.

Sure, I’ll purr for you plenty (If you treat me right) But you better believe I’m no kitten anymore I move with purpose I have places to be I’ll look you in the face when you try and domesticate me I’ve done my time at the bottom of the food chain And now I’m nobody’s meat

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This is a song I wrote last semester that began as a challenge to myself to sit down and finish a song in a few hours, and I ended up using it for my semester final. It's about having the chance to go back in time and do things differently.

If I Could Go Back If I could go back to the first day, I would remember the look on your face but I wouldn’t say I wouldn’t say If I could go back to the moment when those lovely eyes Held my heart in a frame I wouldn’t say I wouldn’t say I wouldn’t stop for a second To wonder if we’re meant to be I wouldn’t skip to the end just to see what I wanna see ‘Cause everyone knows the chances are small But from the beginning my heart knew I’d fall If I turned back the page And stepped off the stage So I wouldn’t say Do you remember the first time your lips sent mine up to heaven with grace?

I shouldn’t have stayed I shouldn’t have stayed If I could relive the long drives Our fingers too close to say no, so say yes I’d sit on my hands I’d say “let’s be friends”

Believe me, it’s not that I don’t want your heart ‘Cause I fall everyday I’m a mess for your love And I want it too bad to be safe ‘Cause everyone knows the way that I feel And I believe what we have could be real If I turned back the page And stepped off the stage Here’s what I’d say: I like the swing in your step The blue in your eyes How you say “hello,” How you say “goodbye” I like how you sing I like how you draw I like that you like to take walks in the fall I like your voice I like your hands I like how you stand up for those who can’t I like how you look when you dream How you love every person you meet And the way you believe The way you believe Even if time could mend all of the wounds Even if I could go back and change all the rules I’d fall all the same Starting from the first day I just wouldn’t say I just wouldn’t say

Linzy Collison-Ris

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Heather Cook Passion Speech Romantic Love.

My ideal?

A coming together of two generous unique individuals that respectfully mentally spar and volley.

Collaborate with adoration and understanding.

Laughing most of the way through.

Laced with physical attraction, strength and agility.

Three men have told me they love me so far.

Each event precipitated by an assortment of dates and roused kisses.

Three different men, a singular phrase.

The settings were unique, but the delivery was the same.

After the phrase, “I love you” passed their lips, they farted. All three of them.

No, to answer your first question...no not all my meet cutes take place in restaurants serving on high fiber options.

The first time this happened, I leaned back in surprise and laughter.

I did keep my distance. the sound was enough.

I didn’t need full immersion.

The second time I reacted with, “Not Again!!”

I felt required to provide him with an explanation.

That did not help.

The third was distraught about what he was about to utter.

He’d really built himself up to this.

So, I as the phrase and the moment passed in both senses,I did not tell him the story of the previous loves.

I guessed this would have injured him deeply.

So, instead I jumped in, had sex with him, to clear the decks!

Yes, I have wondered why.

Because I experienced the end of these loves: Two of the men would go on to sleep with other women behind my back.

The third slept with men behind my back., more accurately behind their backs.

I created my own closure for these happenings.

The impetus for the “I love you” was primal arousal.

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Not love.

Just like when you are viewing a smiling baby who is really just backing one out.

I took time off from love. 10 years.

I met a French-American in November. He showed great adoration for me. My intellectual and aesthetic equal. Plus, I’d get to practice my French Language skills instead of sitting in the realization it’s not as useful as Spanish.

In these moments together we laughed so much and also shared two soft and passion filled kisses.

Yes, I was actually really apprehensive we would get to the point where he may say the phrase.

Would it happen again?

Could it happen a fourth time?

Instead he did me a favor.

He had surprised me by having fiance (French word) in Fresno, California (Spanish for ash tree) in Northern California.

I desired to wrap this up for you sweetly, while avoiding platitudes and puns about rising above the ether and completely refusing to say, “For ME... LOVE stinks.”

I don’t believe it does.

I just haven’t fully experienced it yet.

## As of May 2017 a fourth man has told me he loves me. I have now experienced real love.

He didn’t….but he did burp. I’m in heaven. ##

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On the shore of some distant island, stands a shrine of stone. Upon the large stone tower overlooking the sea is a glass house with a rotating metal throne. From that throne sits a deity made of the prayers of mariners in their time of need.

He sits there shining brightly through the stormy night protected by his glass housing. Come daytime this ghostly denizen recedes into the heart of the his shrine to rest up for the next night. As he descends the stone staircase his faint gold light casts on the old stone walls. The only other sign of life were the cobwebs that hung in the corners.

He remembered centuries ago, his attendants whose life brought joy to his empty halls. For many years they had lived there keeping the light of his throne alive. Now the light that cast from his glass house was his own as he became forgotten by the modern world, but he never forgot his subjects. Lost souls cast about in a raging sea in need of guidance. So every night he climbed back to his throne casting his ghostly light, to those imperil.

In his decaying shrine he worked everynight alone. Once in awhile during the day he would see some humans walking along the cliffs around his home, so when men in orange vest showed up to survey his shrine, he paid them no heed for the threat they might pose.

A couple days went by quietly, then on the third the rumble of machinery woke the spirit from his slumber. He rushed to the nearest window to venture a look.

Through the portal he saw great yellow beasts surrounding his shrine. Their rotating claws dug into the earth as they pulled up to his fortress, ugly grey smoke billowed behind the machines. Each were armed with fierce battlements. Some were to bludgeon and others to maim, upon each beast rode orange vested men. Within a few days of their arrival his shrine was torn down.

He watched in horror as his home was destroyed . The sorrow he felt never turned to anger for in his heart no hostility lay. Instead he stood steadfast in the place of his shrine. He stood firmly on the precipice over looking the sea very night, through battering winds and brine filled waves he remained, deteminded to see his people through. Living exposed to the elements helped him to empathize with the sailors battered about by the angry seas. Even though he was now homeless and alone forgotten by the people he served, his benevolence toward his mortal charges never wavered.

Through the dark nights his ghostly light shone like a wil-o-wisp, but with good intentions. His once bright light magnified by his throne was now a bright candle in every darkening world. A Signal of hope for a few lost souls.

During the day he curled on the shore resting, for the long nights to come. When night falls he rises and begins his eternal work.

The spectre of hope and determination remains there to this day. Standing on the bluffs overlooking the see. The guardian of the lonely rock.

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-April CooperÂ

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Haley Criswell, An Exploration of Visually Communicating the Detachment of People in my Reality 31

April 21st This is a story of a girl and a guy Whose lives both did change in the blink of an eye The girl, that is me, loved the boy beyond words But the boy was quite coy and instead, made her worse

See, the boy, he had had quite a difficult past Which he told to the girl, and she understood fast ‘Cause the girl’s daddy died when she was quite little And her heart, it did grow for the boy’s sad, sad riddle

So the girl and the boy, for a year they did date Then the boy broke the girl’s heart one night, really late And the girl, though she cried, still did care very deeply When the boy came back sad, she accepted him neatly

And so it began, their back-and-forth dance Of love and hate and sometimes romance But each and every time, the boy didn’t quit To come back to her life but still wouldn’t commit

She’d ask him to show his affections some more But he’d say she was needy and that was a chore So the girl gave up on merely asking for love And lost her voice, withered, like a poor, caged up dove

The boy liked to have some ladies on the side Which the girl must have known, but she still kept her pride The girl, she grew tired of all the boy’s rules Of what to wear, where to be, who to talk to in school

The girl ended up as a penciled-in-date Stuck to waiting around for the boy very late Still, without fail, the boy would come back Either drunk or upset or in need of some slack

So the girl did forgive, as was part of her soul And the boy, he did take, as he swallowed her whole The girl was in love, she knew not what to do She wanted him but couldn’t seem to get through

The boy simply wanted to live his own life As a bachelor, tied to no one, and free of all strife

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For a year and a half was their back-and-forth game Not knowing what’s real- simply going insane

So the girl called it quits, and the boy just went mad Said he wanted only her, but this was quite bad The girl, she did try to simply be friends But the boy wanted more things from her in the end

All alone, he would scream, throw her onto the floor He’d break all her mugs and call her a whore She’d cry and she’d plead, saying she was confused But the story he’d told himself was, to him, the truth

She wasn’t allowed to be out very late Or he’d call her and ask if she went on a date She couldn’t see others, but she couldn’t see him So the walls closed around her and trapped her within

She began to say yes more than justified no’s Her boundaries dissolved- she had nowhere to go The boy’s habits increased and he drank quite a lot But the girl felt quite fundamental to his plot

She was walking on eggshells, though she seemed quite in place Straight-A student, teacher’s pet, and a big, smiling face But what was happening behind all the closed doors and walls Was something she feared more than anything at all

No one asked if the girl and the boy were okay Instead, more girls went off with the boy just to play See, the boy had then managed to charm their whole class Claiming the girl was a crazy, over-sensitive ass

Then one night, as they both just completed a show The boy got quite drunk and didn’t know where to go When the girl tried to help, something rearranged April 21st, the night everything changed

The girl grabbed the boy’s phone, went to help him get home The boy longed for nothing in the world but his phone A night of violence, yes, all because of a phone A password protected, a hard-cased, simple phone

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The boy tore at her jacket, threw her onto the ground His eyes had turned red, his head spun around The girl opened her mouth, but couldn’t form words As the boy clenched his fists, her vision grew blurred

He grabbed for his knife, but he had no such luck Instead with his hands and his feet he had struck He pushed her onto the ground with his hands in her hair All she could do was say “stop” and just stare

When the cops came, they panicked and ran far away The boy changed their appearance, told her what to say The girl, she did lie to the officers that night Still visibly shaking from such a strange fright

After that, the police told the boy and girl to go Both their own separate ways, or the cops would know It was then in an alley on the girl’s way home The boy grabbed her again and demanded his phone

The girl, with some sense, broke off into a sprint But the boy caught up quick and to her he went He grabbed her breast hard and bit into her cheek The blue/red lights caught him before he could squeak

The girl, she did cry as they took him away Asking if he’d be safe and if he was okay It’s been a year now since that God-awful day Filled with courtrooms and “not guilty” and no words to say

It’s strange, a year out, that all this time flew And I’m sharing this story that somehow is true I know I’m not different as many of you But right here, right now, this is what I need to do

Wait for the person that won’t change a thing Who will cherish you, love you, and make your heart sing I know, this might seem like a terrible speech That it’s so hard to practice what I really preach

And no, I’m not there, I’m right there with you But I’d rather say “time’s up” than another “me too”

-Anonymous 34

Sydney Deal Poem 3 21st Century Revised

E . Pit . o . Me Noun : a person or thing that is a perfect example of a particular quality or type.

She’s Beautiful Body of a Goddess No doubt Long flowing hair….Long hair don’t care Ideal 35

Perfect

Beauty

On the outside Worship

Pedestal supermodels thin

Symmetrical

She’s got it made 36

But the ideals of the ideal women don;t exist. the ideal women myth

false Beauty is nonexistant

Ideals are the E.pit.o. me of stupidity.

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excerpt from May You be Inscribed for Good RIVKAH I don’t know.

PART TWO The Shamus is lit. RIVKAH by the chanukiah PETER away.

RIVKAH It’s the second night.

Can I light the rest?

PETER Can you?

RIVKAH truth I don’t remember how.

PETER Left to right or right to left?

RIVKAH Right is right, left is wrong.

PETER Wrong?

RIVKAH giving, changing Different.

PETER I love you.

RIVKAH I love you.

PETER I want you.

RIVKAH I want you.

PETER I don’t know if I can have you.

They are together.

RIVKAH Questions.

PETER Can I want you?

Can I love you?

Can I worship you with tongues and lips? A foolish kiss.

I don’t know why I am feeling like this.

Falling without height, crackling numbness traveling through, from finger bed to hairs on the head. +5 39

Can I risk it?

RIVKAH You are my light.

PETER Doubt clouds my vision.

I cannot see.

RIVKAH You cannot see.

PETER The world is blind to me.

RIVKAH You look scared.

PETER I look scared.

RIVKAH You are scared.

PETER I am scared. I am scared of what might happen if I let it.

RIVKAH You are the one thing in this world that I remember.

You are my light.

PETER Moon?

RIVKAH Sun. I live by the sun.

PETER I live by the moon.

RIVKAH I start at sunrise.

PETER I start at sundown.

RIVKAH You are my light.

PETER You are my night.

RIVKAH and PETER You fill me. You encompass me. You wrap around, you keep a hold, you keep me whole.

PETER wraps red around RIVKAH, first her hands then her arms. RIVKAH laughs and sighs.

RIVKAH You deserve it. You deserve it. You are worthy of these masses.

PETER +6 40

You are my future.

RIVKAH You are my present.

You are my world.

PETER I am your world.

PART THREE Two baths on stage. RIVKAH in the right bath tub, wine. PETER in the left, oil.

PETER is asleep.

RIVKAH is asleep.

Crackling is heard.

Silence.

RIVKAH shifts.

Her leg gets yanked, dragged under the water line.

Resurface.

Yank.

Resurface.

Yank.

Resurface.

RIVKAH Legs. Arms. Calves. Knees. Fingers.

Cease this action at once.

My tongue is tarnished with the taste of wine.

Shorter and shorter. Less and less I remember.

Could I be consuming Lethe?

What day is it?

I say, what day my good Moon?

I have been consumed, forgive me.

It has been too long.

My mind has been occupied.

He sustains me.

You are not dissimilar.

You are eternal.

And our love will last a life time and more.

I want him.

Please, Moon.

He is all I’ve ever wanted.

You have kept me waiting, he is who I have been waiting for.

He is my miracle.

Dunks head under.

PART FOUR +7 41

RIVKAH I got you a gift.

I know it’s not His birthday yet, but it is the fourth miracle for me.

I’d like to share it with you.

PETER What is it?

RIVKAH shows her heart.

RIVKAH It is my heart.

My life.

My light.

My fire.

All yours, to do with it as you please.

PETER takes it.

PETER Your heart is heavy.

RIVKAH My heart is heavy.

PETER Our hearts are heavy.

I cannot decipher whose is whose.

Yours in my right, mine in my left.

Mine in my right, yours in my left.

Yours in the center, mine in the middle.

We have melded together so much that our lines are criss-crossed and I cannot feel where mine is.

PETER remembers.

You have my heart. urgent I need it.

RIVKAH It is safe.

PETER I need it.

You have it.

You stole it.

RIVKAH I found it, and you let me keep it.

PETER sees RIVKAH. PETER Rivkah?

RIVKAH Peter. +8 42

Look.

See. Smell.

Taste.

Touch.

I am yours as you are mine.

That is all I know.

That is all I need to know.

PETER That is all you need to know.

RIVKAH It is enough.

You are enough.

PETER I am enough.

RIVKAH and PETER give into each other.

RIVKAH When my hands are on your face, you know I am here.

When my lips are on your skin, you know I am here.

When my chest is on your own, you know I am here.

When my hips are on your own, you know I am here.

And here I will stay.

Connected.

Your life and my mine intertwined so much our essence becomes one.

PETER Our essence becomes one.

PART FIVE Two baths on stage. RIVKAH in the right bath tub, wine. PETER in the left, oil.

PETER is asleep.

RIVKAH is asleep.

PETER slips underneath the oil, glacially.

RIVKAH remains asleep throughout this whole passage of time.

Five Seconds pass. PETER gasps up out of the oil, wiping from his eyes and mouth.

PETER I cannot breathe. I cannot see. I cannot taste.

I cannot feel my skin underneath my skin.

It is smooth, yet I cannot feel it. I know it’s there, but I cannot feel it.

It slips and slides away.

From me. looking up Sun. I don’t know what to do. +9 43

She is all I have ever needed and yet she is not enough as she is.

She is a devil in angel’s cloak.

I love her dearly. I hate her scent.

I crave her heat. I crave her heart.

I despise her cold. I despise her body.

I cut her tongue. I gauge her eyes.

She cannot see.

She isn’t seen, For the eyes I’ve gouged weren’t just hers, I look down yet see nothing.

I am not giving.

I cannot give.

I cannot cut to the quicke, she is buried within.

Get her out. Get her out!

Get out five times more.

Take it back. Take it back.

My heart is burning. My head is hurting.

It is too much. She is too much. I am too full.

Sun, I look to you for guidance.

PART SIX RIVKAH and PETER together, yet something has shifted within PETER. PETER Say it.

RIVKAH You deserve it.

PETER I deserve what?

RIVKAH You deserve my breath.

PETER More.

RIVKAH You deserve my love.

PETER More.

RIVKAH You deserve my life.

PETER More.

RIVKAH What more do you need?

PETER I need you. +10

-Monika Elmont 44

Reflecting on Taxidermy At the beginning I didn’t actually realize what I would do, just thinking that these creatures used to be alive was a little odd to think about. But I was not uncomfortable, growing up I was exposed to seeing dead animals-how they are processed for a meal (from the very beginning). I remember helping my mom taking the feathers off of chickens and things like that. What we did in this class was…select a bird, remove all of its insides leaving the least amount of meat inside, making sure it had the least amount of fat before moving on to the next stage. We then placed the eyes and started to build the wire “body” inside before stuffing and sewing it up. We also took several measurements at the begging to ensure that our final product would resemble the size of the original as close as possible. Sometimes the birds would be quite bloody due to head trauma which was shocking to look at and work on, the sound of the cracking bones(especially the skull) was also something I was not expecting to have a reaction towards. In some situations I found myself trying to find kinder words to describe what I was doing but-there was no way around it. For me the hardest part of the process was working with wire, trying to manipulate it was difficult for me especially while working with smaller birds. It was also a strange experience trying to talk to people about this class, I never knew whether they would be for it or against it-luckily people thought it was pretty cool!

I was satisfied with my final products given that it was my first time. But I have to admit that positioning my bird on a final pose was harder than I was expecting. The feathers were hard to put back into place and some even got stained in the process-so that would be something I would like to get better at. I was happy with the placement of the eyes and the amount of stuffing on my birds, i was able to keep them close to the original measurements. One thing I would like to improve(as I mentioned) would be coming up with better poses and taking better care of the feathers.

I enjoy doing stop motion and clay puppets so this would be a great thing to incorporate.

The fact that these birds have wire inside would an advantage when trying to position them. But they could also work as art pieces if the feathers were to be dyed-or just as they are.

I would love to create a Quetzal because of their beautiful colors and long feathers, I think they would be amazing to look at up close. Extinct species could be great as well, especially since they are no longer here, just to imagine what it would have been like to see them and feel their presence. Dinosaurs sound great just because of how iconic and unreal they sound.

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Overall, This class had a positive impact on me. My initial goal was to learn about the history of taxidermy and what really went into the process, and i feel like I’ve achieved that. It was interesting to learn about the hours of hard work and detail that goes into creating taxidermy and the opposing side and reasoning behind its controversy. I’m able to say that i have a better understanding of this process and the specific regulations that it entails. I’m also thankful for the experiences i was able to have though this class-such as going to the Burke Museum experiencing the “behind the scenes” and getting to see the largest owl!

- Pamela Frausto

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Allyson Gimenez Christine Sumption Power Of Story 5/12/2017 Sister When I was younger I would always play games with my brother. He was always into video games, so I would sit and watch him as he defeated all the bad guys. When I got stuck I would go to him for help. I remember sitting on our brown couch, playing with the fabric watching it turn lighter and darker with the swish of my hand, laying on my stomach watching him. I imagine the house was warm as we played video games in the summer. A fan blowing my hair into my face as I tried to cool down my body. He would get angry and frustrated when he couldn't win, he would tell me hold hold my breath and not to blink. I remember watching as he played Alice In Wonderland, leaping across decaying metal cogs. As he consistently fell into the black nothing-ness beneath him, he grew more and more red and breathed heavier as he grew in frustration.

We would play dress up and he would do my hair and make up. I remember sitting still, trying not to fidget like I always did. The tension in my eyes begging to flutter was too much to bare and I would pull away from the brush. He tied and braided my hair while I looked up at him. He would put shadow on my eyes. Usually too dark in contrast of my bright blues, giving me bruises for eyes. He would play dolls with me and wear my dresses over his clothes when we played dress up. I remember we only had one ken doll that we came together one day and destroyed. We sat together roaming around my room finding ways to take him apart. One by one he became less of a man. First we cut off his clothes, then his hair. Finally in a desperation we found nail polish and decorated his body.

He is unrecognizable now.

I don't remember him wearing my princess dresses, but I've seen the pictures. We would play this game, where we would pretend we were older and living together. My brother always pretended 47

that he was a girl when we played these games. Every time he played a video game, he picked the girl character. One day I remember we played dress up and pretend. He dressed up as an older girl, we were college roommates.

He put on one of my training bras and stuffed it with my socks. We were in the closet, filled with our clothes. Our voices felt flat in the enclosed space, a place where we could be alone. We had always shared a room. The closet was long and had old toys lining the floor. I sat on my white dresser lined with princess stickers and pink hearts, while my brother picked out clothes for me. I dressed in one of my favorite shirts with a monkey on it and some shorts. I remember I sat on my dresser with my legs outstretched, my pale skin almost matching the dimming white of my seat. The mirror must have been cold against my back, but I don't remember. “You're lucky to have long legs like that. You're lucky to have curves like you do. I wish I had them too.� He told me as I sat unaware of my body.

All I remember is this comment.

I remember she pressed her fake chest up into her, commenting on her bust. She always seemed much happier when she dressed like a girl. She never told me, but I always knew she was my sister. The only thing I really remember is the comment she made, that I was lucky to be a girl. She wanted it too. I only remember seconds, snapshots. I remember playing hide and seek and she tells me if she cannot see me then I cannot see her, so she covers her eyes. I remember her doing my make up and me hating to have the eye liner on. I remember the door couldn't shut in our childhood bathroom. I don't remember what she looked like, only from pictures. I cant tell if my memories are real, or if they are buildings I've made on top of pictures. I don't remember, and I cant tell. But I remember she was always my sister at heart, and she always will be. I don't even remember feeling like she was a boy. I don't remember when she started transitioning, when she let her curly hair grow long on her shoulders, when she came home in a dress and make up. I don't remember much, but I remember my sister has always been my sister.

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Christian Glennon Global Art Research Paper: The Artist in the Global Studio

Christian Glennon

Eadweard Muybridge is a renowned photographer known best for his 1887 image ​The Horse in Motion​, a study based on the work commissioned by the governor of California in order to settle a bet. As a pioneer of high speed photography, Muybridge studied motions too fast to see with the unaided eye, publishing his famous volumes ​Animal Locomotion​ (1887)​ ​and stirring the artistic and scientific communities. His many moving image series and invention of the Zoopraxiscope also make him a father of the modern motion picture. Influences of Muybridge’s wide array of work and technological innovation are apparent in my work and that of many artists to this day.

Eadweard Muybridge was born in 1830 as Edward James Muggeridge in Kingston upon Thames, England.1 His parents John and Susanna Muggeridge were grain and coal merchants, operating a business near the River Thames. Muybridge moved to New York City around 1852 and began a career as a bookbinder. He soon moved on to the economically-booming San Francisco, California, and by 1860 was operating a successful business as a bookseller. Around July of 1860 Muybridge left the business in the care of his brother and set out for England to collect antiquarian books. His stagecoach journey was cut short by a tragic accident in Texas.

All of the passengers on board were injured, including Muybridge, who was thrown into a boulder, sustaining significant and permanent neurological damage. After about a year of medical treatment, he sailed back to England a very different man. He would later be described by colleagues as formerly “a good businessman...pleasant in nature [who after the accident] was irritable, eccentric...and subject to emotional outbursts” (Shimamura, p.2). During his rehabilitation in England Muybridge took up photography, possibly on the suggestion of his doctor, Sir Willam Gull.2 Although little evidence exists from the five years following 1861, it is

1 2

​J. P. Ward. "Muybridge, Eadweard."

Solnit​ “River of Shadows”​ (2003), p. 39

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Christian Glennon Global Art Research Paper: The Artist in the Global Studio known that Muybridge received two patents for inventions, including an improved photo printing process and a machine for washing clothes, and developed a mastery of photography.3 He moved back to San Francisco in 1867, but left his bookselling business in the past in favor of his newly developed technical proficiency and artistic eye.

Having been born in 1830 with the name Edward Muggeridge, the man known as Eadweard Muybridge changed his name several times throughout his life, even before his neurologically induced eccentricity. When he first moved to the United States, he went by the surname “Muygridge.” Upon return to California, he changed it again to Edward “Muybridge.” In 1882, he adjusted his first name from “Edward” to “Eadweard,” possibly inspired by a monument of Saxon kings in his English home town.4 Back in San Francisco in 1867 Muybridge coined the name Helios - meaning Sun. Interestingly, he sold his photographs under his real name, “Eadweard Muybridge,” despite authoring the images as Helios. This was perhaps to help differentiate him from the bookseller he no longer was.

Muybridge insisted himself to be an artist - not merely a camera operator as many assumed of photographers at the time. He purchased a carriage and created one of the first mobile darkrooms, complete with the imaginative title “Helio’s Flying Studio” painted on the side.

He began to spread his fame and build his fortune as a landscape photographer, selling prints of the Yosemite Valley and San Francisco Bay. He focused on landscape and architecture subjects, but also advertised portrait photography services. He was hired by clients including Robert B. Woodward, for whom he photographed Woodward's Gardens, an amusement

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Solnit “River of Shadows” (2003), p. 40 Solnit “River of Shadows” (2003), p. 7

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Christian Glennon Global Art Research Paper: The Artist in the Global Studio park-like attraction. He benefited from a culture of people excited to have photos of themselves, and ran a successful studio practice.

In 1872, Muybridge was commissioned by a former governor of California, Leland Stanford5, to photograph a racing horse. Stanford had made a bet that a horse moving at full gallop lifts all four hooves off the ground - but technology beyond the human eye would be needed to prove the matter. The inventive artist Muybridge was up for the challenge. He began work leading to the design of a multi-camera electromagnetic system that would capture a galloping horse using up to 24 precisely timed cameras.6 Muybridge’s first attempts were inconclusive, but by 1873 the point had been proven that a horse does in fact lift all its hooves off the ground in gallop.7

Muybridge was inspired to continue his studies of motion, but the effort was sharply interrupted in 1874 when Muybridge murdered the man who impregnated his wife.8 As Muybridge was quite well known by this time, news of the murder and subsequent trial spread quickly. Friends and colleagues of Muybridge brought claims that he could not be held responsible for his actions due to his neurological damage, although Muybridge himself pleaded guilty to deliberately shooting the man. The jury voted to acquit Muybridge of the charges not due to his mental disability, but on the grounds of justifiable homicide.9 Muybridge moved to Central America and attempted to change the focus of his work, but drifted back to the study of animal motion.

Gardner ​“Art through the Ages”​ p.838 (2015) Hammond, Michael. ​“Eadweard Muybridge” ​(2013) 7 J. P. Ward. "Muybridge, Eadweard."

8 Shimamura, Arthur P. ​“Muybridge in Motion”​ (2002) 9 Shimamura, Arthur P. ​“Muybridge in Motion”​ (2002) 5 6

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Christian Glennon Global Art Research Paper: The Artist in the Global Studio

By 1877 Muybridge had returned to his study of moving horses in California. He developed a new camera mechanism capable of shutter speeds as fast as just 1/1000 of a second, and published a retouched image of Stanford’s horse ​Occident ​in July 1877. Captured at the incredible speed of Muybridge’s new cameras, the image made an impact worldwide. It turned out that the traditional assumption of a galloping horse seen in thousands of paintings was completely wrong, and that the fast moving horses’ hooves actually looked very different than expected. Muybridge went on to work with the University of Pennsylvania where he captured over 100,000 images of animals and humans in all sorts of motions. In 1887, he published his most famous work, the eleven volume series ​Animal Locomotion. ​The 20,000 images therein sparked a rethinking of animal and human motion in both the artistic and scientific communities.

An artist and inventor, Muybridge further enhanced his images of motion by inventing a device that enabled them to be viewed at high speed - calling it the Zoopraxiscope. Muybridge toured Europe in the early 1880s and showed off his images using slides and moving animations.10 His invention of one of the first moving-picture technologies, along with improved camera systems and themany image series, credit Muybridge as one of the fathers of the modern moving picture.

Muybridge’s work forever redefined the study of animal and human kinetics and inspired many continuing projects, while his personal life can also be connected to artists and individuals throughout time. Muybridge's severe injury is often a forgotten part of his story, despite being a

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J. P. Ward. "Muybridge, Eadweard."

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Christian Glennon Global Art Research Paper: The Artist in the Global Studio primary factor behind his work. While any injury is certainly unfortunate, if Muybridge hadn’t been involved in that fateful 1860 coach accident he might not have entered the realm of photography and created the legacy he is known for today. Despite the adverse effects of the neurological damage, it is also likely that the changes in thinking enabled his artistic abilities. In modern times, mental illness caused by disease or injury is often stigmatized, but Muybridge is just another example of the belief that having an “unusua or “wrong” state of mind can have a positive impact on art by allowing the artist unique imaginative abilities.

Left: Marcel Duchamp ​“Nude Descending a Staircase (No. 2)”​ (1913) Right: Eadweard Muybridge ​Woman Walking Down Stairs​ (1887)

Influences of Muybridge’s work can be seen today in countless works of a wide variety of genres, artistic and scientific. David Campany of Tate Britain described historical time being seemingly split into two epochs: before Muybridge, and after Muybridge.11 Foremost was the understanding of the motion of horses and how their stride does not actually look the way artists and scientists of prior times thought it did. But of equal importance was the shift into art based just as much on mathematical perfection as on aesthetic beauty, as is described in artist Mel

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Campany, David. ​"Moving with the Times." ​(2010)

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Christian Glennon Global Art Research Paper: The Artist in the Global Studio Bochner’s essay ​The Serial Attitude ​(1967).12 The essay describes Muybridge as being an early precursor to art that is based on method rather than style, such as Dada artist Marcel Duchamp's ​Nude Descending a Staircase (No. 2)​ (1913). Although Duchamp's piece shows many abstract iterations of a figure descending a staircase overlaid in a single frame, the inspiration from Muybridge’s work is apparent. This is just one of many examples of Muybridge’s series impacting and inspiring work many years later.

As an artist working in photography, graphic design, and interactive video, I admire Muybridge’s meticulous and detailed photographs and series graphics from an aesthetic standpoint, but I am equally intrigued and inspired by his inventive spirit. When Muybridge wanted to capture animals moving more quickly than the current technology could permit, rather than giving up, he engineered a technical solution. In the 1870s he created a system to automatically trigger electromagnetic camera shutters in response to running horses in a way that had never been done before. In everyday practice today, I frequently find myself working with and pioneering new technology as I create artistic work that pushes the boundaries of what is currently possible. I have always seen myself as an artist, but perhaps more primarily an innovator, and therefore I can very much relate to and admire Muybridge’s accomplishments and attitude. I consider a lot of my work to be pushing technical boundaries, and I believe that Muybridge, if given today’s equipment, would be doing many things similar.

Eadweard Muybridge, the man best known for capturing the motion of horses, was much more than just a photographer. His pioneering of motion capture photography lands him a name as a father of the modern cinema, and his studies of animals and humans in motion catalyzed a

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Bochner, Mel. ​“The Serial Attitude.”​ (1967)

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Christian Glennon Global Art Research Paper: The Artist in the Global Studio new understanding of movement within the artistic and scientific communities. Muybridge will always be an inspiration to my work in photography as he is for millions around the world.

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Medusa Amber Granger Mourn me.

For I was once like you, a respectable high priestess under the goddess Athena, who granted me beauty for my services and sacrifices.

Pity me.

For I am now an ophidian, a monster cursed with loneliness because I was under Poseidon, who took advantage of my youth and stole my virginal oath.

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Moment I The show ended Music played, a bit uncharacteristic, as no such thing had happened before The audience applauded in slow motion as i looked on at Her She Spoke with the friends around Her I sat alone staring at Her Through the final bows, the lights faded to an ocean of blue She Rose with Her Things and waved bye to Her Friends. A blue shawl covered Her To the thighs She walked through the door Everybody wants to rule the world

-Alexander Hartanov

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Moment II Champagne bubbles linger at the backs of lips.

T - 1 hour Skin jumps to life at the crack of fireworks Muffled chanting heard around the world seems to fade as our bubbles

POP Into each other.

3 hours of the new year passed The glow of the tv enveloping us, we pressed against each other for the night 4 hours had passed We bathed in moonlight And stared into our eyes. Our lips met again, a musty gathering of marijuana And champagne.

Darkness glowed to life Oh, the less I know the betterÂ

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Moment III Familiar pages, familiar looks, Tired eyes, with cozy nooks A steady ping for which to play, an irritating ding, every which way.

When she appeared, mousey and slender, her eyes were filled with archaic energy Primal Uncontained Hungry She struck In my imagination you're waiting, lying on your side With your hands between your thighs and a smile

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Moment IV A shimmering knife on the wall Flashes of red on the vision A sinister memory rises Making the flesh crawl Tension Tension TENSION Relief with a quick movement Cold approaching With darkness.

Everywhere I go, I drag this coffin just in case

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Moment V A CD revs in anticipation The first notes spill from speakers Not foreign, but not known either Brass like lava Bass of Ice It manages to chill and emblaze all at once The venue flashes into mind Ruby banners with roses dripping from the stems A familiar face Now shaded in smoke Of new found remembrance Betrayal can numb even the happiest of moments Yes, I may dream a million dreams, but how can they come true? If there will never, ever be another you.

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Maeve Haselton ARTIST STATEMENT My only aim is for movement I create to be true - to come from a place of impulse, of persistence, of disgust, fatigue, or empathy. Work I have presented as a dancer and choreographer offers a certain kind of spectacle, although this symmetry, depth and linearity is not only for audience pleasure. It is a natural tendency I have to look at the overall composition of a space and something that I have been trained in. Perhaps the symmetry comes from my desire for balance.

Somehow, by the end of its process, I have gradually become dissatisfied with every work I have ever created. I think it is because the initial idea comes straight from my gut and is relevant to that specific moment of my life. That impulse is what pushes me forward until I lose my steam. Each following moment is a different impulse. I have already changed.

I am interested in dancing with artists that challenge my physicality and emotional involvement in their work, and I am passionate about the collaborative aspect of any process.

When the direction from the leader of any project is clear and invigorating, I am able to fully commit to the movement, tell a story, and give new meaning to the material I have learned.

While I am self-disciplined, encouragement from my choreographer is beneficial for these goals to be achieved. At the end of a process, I deeply value the moment where I suddenly am in control of the movement, embodying it fully as if it is my own choreography.

I am inspired by the choreographers’ approaches that were once controversial, and now almost forgotten in lieu of the experimental, contemporary, and visceral dance. Somehow my own choreographic interpretations of dance turn out humorous, or uncomfortable to audiences I’m not sure why. It is my history, the impulses, and the stitching that shapes my movement. My fluctuation continues.

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A seat.

Filled. settle, focus.

Concentrate, “shut your eyes.”

Darkness Forget Let go First, everything too much noise Noise Noise Noise

NOISE ​NOISE​ N ​ OISE too loud

unrecognizable.

Over

and

Over

SCREAM

and

​ VER O

AND

O ​ VER

stop,

Over.

Lightness nothing nothing

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nothing Float for a long time.

Then color​ ​floods

you’re back

countless everything taking over your mind uncontrollable irrational suffering BACK

-Sasha Himel

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Whatever Happened to Babydoll?

Whitney Hoder Poem 3

Introduction: Childhood: golden eyes matched with rosy lips and porcelain skin for the finish hair like cotton candy and a diamond birthmark on the thigh still babydoll wasn’t perfect in mommy and daddy’s eyes Where did we go wrong with her? toy chest filled with plastic tots and barbie look-a-likes faux beauty whisper lies behind her back while she remains on the shelf She’s ugly. She thinks she’s everything. She shouldn't even try.

Intermission: Adolescence: feelings like glass would make her weak, but first love would heal long forgotten g.i. jane came into play when babydoll was shelved head over heels for each other and stuck on cloud nine until mommy and daddy threw jane away Does love always hurt like this? yard sale says: prince charming 25 cents she spent all she had to replace what was lost prince charming filled her head with honest lies naive and airheaded she let him do damage to her playdoh heart You are my princess….but you’re not the only one.

Finale: Adulthood: 21st birthday results include 3% blood in her 99.9% alcohol and crones in the mirror painting herself like a drag queen when inside she's still baby Would mommy and daddy be proud? piecing herself together like a puzzle Would G.I. Jane look at me the same? barely dressed and butter for a brain Would I be Prince Charming’s one and only? cotton is now rotten and porcelain is shattered diamonds are not forever Why wasn’t I ever good enough? millions of eyes look her up and down bratz and lego men judge beauty no matter what I am more than a babydoll.

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the clouds start to settle in their intense darkness dim the room immensely a sharp scent from the soil flows to your nostrils its richness fills your head the smells remind you of elsewhere are you still in your room? the window remains open as a fast breeze blows through the door shuts you shiver, not knowing if its from the impact or the coolness of the air the rain speeds up the sky grows greyer you go to bed. the rain crashes against the glass the loud impact reduces to a soft pattering lulling you to sleep

-Anonymous

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Quinlyn Johnson 71

PODCASTS + FILMS: Cole Aaronson:

Courtney Butterfield: URL: https://drive.google.com/open?id=0B_xtqO0GklIiOUtPVnJZOS1CeG9DX3Z4ZzhXQ3pDTWtTalRv Alexander Hawker: URL: https://www.dropbox.com/s/o31wc5okq7x40g8/Alexander%20Hawker%20Podcast.mp3?dl=0 Jenna Smith: Beautiful URL: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y31lL1SG54E&t=1s

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“The Cost of Culture” (Excerpt)

by Monica Kerr December 8, 2017 “I was struck by the extra-ordinary entrepreneurial efforts that these artists have: the creativity, the risk, including the physical risk. And the reality of learning that among the three areas of performing arts—music, theater and dance—dance is by far the least funded,” (Traiger), says Cliff Brody in his interview with Lisa Traiger at Dance Magazine.

Brody explains how applying a “sports marketing” technique to the current dance funding model could save several dance companies. Why even consider clumping dance in with the obnoxious mainstream sponsorship of sports teams? Unfortunately, it seems we are desperately looking for solutions to heal the sorrows of all who are involved in dance production, those who are left with little to no money to do their job. In evaluating this conundrum, we must consider all aspects of arts funding and the structure in which most to all dance companies function under, the nonprofit system.

The following paragraphs will examine the role of nonprofit organizations in dance culture from the late 20th century to our present reality of arts funding. Considering the dysfunctionalities of the system and how governance, corporate/government involvement, and arts education has critically affected our culture’s accessibility to movement-based art.

Michael M. Kaiser describes “the arts explosion”, post World War II, as a creative peak for the United States. This echoed true for the dance community as many pioneering companies were founded during the 1950’s such as the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theatre and the New York City Ballet (Kaiser 3). “Audiences were large, costs were relatively low, and the great and the good in each community were willing to underwrite the expenses that ticket sales could not cover,” (Kaiser 3) Kaiser writes while justifying the success of non-profit companies during this artistic golden age. He points out in his essay, Curtains? The Future of the Arts in America, that the history of art is directly related to the history of those willing to pay for the arts (Kaiser 4). Following this creatively-driven time, technology advanced rapidly and provided new ways for Americans to access the arts.

While technological advancement provided a whole new marketing platform and gave many talented artists visibility (Kaiser 4), its unyielding growth and popularity has brought us to our current reality, 2017, where live performance is left to compete against live streaming and Facebook-shared videos. Besides the technological revolution, art has become less of a priority in government funding. Kaiser writes, “America in the 1990’s was not the same as America in the 1950’s. Government budgets were devoted increasingly to the costs of the military and various entitlement programs; the resources 1

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available for arts education were diminished,” (Kaiser 11). Since only about 40 percent of an arts organizational costs are covered by ticket sales, the other 60 percent relies on corporate sponsorship/gifts, foundation grants, individual gifts, and government grants.

In a capitalist economy where our main focus is to make more and make faster, there is no time or value given to the special skills that artistry requires. According to Kaiser, it seems nearly impossible to get the general public to understand the importance of the arts as our attention spans decrease, arts education suffers, and the leaders of our country don’t demonstrate their appreciation for our culturally-enriching profession.

The end of the arts explosive era is concluded with a final boost for new dance companies. These early 1980’s are referred to by Smith as the “dance boom” and are followed by an economic and financial storm for all of the dance community. Douglas C. Sonntag, the Director of Dance at The National Endowment for the Arts (NEA), writes “the dance boom’s finale did not necessarily mean a decline in the formation of new companies. Instead the ‘end’ was the beginning of a period of increasing obstacles to the pursuit of a professional life in dance” (Smith 3). In considering these obstacles, we must look at one of the primary factors that hurt many dance companies, lack of government involvement.

During the recession, federal funding for the arts took a dive as other issues were prioritized. The same dance companies that were successfully established during the “dance boom” were seriously hurt by the unfortunate economics of the US during this time. Dance Theatre of Harlem and Alvin and Ailey Dance Theatre heavily depended on government funding as majority of their unearned income in the late 1980’s and early 90’s. Sadly, they were forced to layoff staff and even faced cancellations of seasons (Ross). Raising the Barre: The Geographical, Financial, and Economic Trends of Nonprofit Dance Companies, a study by Thomas M. Smith reports that in 1987 the NEA, contributed 7.6 percent of all unearned income to the non-profit dance community. By 1997 these funds decreased to 2.5 percent.

In 1996 The National Endowment for the Arts budget was cut from $175.9 million to below $100 million until 2001 (Smith). Due to the lack of federal funding, dance companies began depending on state funding to cover the expenses of running a business. In the early 2000’s the source of state funding also became unstable. For example, in 2001 San Francisco Ballet took in $155,000 from the state of California.

The following year, that amount dropped to $47,000 (Kaufman). In his study, Financial Vulnerability Among Arts Organizations: A Test of the Tuckman-Chang Measures , Mark A. Hager concludes that 14.6 percent of dance organizations failed due to financial instability from 1994 to 1997 (Hager 383).

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The consequences of budget cuts are critical to dance companies and the quality of work they are able to produce. “Audiences can expect to see more bare spaces, to hear more taped music, and to make choices among fewer productions” (Kaufman) says Jonathon Katz, director of the National Assembly of State Arts Agencies. When sharing her first hand experience in her interview, Kristin Lewis for a publication in Dance Teacher magazine, Ailey’s executive director, Sharon Gersten Luckman says that while companies searched for solutions to the lack of federal and state funding, they even found that grants from foundations decreased when the stock market went down (Lewis). The National Endowment of the Art’s budget was raised to $148 million after an increase in 2016, and despite current President Trump’s threat to eliminate all funding for this endowment, a House Bill was passed ensuring a 2018 fiscal budget of $145 million on July 2017 (Bowley). Sarah Kaufman concludes, “Government funding is not the largest component of income for dance companies. But when you have government support for the arts, that’s a statement about where arts fits into your culture, in your world, in your society” (Kaufman).

In evaluating the success of nonprofit dance companies we must also consider the functionality of the system from the inside out. As Sally Banes writes, “Behind every dance performance is a network of institutions and support systems,” (Banes 1). The traditional format of a nonprofit organization is hierarchical, an authoritative food chain in the following order: the Board, the Executive/Artistic Director, the artists, and lastly the community. The financial stability of a nonprofit arts organization depends largely on the success of their Board of Trustees. Kaiser points out that along with economic turmoil, Trustees are becoming financially unsure and therefore feel pressured to “economize” the organizations they support (Kaiser 55). The rich and privileged donors who make up majority of Boards are primarily influenced and driven by “corporate success” often leading them to a different vision for the organization than that of the Artistic Directors (Kaiser 55).

If there are not clearly outlined roles between the Board of Trustees versus the Executive Director, boundaries are often inappropriately crossed, consequently affecting the overall success of the company negatively. According to the authors of the Harvard Business Review article, “The New Work of the Nonprofit Board”, “Effective governance by the board of a nonprofit organization is a rare and unnatural act. Only the most uncommon of nonprofit boards functions as it should by harnessing the collective efforts of accomplished individuals to advance the institution's mission and long-term welfare” (Taylor, Chait, Holland). The hierarchical model of nonprofit organizations is now being questioned due to the many dysfunctionalities of the structure, and the new and improved “partnership model” is causing a revolution in the way we think about nonprofit governance. This substantially more flexible model puts the Board on equal authority level as the rest of the organization’s stakeholders. Anne Derieux, who served as 3

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executive director of Spectrum Dance Theatre from 2005 to 2010 and now works as the President of Advancement at Cornish College of the Arts, describes clear outlined responsibilities in which the Executive and/or Artistic Director manages and runs the company and is fiscally supported by the Board of Trustees as the “magic of shared governance” (Derieux).

The National Council of Nonprofits suggests that nonprofits lose the classical powerbased model for a more partnership-based structure to ensure that the Board doesn’t cross boundaries. Besides governance, nonprofits must also navigate the earned income versus unearned income ratio. With the support of outside sources dwindling, dance companies are forced to rely on earned income. For performing companies, “earned income” boils down to subscriptions and ticket sales. Therefore, as unearned income becomes unstable, companies are forced to make up for it by raising ticket prices.

This approach, demonstrated by many large arts organizations over the past thirty years, has proven to limit audiences. Kaiser writes, “...the Metropolitan Opera raised ticket prices 10 percent for the 2012-2013 season, ticket sales fell over $6 million, forcing management to reverse course. That season the Met earned only 69 percent of their potential ticket sales...” (Kaiser 5). Expensive ticket prices make dance exclusive to a very specific elitist community, and consequently affects the accessibility factor that is important in educating the community of the arts. Engagement and outreach has an important mission in increasing audience sizes, but if ticket sales aren’t manageable for majority of the community this can be detrimental to the organization. In her interview, Anne Derieux advised that small to mid-sized dance companies completely abandon charging for tickets and instead apply for large grants, explaining that ticket sales are merely a “peanut” in the grand scheme of expenses (Derieux). The Wallace Foundation defines audience engagement as one or all of three things, “broadening, deepening, or diversify- ing them” and suggests that these three guidelines are of utmost importance: “Understanding audiences and figuring out strategies to ‘meet them where they are’, involving the whole organization in audience development, creating a culture that embraces experimentation and learning” (Parker 4) (End of Excerpt)

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- Anonymous

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The Holy Trinity _

Top Se venty Five degrees Facing

downwards

Two points

at eye level parallel

Vertical lines

don’t go anywhere

Tracing, traced Vanishing into po Christ clings Pontius The spirit forsakes thee Masaccio strokes red

vanishing vanished ints vanishing into them approves and deems all well My god Why have you forsaken me then strokes white then black now green

Arches encompassed

Arches encompass, arches leap about

They dim, he dims, dull

He has gone dim, Mary weeps, Father turns

Red stripes grow thick The adulterous columns Red reaches back, red red, red turns

rouge,

black then blue, scab over encrust and fade of corinth enclose into black and blue then white reaches down, Alizarin pours, vermillion turns rouge turns pink, pink turns white‌ white

-Natalie Luquin

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Idalis Madrigal

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Crystalline Crystal candlelight Crisp like the cadence of creation All creatures on earth's crust Came to answer the call.

Sunrise streaming through A stained glass window, A rainbow silhouette Rising from the cinders of Morning sky fire Cascading onto the ground.

-Anya McCullough

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somos un bosquejo (We are a Sketch)

By Sienna Méndez

(We are in the bedroom of EMORY, MAN lays near her. ALMA sits on a block directly behind EMORY and MAN. The stage should be minimal, if there is anything dressing the stage, it might be a sheet or a pillow. EMORY and MAN are sketches of people. EMORY and MAN wear all white. ALMA is dressed vibrantly. ALMA holds a paintbrush. She has a palette of paint. During the following, EMORY and ALMA do not look at each other. MAN is laying down, still, asleep.

EMORY speaks softly, but with fire.)

EMORY: We are a sketch of lovers.

No color yet, no depth.

ALMA: Somos las primeras líneas en una hoja fresca de papel

EMORY: Of white paper

ALMA: De ​blanca ​papel​.

EMORY: Of thin and white paper.

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(Beat.)

EMORY: It was when I noticed my hips.

(During the following, ALMA begins painting her face with bright, warm tones. Reds and oranges lining her forehead; her neck a sea of indigo.)

ALMA: Fue cuando noté mis caderas.

EMORY: I saw my best friend​

// t​ rying on dresses, we were both fourteen.

ALMA: /​ /​ Vi a mi mejor amiga tratando de vestidos, teníamos catorce años.

EMORY: We shared clothes.

ALMA: Compartimos ropa.

ALMA: Compartimos ropa. Nosotros .. Supongo que ni siquiera me di cuenta de que éramos diferentes.

EMORY: We.. I guess I never even noticed that we were different.

(MAN wakes up, they begin a sensual dance. Around each other, their breath communicating. EMORY continues to speak.)

EMORY: I never wanted to notice.

(Beat.)

He strokes my hips.

My wide hips, My hips so distant from what I thought they should have been.

(MAN does so.)

Feeling my history like I never had.

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ALMA: Sintiendo mis curvas, mis montañas y mis valles.

EMORY: My valleys. Feeling me in ways I couldn’t appreciate.

ALMA: De formas que no había aprendido todavía.

EMORY: He breathes.

(ALMA breathes, a tidal inhale and exhale.)

EMORY: I breathe, too.

ALMA: Pero, no respiramos juntos.

(ALMA and MAN breathe. Their breaths do not match up. He breathes in, she breathes out. A dissonance of air. EMORY becomes less and less interested in the touch of MAN. She stops reciprocating, she sinks into her bed. She is lonely.)

EMORY: We don’t breathe together. We never do.

(MAN is suddenly and inexplicably able to hear her now. Her thoughts reach his ears.)

EMORY: We never have.

MAN ​(somewhat out of breath)​: What, babe?

EMORY: We aren’t breathing together.

(MAN stops now, taking himself off of her body.)

MAN ​(confused)​: Em, baby, what are you talk—

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EMORY: Stop it. You don’t get it, you don’t—

(SHE is beginning to get emotional now. She is desperate to understand what she is feeling, what ALMA is trying to communicate to her.)

MAN: Babe, shh, talk to me—

EMORY: Stop it!

(HE is startled. He moves away from her completely. He looks at her. He is loyal to her, he loves her. It is a love story told through his eyes. There is a long pause, she is breathing. He is breathing. They do not breathe together. He is ready for whatever is about to come. She thinks. She breathes. Finally, she slowly begins:)

EMORY: When my grandma moved back home, she left me with this mug. I didn’t even understand why.. It just looked like a mug. The tacky kind that you get in like a Christmas gift-set from your neighbor that you don’t know very well but she saw it at K-Mart and just thought you ​had ​to have it… It was a Peanuts mug. Charlie Brown Christmas. And that’s what

she left me. She moved back to Guatemala and she left me a Charlie Brown Christmas mug. I mean that was… that was ten years ago… I was twelve.

(ALMA helps her tell the story. An echo. As she does this, she slowly moves to be right behind EMORY. EMORY is not aware of her presence. As EMORY speaks, ALMA begins to paint her. A flurry of colors, she paints with care.)

ALMA: Yo tenía doce años.

EMORY: I didn’t even know what it meant to be a woman, to be a Latina woman, to be a Guatemalan woman. I didn’t know who I was yet.

ALMA: No sabía quién era todavía.

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EMORY: But, I started drinking out of that cup. Often. I mean, every time that I wanted a cup of tea, I reached for it first. I guess in a way it reminded me of her, but in a way it didn’t? It wasn’t anything special. For her, least. And I drank out of it.. for what? Ten and a half years.. I drank out of it,

ALMA: Bebí de ella.

EMORY: I mean I brought it to my first dorm room. This morning, I, I broke it. It fell out from the cabinet when I opened it up and I guess it was still wet and it slipped out and it shattered on the floor. I broke it.

(ALMA exhales, sharp.)

(There is silence between them. It is as if EMORY’s heart sits in the space between them.)

MAN: Babe, it’s a mug.

EMORY: You do not understand me. At all.

MAN: It’s— your grandma can send you a new mug, she is still your grandma, she—

ALMA: No me entiende. En absoluto.

EMORY: It isn’t just a mug.

MAN: Babe, no, I know, it’s—

EMORY: You do not know.

(HE says nothing.)

EMORY: You don’t. I’m trapped by you.

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(Beat.)

MAN: You’re— Em, where is all of this coming from?

EMORY: With you, I am in prison. I’m—

MAN: Em, breathe.

ALMA: Respiras.

EMORY: What are you implying?

MAN: I’m not trying to imply anything—

EMORY: You don’t have to imply.

ALMA: No llegas a implicar. ​(Beat.) ​No me borres. No borrar las líneas que descuidadamente grabado en su papel limpio.

MAN: Em. I love you. I’m here, I’m listening to you.

EMORY: It isn’t enough. It’s missing half.

ALMA: La mitad de mí.

EMORY: Half of me.

(MAN has nothing left to say. He is broken. He is lonely. EMORY is covered in colorful paints. ALMA stands back and admires her painting. Some moments pass. Finally, MAN stands and exits. Lonely. ALMA crosses downstage, looks at EMORY with love.

They

watch each other for some time. Their worlds becoming one. ALMA finally takes

a step

toward EMORY’s bed. EMORY motions that it is okay to continue toward her.

She is

covered in wet pain now.

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1 Cassidy Mitchell Liminality Liminality is being in between solid definable states. In a person liminality can mean to be living between two culturally accepted identities. Rites of passage at certain ages have a liminal period of time in which the person or group of people is in between two identifiable stages. It is a moment “in and out of secular social structure” (Turner 96). There are stages of separation from the low status previous way of life, into “a limbo of statuslessness,” to a higher status.

A liminal rite of passage we all are participating in right now is college. For many Americans the years leading up to college are spent in their parents homes attending elementary school, then middle school, then high school and finally college. Years leading up to college are spent with a hazy idea of what college should or could be: the best years of our lives, the time we find ourselves, the opportunity to fail and then fail bigger, the chance we get to party our asses off with small consequences and freedom from responsibilities. Test scores, interviews, essays, portfolios, and auditions determine which academic institute will agree to take you on as their new pupil. College is often the first time a person spends an extended period of time away from our parents in a lightly supervised living situation with people we’ve never met before. It is the liminal period of time where we’re not quite out in the great unknown, and not treated as children with bedtimes and curfews. It’s in this semi-safe environment where we are supported to take risks, get vulnerable, go beyond our comfort zones, and grow.

Rigorous courses, fiery hormones, and quickly changing emotions feed into the stress of incredible individuals determined to prove their worth, their place, and their talent to their teachers and peers of Cornish College of the Arts. Seeds of communitas and connection are 88

2 watered by the common understanding of the stressors. Students and professors alike are under the scrutiny of each other’s gaze, fear lurking in the background with threat of expulsion or dismissal. Combined with the status students feel they’ve earned by living on this green Earth for at least 18 years, the threat contributes to the stress and the newfound sense of power that the students feel. Age has so often been used against them, “you’re too young, you don’t get it;” “you’ll understand when you’re older;” “let the grownups talk.” So the liberation that comes with their growing age is a transition that sneaks up and is discovered in small moments, such as being referred to as “ma’am” or “sir” in a store, making doctors appointments, or signing up for insurance or a credit card. When before we needed to search for the responsible adult around, we have suddenly become the responsible adult. In senior year of high school my teachers required us to interrupt class to ask for their permission to use the restroom. The strict control of our lives is released as soon as we cross that stage in our caps and gowns. Suddenly we’re able to leave class whenever we need to. We’re required to go to class with the consequence of our grade being dropped if we do not, yet that is the only permanent repercussion of our absence. Our parents won’t be notified, and child services will not ever be contacted by the school.

Students form tight bonds under the heat of the pressure cooker that Cornish is. The sense of communitas is strong even when drama divides. We all are working towards a common goal of graduating with a deep well of knowledge to put into practice and a willingness to put in the work. We want to discover ourselves in an environment that makes us feel seen and heard. Post college many of us will not work in the field in which we studied. Many will try and fail and try again and fail again. But this time refuses to be wasted. Aggregation will come and we will feel prepared for life after college or we won’t. We’ll be armed with the knowledge that our professors and peers imparted on us. Post college we will find jobs, maybe go to more school, 89

3 maybe get married, maybe have children, and integrate ourselves into the societies we choose for ourselves through more rites of passage. When we talk to each other in 10 years, there will be an understanding about how strange and beautiful the times we had together were. We will have moved from low to high academic status after these four liminal years and made some connections along the way.

Today we have a choice. We can see today as an obstacle to getting to elusive tomorrow, or we can accept that each and every day we spend here is immeasurably important. We can casually throw the days away or embrace that today is all we certainly have. This is a privileged education in art and in living. Let’s be little liminal sponges of knowledge about people, our art, our emotions, our ever changing taste, and everything this world has to offer us. Thank you.

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Thank you for sharing your words.

Words entwined with visual text.

Spoken word poetry and podcasts.

Characters brought to life by script and story.

Academic prose engaging scholarly conversations.

This zine captures a sampling of the writing on display and performed during the inaugural In Other Words: Celebrating Student Writing exhibition.

Members of Cornish College of the Arts Writing Across the Curriculum (WAC) Committee designed and curated the exhibition and designed and published this zine. Our thanks to the Cornish students, faculty and staff for their stunning enthusiasm for this exhibition and their support while making our vision come to life. We’re honored to work, write, and create amongst you.

The WAC Committee’s mission is threefold: 1) promote a culture of writing & research at Cornish amongst students, faculty, and staff 2) facilitate faculty development in the teaching of writing, reading, and research 3) support the development of writing & research curriculum across the college

2018 WAC Committee Members: Amanda Hill, Writing Center Director/H&S Bridget Nowlin, Library Elizabeth Darrow, Art/Foundations/C&CS Gayle Clemans, Art/Foundations/C&CS Jack DeLap, H&S Kevin Goodrich, Art Kate Myre, Theater Lodi McClellan, Dance Megan Smithling, Library

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