Design 2015
Poetry and Prose: This September Night
CJ Singletary
7-8
Guardian
Morrgan Bouler
9
Inspiration The Loner in Me
ACTIVE MEMBERS OF SIGMA TAU DELTA Esther Waterman Lindsey Johnson Li Yuanyuan Lori Muntz Jeff Martinek With appreciation from the chapter for the support of the Mildred H. Bensmiller Design Endowment. PUBLISHED BY: The Humanities Division and Omicron Alpha chapter of Sigma Tau Delta, International English Honorary, Iowa Wesleyan College, Mount Pleasant Iowa, 2015. The chapter was chartered in April of 1925.
12 13
The sense of the poem
14 Elle Loy
17
It Hurts
18
February 7
19
February 12
20
November 2
21
Stopped
23
Don’t Let Me Go
23
The New Bypass
Charles Watson
24
Shoe Horn
27
HER: OS/Y
28
How their faces fit
29
Toxicodendron Radicans
30
Blink: When Photopositive Meets Negative (Eyelid Media)
31
The Mythos of Hunting: Technology and Resistance (excerpts)
Dan McCall
37
Belonging to the Sea
J.A. Gonzalez
38
Ocean’s Daughter
39
Mermaid’s Curse
42
Free
Li Yuanyuan
43
Withered Snow
44
The First Glow
46
A Life With Anxiety
Brandi Stewart
47
A Life’s Ending
48
One Slice, I Promise
49
The Cruelest Disease
50-51
Emotional Anchor
53
Invitation
Esther Waterman
55
Dr. Edwin James
56
The Forgotten
57
Stages I - IV
58-59
It seems .... Acknowledgments
2 Design
Nicole Adams
Concealed Destiny
January 22
Design 2015
10
Ann Klingensmith
60 61
Design
3
Art Cover Art
Detail from Broadside by J.A. Gonzalez
Broadside
Ann Klingensmith
6
Broadside
Katie Meyers
11
Self
Trevor Howard
13
Broadside
J.A. Gonzalez
15
Night and Day
Trevor Howard
16
Rockabilly Never Dies
J.A. Gonzalez
21
Broadside
Lance Ingwersen
22
Life will Find a Way
Katie Goodwin
25
Broadside
Brittany Robson
26
Tribute to the Artist Caravaggio
Katie Goodwin
32
Untitled
Lance Ingwersen
33
Untitled
Lance Ingwersen
34-35
Broadside
Melinda Stockwell
36
Turn Key Heart
J.A. Gonzalez
39
Broadside
J.A. Gonzalez
40-41
Broadside
Xianjun (Jason) Xie
45
Broadside
Casey Leffel
52
Broadside
Katie Goodwin
54
4 Design
Design
5
This September Night This September Night One Party Three Gangs A surplus of guns Eight Kids didn’t know their lives were going to change On This September Night Eight teens Eight personalities Eight dreams All come together On This September Night The street was livid The light had died Nice suburban houses towered over everyone “Which one of you…..” Time had stood still Baggy Levi Cargo’s A bush of hair on his head Some black Air Force Ones on his feet A black hoodie This man had his mind made up One Gun Evil in his soul Boom Boom Boom Boom
Ann Klingensmith Broadside Linolium cut with Polymer 6 Design
Helicopters hovered Red trucks simultaneously flashed our country’s colors An army of people curious of the chaos The neighborhood is alive On This September night
Design
7
A woman collapsed in a state of shock Screaming like she was fighting for her life Looking into the sky asking………why? God is the bad guy now On this September night Air Jordan Olympic 7s were on the kid’s feet A white Nike jacket with Levi jeans to match He laid there silent Eyes closed Blood tattooed onto the concrete The bullet laced in his heart went against his will He came to peace On This September Night Seven Kids Together One Dream deferred On This September Night His funeral was a sea of red People of all ages were grieving But he found a home Where no such evil existed He changed Evanston, Illinois forever He changed seven teens forever The boy’s gravestone says Dajae Coleman January 22, 1998- September 22, 2012 30 seconds changed eight teens forever On That September Night…… CJ Singletary
Guardian (The New York Public Library) Two massive, stone lions stand at its front, protecting the building from the chaos of 5th Avenue. It is nighttime. The manmade lights illuminating the city manage to pollute the celestial ones in the sky. Bryant Park slumbers with its green lawn damp with evening dew. Homeless people sit on stairs, smiling over sandwiches provided by a guard inside. Inside, a woman wears a cyan blue blouse, black polyester pants, and black combat boots. A nametag is attached to her blouse. In black letters it reads, “Ariel.” On her belt, she carries a silver flashlight and a small dagger. It is a well-known fact that this is not what a normal guard carries; however, this is all she needs for her work. It could be debated that she was not normal. She walks into the elevator and waits for the doors to close. She inserts her key into the slot, unlocking the lower level buttons. She presses the button saying, “L3,” and ruffles her bushy, tawny hair. After a minute, the doors open, revealing the third lower level. This is the secret archive. Every bit of lost knowledge makes its way here:
-Lost scrolls from the libraries of Alexandria and Pompeii. -The blueprints of Stonehenge. -Maps of the mines in the Superstition mountain range. -A book of spells from Merlin himself. -Ancient texts in dead languages. -A catalog of items in Area 51. -A small vial containing Yeti DNA. -The original Mona Lisa. -A missing statue from Easter Island. -An ancient Mayan calendar. -A plank of wood from King Arthur’s round table. -A giant egg that was originally found buried deep in the shore of Loch Ness. -A piece from alien spacecraft that was sighted in Roswell.
Thousands of bookshelves and display cases are in this room. Having reached a safe place amidst the artifacts, free of cameras and prying eyes, the woman reveals her white eagle wings and lion’s tail. Feather by feather, she stretches out the cramps received from hiding her wings for so long. Her tail sways from side to side as she walks down the aisles of shelves. For griffins guard treasures. And knowledge is the greatest treasure of all. Morrgan Bouler
8 Design
Design
9
Inspiration: A black 1967 Chevy Impala barreled down a barren road surrounded by fields of prairie grass. This was a daily journey for the traveller in the driver’s seat. She never said where she was going, but just that it was for inspiration, and that she had to be alone. Classic rock blared from the cassette player as the sights blurred by. Finally, the car reached a circular patch of flattened grass. In the center was a tall, blue box. It looked similar to the phone booths of old, but this one was wider and taller. The words “Police Public Call Box” were lit up in a sign at the top. Its black door had a brass knocker in the center, and “221-B” brass numbers and letters attached above the knocker. A long time ago this was part of the address of a famous detective. “Carry On My Wayward Son” by Kansas was cut off as the driver killed the ignition. She locked the door, despite the fact that no one ever came this way. “There’ll be peace when you are done:” the song lyric floated in her mind as she walked up to the black and blue public call box. As she walked, she spun her ring of keys and charms on her index finger. She reached the box, unlocked the black door, and stepped inside. The room that she entered simply defied all scientific laws of existence. Despite the box’s exterior being small, the inside was expansive. She had only explored ten rooms in this machine, and there were still more to be found. In the center of the main hub was a giant, triangular console, with buttons of every color, levers, blue and green lights, a giant keyboard with letters of an unknown language, plastic tubes hanging underneath it, different switches, speakers, a clock for every time zone, 3 monitors, and a titanium frame. She shed her burgundy leather trench coat, hanging it up on the coat rack near the door, with her white fedora. Headphones hanging around her neck, she walked up to the center console and set in coordinates for her new destination:. “2, alpha, gamma, dog-star, omega, -50 million, and 13,” The engine’s computers mapped out the journey. She moved to the next section of the console, pressed all the purple buttons, lighting up half of the blue lights and half of the green ones, and flipped the third switch from the left. She moved to the third section and pulled on the green lever. When her tugging couldn’t move it, she grabbed a small, rubber mallet from nearby, and gave a good, solid whack to the lever, forcing it downwards. Soft whirring sounds emitted from the center console as the machine flew off. The young woman knew that it would take some time, so she walked over to a plush, white chair and sat down. She adjusted the chair until it was in a reclining position and started to unwind. Placing the black and purple headphones onto her ears, and the sounds of a rock band, known as Imagine Dragons, came from the iPod. Her eyes closed feeling relaxed. She placed such trust in this machine for many years. There was no need for that to stop now. Ever since she had discovered it, she had known that it would always take her to the right inspiration. Pronoun/descriptive adjective/varied nouns Her eyes finally opened. She was back home, in her room, at her desk, laptop on her lap. The recent journey her mind took in order to escape reality managed to provide the proper inspiration for her task. In this frequent trip, everything she thought of or dreamed was real: driving the Impala, the TARDIS, and even the red, leather trench coat. Now, all that was left for the writer to do was to write.
Morrgan Bouler Katie Meyers Broadside Pressure Print with Polymer 10 Design
Design
11
The Loner in Me
Concealed Destiny
Every day is a struggle Continuously laughed at No sense of where I am going to be
Who am I? What am I? And why am I here? These are the things I question, boggling my conscience with hostility. Thoughts like this should not matter, Sharp sounds rustling in my mind. I get my existence occurred from sex, Pregnancy came after. So that answers one of my questions. The rules of life are nothing but flouts. I know I’m only just a child, Immaturity running free. Who am I? What am I? And why am I here? I am me, and that’s all I can ever be.
Time spent alone Just me and the walls I got the loner in me Disappearance is my job Happiness I take To make me stay they plea My only friend is my dad I find it miserable but All the new friends I make flee Why do you wonder? The answers is here Because I got the loner in me
Nicole Adams
No human interaction I get no enjoyment I am not filled with glee Maybe I’m just lazy Or down right deranged Anyways, I got the loner in me Nicole Adams
Trevor Howard Self Woodcut Print 12 Design
Design
13
The sense of a poem Why do poems usually seem sad? Are there some that can be full of glee? This one I have not figured out Not sure if it will be ramble or have certain meaning I always tend to think of what to write Should it come from emotions or be something silly? The more I think, I become confused Drowning with emotions, no longer sober Not every word has to be used correctly As long as I prepare to make it flow Each line should connect Read multiple times Still I am here figuring out what to do Should it be from the past or the present? I don’t want it to give people a bore Should it be short or have more detail? All I know is I am filled with multiple emotions My mind is packed and no room for thoughts I guess I will just continue this process Continue writing but still be attentive Now do you get the sense of a poem? Nicole Adams
J.A. Gonzalez Broadside Pressure Print with Polymer 14 Design
Design
15
January 22:
Trevor Howard Day and Night Painting
16 Design
And now comes the painful realization that everything changes around you and there is nothing you can do to make it. stop. And the leaves will change in the autumn. They will fall one by one By one fearing the cold stillness Of winter. Or maybe it is not the Winter Those trembling sunlight traps fear, The beautiful coming of spring is loved Far more than the changes exhibited In the autumn. Perhaps it is the very fear of change, The fear of being Replaced by something better That drives the leaves, the lovers of Sunshine, To perish. So as the leaves cry out in crunching pangs Underneath your toes, Step aside and welcome the coming change that Pushes up Daisies from the dirt. Elle Loy
Design
17
It Hurts:
February 7:
Bleed baby, bleed. Bleed out the Toxins in your veins Pour out the Sadness in your ways. Bleed it out for The world to see and Maybe, someone shares Your vulnerability.
Use your head they say, But take your heart With you. Go with your gut they say, But the answer is always Black and White. Keep calm they Say, wipe away the tears. Be strong.
Elle Loy
18 Design
Elle Loy
Design
19
February 12:
November 2:
Sometimes I close my eyes when I cross the street and sometimes I just squint them up as tight as I can. Just so I can say they were open. And some nights I look at the moon instead of the stars, and I wonder how she got to be so beautiful in a room where everyone burns so brightly. One time I opened my eyes under the water and felt the burn of the chemicals beyond my eyelashes but it was so peaceful there. Sometimes I lay awake at night thinking about the what-could-have-been’s or the what-ought-to-be’s but deep down I know. I will reach the lip of the curb across the street. I will find a map of stories in the most insignificant of stars. I will find peace.
A grinding grit between My teeth A pain of a Thousand lifetimes A deeply throbbing Heartbeat despite the Pressure on my chest Something pulls me tighter Like the chokehold of A shadow, concealed In darkness or A lover’s embrace From familiar hands and I can’t do this anymore.
Elle Loy
Elle Loy
J.A. Gonzalez Rockabilly Never Dies Stencil Screenprint
20 Design
Design
21
Stopped: And some warm summer night, The stars will shine down on you, Reminding that the day will surely come That darkness only lasts for now Then you might walk through the Neighborhood and gaze in the holes of homes To see smiles and families with movies on TV So you might not feel so alone. You will soon look back and remember All the time spent together Flash back to a time when everything was young and bright, Unfold the memories from The creases in your sweater To don them like the Sadness she wore and the Pain you still recall Before it all became too much, Before it all stopped. Elle Loy
Don’t Let Me Go: Someday you’ll see a face with Dark, deep black holes for eyes and Awakened rose petals for lips And you will remember And someday you might hear the Faint twinkle of a song to which she danced And danced like Leaves in the wind you will remember I hope someday you will Run across a girl who Reads too much Hemingway and Insists that everything is ok, Except when it isn’t. And if one day you do, and you may, I hope you will think fondly on The nights spent awake, the flowers in her hair and The light of her smile, Before it all was gone.
Lance Ingwersen Broadside Pressure Print with Polymer 22 Design
Elle Loy
Design
23
The New Bypass Mean While, Back at the School Yard I heard them again at nearly midnight under the ink of a moonless starry sky. Scuffling southbound in a hurried gang, like a happy pack of children laughing and playing, yelping, dancing, and singing as an unbound one without fear of mile-marking gravel. No cares for they ran altogether – orderly – but not single file; a moment we have duly prepared for hundreds of years. And I thought: When we build the new school to reflect and bridge new beginnings at the infinite easement on this patchwork plain of needs, wants, and desires, where the outward jam of our sandwich meets the pups of the frontier; in the night, hours after the foot traffic of lunchtime in the breeze of dumpster stench, a call to order on the slivered tire chips playground, where litter rolls and Little Debbie wrappers drift like spent leaves, coyotes chant and sing proportionally – orderly – CB, AC :: AC, AB the chorus of the living, longing to achieve; We build and design to show them the signs to transmit, to send, to yield, and to bend; to eat not with their own soiled hands so innocently clean at the free-will machine in shadows of American dreams. They charge on invisibly in the carbon black of night. Charles A. Watson (January, 2015)
24 Design
Katie Goodwin Life will Find a Way Painting Design
25
Shoe Horn To make them fit a Big Dipper, a L’il Dipper, all those heels, the clogs, the clomp-clomp-clomp, of free-ranging nanny goat. Patent f-me pumps that you wore to work on a Friday – Ursa Major, Ursa Minor – how wondrously they hurt sometimes! The trouble with those heels, that collection there you see: in the closet, behind the mirror, at the stairwell, in your Subaru backseat; is how you put them on, day after day – your favorites, your sentimentals, your unmentionables – obstacles for your path. Digging Arching Aching– the forms that lift you up will tear you down. Pumps and heels, lifts and deals Graceful leather ornaments except for that boot, mateless, on the shelf by itself in the dark. That waiting glimmer of Arcturus Alpha Bootis, the brightest star, a link, that mere spark. Charles A. Watson (May, 2014)
Brittany Robson Broadside Pressure Print with Polymer 26 Design
Design
27
Her: OS / Y
How their faces fit
Futuristic, diagnostic, Scarlettistic and genuinely altruistic. It reads and listens, an unsightly beauty, exquisitely unseen.
What comes from a hug, a longing full embrace, a meandering hand?
A virtual stay-puff creature to submit to his fashion, the cool sets, and all that L.A. feng shui; an investment like coin-operated symposium.
Anticipate the pressure volupté beholden. Greet her magnificent teeth in this arrangement of galactic gases of some divine interplay.
Wears his ear device for the high-maintenance OS to honor its emotions, its impatience; Dons his glasses, his mustache for the program and its random silly spectacles;
With fresh lipstick like tomato paste, she reminded him to go easy–amoré! Benefits for both:
Dates his OS and conquers his real emotions, I.T.’s emotions, Her emotions;
strong, firm, intact, belief, disbelief. Oh wondrous sea! a mist in the middle, a shroud of possibility. Can’t we be free?
Sells thy soul in a feast with his system. Duped or dumped, she loved the philosopher anyway.
A perfect nose, a subtle touch, Oh stealthy one. To press again and live one more time.
Charles A. Watson (December, 2014)
28 Design
Charles A. Watson (May, 2014)
Design
29
Toxicodendron Radicans and Some Impatiens at the Forest Edge
Blink: When Photopositive Meets Negative (Eyelid Media)
Symbiotic and perennial, you wait through summer until September, not deceiving, with patience, always there. So obvious, never alone where the sun meets the shade at the edge of the forest.
Awaken to a morning light through closed panes of clear glass consenting leaves on yonder May timber.
Under the fertile terra, under my skin, you shoot and you surface – dig you out at your roots! Bloom and weep – a renewal, a reminder of where we have been. Honor you dig you don’t scratch you – ratchet! Like a sniffy hound or a shifty squirrel, I always know where to find you. So glad you’re in love so happy for your love user friendly, just for me. ’Twill run your course in a few weeks or so with Mother Nature’s approval, yes – an upheaval, but never an evil. This June reminder, this bleeding heart this respect in retrospect. I know where to find you and you know where to find me, just like poison ivy. Charles A. Watson (June, 2014)
A silent chill meets the window, a barrier for the morning chatter: No dove, no cardinal, oriole yet; cackling grackles, ravenettes. The phone buzzes a hazy, lazy conscience and opens our eyes – just for a blink! our pupils receive this treat: Silhouettes, fixed like shadows, or negative prints. The frames of the panes resolve onto closed lids – these membranes – for a new game of empty squares in shadow, they dissolve. The stairs await us – Go! stares photogenic. Our eyes obscured by panes for vision, panes that help us view, an immeasurable force field. We hold a stare with time on this parched earth, this solid ground, and tomorrow, we start over. Charles A. Watson (May, 2014)
30 Design
Design
31
Katie Goodwin Tribute to the Artist Caravaggio Monoprint
32 Design 32 Design
Lance Ingwersen Untitled Painting
Design 33 Design 33
Lance Ingwersen Untitled Painting
34 Design 34 Design
Design 35 Design 35
The Mythos of Hunting Technology and Resistance Daniel McCall 12/2/2014 Excerpts: . . . To the casual observer, hunting is about a hunter going out and killing an animal for sport. That could not be further from the truth for most hunters. Hunting is about the experience. It is the pathos of spending countless hours enjoying what nature has provided the hunter. I revel in the experience of walking into a quiet timber and sitting against an oak tree that could be well over one hundred years old, smelling the leaves sweet smell as they change colors before eventually dropping to the ground or enjoying the sound of a squirrel chattering on a tree limb, unbeknownst to him that he is being watched. It is the sharing of those experiences with my son, teaching him to respect nature and the animals he hunts, from that pathos, the true mythos of hunting is developed. Yes, a hunter actively chooses to hunt an animal for food or sport, but the death of that animal is the end result of the experience. Technology in all of its greatness still cannot replicate the wonder nature provides. Unfortunately, the more technology is used in hunting and any other outdoor activity, the greater the detachment a person has with nature, thus taking the wonder out of the hunting or outdoor experience. Obsessing with technology is as American as apple pie. Hunters are no different. Hunters eagerly purchase new camouflage patterns, optical scopes and scent eliminating sprays every year. The hunting industries have ingeniously intertwined both the mythos of hunting and our need for new technology such as lighter bows that shoot longer and faster arrows, clothing that keep hunters dry and warm and firearms that shoot more accurate rounds at a faster rate of fire. For these reasons, the companies that make up the hunting industry are constantly improving their products. Every change of season is like Christmas to many hunters. Sporting goods stores are stocked with new and improved firearms and gadgets to make the hunting experience easier for the hunter. In many cases, this new technology can make hunting too easy to the hunter. For the sake of fairness to the animal being hunted or the safety of people, rules and regulations are made. . . . A growing number of hunters have resisted the use of modern technology and have maintained a traditional way of hunting. In the state of Iowa, 7,500 deer were allowed to be harvested during the early season muzzleloader season. Those allotted deer tags for that season sold out in mere days after going on sale, showing the increasing interest in traditional hunting. (Wilkinson 2012) Being a traditional hunter myself, I prefer to use a muzzleloader rifle when hunting deer. I choose to make hunting more difficult because I feel that I am giving the animal a sporting chance to evade me. Like many other traditional hunters, this type of hunting method is not about “the kill�, it is about the mythos of hunting and the tradition of the sport. Instead of me relying on modern tools to assist me, I rely on the skill I achieved through practice, scouting deer movement and hard work. In the end that is more rewarding to me. . . . . . . The mythos of hunting is not about the weapon you carry or the print of camouflage that is on your clothes. It is about walking through a grass field and the exhilarating feeling of being surprised by a pheasant that just flew in front of your face or hearing the birds singing just as the sun peaks over the trees at dawn. The mythos of hunting is about the sensations you feel when you are one with nature.
Melinda Stockwell Broadside Woodtype, metal type, relief print 36 Design
Wilkinson, Joe. Deer Hunting Licenses on Sale August 15 in Iowa. August 14, 2012. http://www.outdoorhub.com/news/2012/08/14/deer-hunting-licenses-on-sale-august-15-in-iowa/ (accessed December 1, 2014).
Design
37
Belonging to the Sea
Ocean’s Daughter
The waves are restless colliding against the stone their vibrations reverberating through the cliff. They are calling out to me. Every impact, drawing me to the edge.
Further into his abyss I go. Darkness surrounding me. Sinking deeper and deeper…
It’s a game… we have been playing taunting me with freedom lacking in my current existence. Ever since I can remember, the water felt more welcoming almost like being…home. I crave that feeling more and more The sea’s pull, his song.. has become irresistible. Now is the time to finally be one within the waves.
His waves envelope me. Legs uniting together. Bubbles escaping to the surface. A rebirth from the life above Suffering and longing for this existence, gone. New found freedom seeping into my being. Transforming what I was… to what I was destined to be. This whirlpool encases me bestowing a curse… Breathing becomes easier. An unforeseen sacrifice, my heart grows empty. Caught in his net as the Ocean’s daughter. J.A. Gonzalez
J.A. Gonzalez
J.A. Gonzalez Turn Key Heart Linolium Print 38 Design
Design
39
J.A. Gonzalez Broadside Pressure Print with Polymer
40 40 Design Design
Design 41 41 Design
Mermaid’s Curse Triton’s call took my heart. An illusion of belonging The price for this freedom is to high Now on seemingly endless quest. For a love to take me from the deep abyss Each encounter becoming bittersweet. Searching the waves for my Jolly Sailor Bold. Ensnaring them by my kiss…my song. I come to you on stranger tides in this dark and eerie night. There is no time to hide, for I will have your heart tonight. This odyssey for serenity has waned. A choice which is now mourned Having been lured down here from the land above, there is no easy escape, only hope. J.A. Gonzalez
Free Seeds carried with your white floret in breeze, soft light feathers clustered dream little by little. You never grew up as the bells chime, tiny and fragile all the time. You became children’s fairy tale, but later proof no one could tell. White feathers may not be wings, but a helpless slave of winds. No one knows pain but yourself, spreading seeds of hope paddling away. In dream of travelling freely, you kept on flying against wind. No sign of white feathers in the sky, you are in search of proving. But you are only a lying dandelion, no matter how others admire. Li Yuanyuan
42 Design
Design
43
Withered Snow Lanterns before the front door emit bloody red light, silently Deep snow dissolves late in the afternoon At the bedside of Grandfather, regretful broken breath sank in the gale Granddaughter lost to unknown land far away from home Bleeding maple leaf growling with sorrow outside windows, inopportunely For the first time Winter closed with no snow on ground The last carnival of childhood came right before true maturity began to weep No one urged Granddaughter to travel unknown land anymore Never waited till the maple leaf turned red once more, but hastily turned away Leaving for unknown land another mid Summer night Early snow falls down with no witness except the new maple leaf, wordlessly Ultimately understanding snow is everywhere Granddaughter goes
Li Yuanyuan
Xianjun (Jason) Xie Broadside Pressure Print with Polymer 44 Design
Design
45
The First Glow As the sun rose I saw your glow, Mother, even more dazzling than ever before. As my cries broke silence, you opened eyes with weak but delighted smile. I saw you as a warm rainbow, after raining for a long time. When fake laughter burst I was numb, even more amusing than a struggling doll. As applause brought the tragic comedy to an end, you were the only one who did not take me as a clown. As crowds came and went without genuine cheers, you stayed sitting at the corner till another play began. As I cried after tumbling down, you shrugged with a perplexing smile. As I leaped for an earned star, you applauded with a cheering hug. As I left for an independence island, you waved with choked tears. Since then no struggle, only moving forward with your first glow. For your glow is my direction, your fantasy is my ambition. You are where I started my life. You are when my dream comes true, Mother.
A Life with Anxiety I feel as though a thousand pound brick is weighing down my chest The weight causes physical pain so severe my chest begins to ache I feel my heart constrict The image of blood spewing from my chest races through my mind My reflection gawks at in the mirror My reflection will never match what I visualize myself as I can only see the flaws within myself These flaws cause my anxiety I know I will never be perfect Although that is what is expected of me Therefore, I place that expectation upon myself I inflict personal pain because of these expectations This is what my anxiety feels like I live with it every day It controls my thoughts Although I wish it did not Brandi Stewart
Li Yuanyuan
46 Design
Design
47
A Life’s Ending
One slice, I promise
Don’t be scared, I’ll be here to hold your hand I won’t let go until the time comes When angels take you to visit the Lord above
I sit in the tiny bathroom stall contemplating my next action I feel anxiety and fear, but also a rush of excitement and adrenaline I lift the fold of my backpack searching for my only means of control My friend, I never expected to see you again this soon Only one cut I assure myself I close my eyes and turn my head as I grasp the blade within my fingertips A sharp pain radiates though my wrist
I sit here looking into your glistening blue eyes With nothing to do but wait for so many hours You’ve fought vigilantly and suffered so much It’s time to let go and end your fight Let go of the pain that has plagued you Let go of the suffering you must endure Let your spirit explore freedom from its physical being Let the pain dissipate from your body I will wipe away your tears until your presence leaves me I will watch you breathe your last breath Spend your last moment on earth It is time to let go Your once stiff body now lies limp and an eerie silence overtakes the room Don’t be scared for you are in a happier place I will clean your body so you present with dignity and grace I will prepare you to rest, but not before your family prays with you one last time You are in place where the word “cancer” does not exit A place free of pain Your soul is free Brandi Stewart
Drip, drip, drip I watch the blood flow Mixing with dirt caked to the filthy floor Blood slowly pools and settles within the grout spaces between tiles The pain is bittersweet; I finally have control over my life Tears begin to flow down the apples of my cheeks as drops of blood fall from my wrist Sitting on the porcelain release washes over me as blood flows I focus on the sensations running through my body Enjoying the calming coolness seeping into my bottom I am provided with a sense of stability for a short time Drip…drip…drrriiippp My thoughts quickly return to the matter at hand I finally found a sense of escape The ache represents more than pain, it embodies my freedom The cut has begun to heal for no more blood seeps from the wound I feel free from the worries that plague my mind constantly I return the razor to my backpack for use another time Only two cuts next time….I promise Brandi Stewart This poem is for all who have struggled with self-harm. The purpose is to bring awareness to an issue that is often considered taboo. This poem is a fictional work.
48 Design
Design
49
The Cruelest Disease Bouncing through the halls Stuck in a time that has long passed Looking for loved ones who have passed on Unbeknownst to those aiding in my care My life is no longer set in the present I will forever live in the past Suffering from the cruelest fate known to man Slowly losing all present thoughts and memories Every important moment erased from my mind My being and mind slowly fade The process began with slight forgetfulness A development I thought was normal I can no longer remember anything from the present My memories are rewinding to infancy The epitome of loneliness I no longer remember my children It is as though they never existed in my life I cannot remember the love of my life Although we were together for fifty years I will forever be alone I am left alone to live in my childhood memories For that is where my Alzheimer’s disease has placed me I believe I live with my parents Although I am ninety years old I do not believe I am ninety though For I know my age is eight I look at my skin and see dark marks and wrinkles It does not match the description within my mind
Why can I not leave this chair without alarms sounding? I just want to play on the swings Agitation sets in and I just want to be left alone I swing at my caregivers who try to constrain me I am just an eight year old Who wants to play Why am I being detained by these malevolent people? I yearn for an explanation This suffering is present within my mind only Slowly eating away at every precious part of my being The memories in which I treasured have been stolen from me I suffer in silence because I have lost the ability to speak clearly I can tell no one I am living as an eight year old I can tell no one I am scared I am lost in this world from living in the past My mind will continue to wither Until there is nothing left A cruel process that takes years to complete Slowly consuming my memories I do not know this is happening though The disease causes me to regress For now, I will live as a seven year old Brandi Stewart
Confusion surrounds me How it possible is my physical complexion is such? Eight year olds should not have wrinkles Why am I being told I am in a nursing home? When I know I live with my parents I am only eight years old
50 Design
Design
51
Emotional Anchor I’m drowning In a sea of my own thoughts Occurring not on the ocean front but in the depths of my own mind There’s pain caused from the irrational thoughts that race through my mind Illogical counting and organizing is a constituent of my existence I wish I could escape from their grasp but the effort is futile Panic and anxiety are always present I’m sinking the depths of my own thoughts I feel as though two anchors are tied to my ankles keeping me at the bottom of the ocean I lack the oxygen necessary to breathe and try to escape But the effort to escape is useless because I only sink further to the depths of wretched emotion Pain from an illness that cannot be seen yet is still felt anchors me to the ocean floor Many days I feel alone with no one to listen I feel that this illness is slowly killing me from the inside outward It deadens any emotion I once felt Tired is all I feel; I struggle to continue on Day by day I continue on The struggle never ends. Brandi Stewart
Casey Leffel Broadside Pressure Print with Polymer 52 Design
Design
53
Invitation Darkness caressed my sadness with muddy waters amid gardens of long-stemmed black tea roses that prickled, stabbing deep. Silent torture waited as I crossed invisible bridges, ventured narrow walkways that gripped and twisted tight. Desperation sapped my strength. Darkness ensnared, its labyrinth miserable voices that fed on fear, self-loathing and hopelessness while abysmal depths offered solace, freedom from pain constricting mind and heart. Tiny waves licked rocks and whispered hypnotizing rhythms. Creativity bloomed in darkness, disguised, entombing even greater poets. Lost and alone in those gardens, I roamed, picked bouquets, and inhaled scents of doom. Gloomy water fondled my ankles before the tiniest light appeared with alabaster wings. A butterfly on murky water, spread wings wide, and gave up flight. Cupping delicate insect and lifting, a beam of sunshine pierced my soul. I nursed the fragile creature as wings dried, waved, and fluttered away. I avoid the darkness now. I bask in warm beams of light, smile as daisies dance in glorious gardens, and marvel at multi-colored butterflies among blossoms that wave encouragement, providing strength to endure. Esther Waterman
Katie Goodwin Broadside Lineolum Print with Polymer
54 Design 54 Design
Design Design 55 55 Design 55
Dr. Edwin James 1797-1861 An epitaph on a stone in the Iowa prairie shares the story of a botanist whose calling was greater than the fame of a mountain. The first white man to conquer the summit of Sun Mountain Sitting Big now rests where winding roads twist time and memory into history. Surrendering the Aquilegia Caerulea and any claim to the eponym of Zebulon’s Peak, the doctor chose to shelter freedom Underground, where fresh water springs still whisper, trickling through rock and field, Indian grass, wild rye, and purple prairie clover. Esther Waterman
The Forgotten Hidden among trees on a hillside are stones of those forgotten a community lost, marked by a metal sign: Rock Springs Cemetery School. I meet my lover there, secluded by winding roads that twist into history for a stolen moment. The story is gone. No one remembers the children, the school that blazed, the two survivors. Scorched limestone remains hide secrets. My lover and I move, crossing a narrow bridge to a stone-dotted meadow. Through the cemetery gate daisies dance among stoic lupine that sway to occasional breezes. Climbing with my lover, fingers intertwined, I hear cries of children once alive in the schoolhouse, their voices singing Ring Around the Rosy. I feel peace in flowers, and desire flames with my lover’s caress. Hands move to waist, then thigh as we lie in the grass lost near the bones of the forgotten. Esther Waterman
For more on Rock Springs Cemetery: http://iowagravestones.org/cemetery_list.php?CID=29&cName=Rock+Spring
56 Design
Design
57
Stages I - IV I – Shock/Denial Orchestrated strains of dirges echo heartbreak through pines as tears water Pioneer oak. Gloom blankets campus grounds as the bending sickle’s compass comes. Shocked, orchid brush strokes turn crimson to mark doorframes as hearts are hewn by heads maneuvering in darkness. A pruning of deadwood “to facilitate growth … for the best.” Mourners seek Chapel comfort as History is destroyed, Communication silenced, English edited. Some smile, untouched, relief etched beneath facades of concern. Others offer guidance, compassion. The greatest share courage, strength, and become matchless examples of Grace. II - Anger Rejuvenation pruning is drastic, painful, and ugly. Overgrowth hacked leaves canes exposed for a season and threatens survival. Sixteen majors cut. “Only Fifty” students receive the ‘Teach Out’ (newspeak for ‘Get Out’) designation. “Only Fifty” affected, (and forty-five employees) who trusted an historic institution with their futures – An old story about change. I ignored the murmured warning of the Birch that wept my first day on campus, its life-rings severed by men wielding angry saws. Its moisture stained my palms with promises of Dickinson. Its scent stung my eyes and nostrils. Its roots remain. III - Bargaining If I could, I would explain the folly of the focus on numbers, pen perfection so pure it could not be ignored. Expand Shelly’s defense of poetry, how language and words are the origin of all disciplines, how hypotheses, theories, invention are hindered without debate – how institutors of laws, founders of civil society 58 Design
were indeed the poets. A history lesson pioneers understood as they founded their university and renewed with seasonal pruning, a gentle thinning of overgrowth and heading cuts, to ensure survival. My pen is silent. I have no voice. IV – Depression Like the roots of the felled Birch that once shaded the heirloom brick of Pioneer Hall, I remain – a phantom limb post amputation demanding to be scratched by phantom professors. I wrestle taxonomies, Shakespearian soliloquies, and ghosts of tragedy while trapped in agéd panes of glass that ripple reflections of Iago’s betrayal. Words provide escape as I raft Mississippi currents with Jim to a world that is Twain’s, and ride streetcars with Williams to Elysian Fields to live with Stella. V - Acceptance The hearty regenerate vigorously, bring forth growth in fertile gardens, new sprouts in hues of green. Buds form and flower into shades of lilac, violet, and orchid once more. Melodic refrains return, echoing what was before the shock. I am one of the Fifty students, still affected, who boldly stride ‘cross campus, finding purpose, realizing potential, making a difference. It is a risk to act on my convictions, but I grow where rooted, climbing a crucifix of Birch, inspired by professors who were chosen to bring forth the resurrection. Esther Waterman
Design
59
With thanks to:
It seems that every adventure begins with someone wondering how it might be if…
Design 2015 Workshop Participants:
This year circles back 15 years ago to working with Mildred Bensmiller and our mutual friend, Lennis Moore and thinking about, what if we looped letterpress printing into Design? At that point, Design was an off set litho process and was set up on Adobe PageMaker 3.0. The images were set in the document FPO (for position only), and the analogue prints were sent along for half-tone reproduction to the printer’s shop. 500 copies would arrive before the Design reading and the smell of fresh litho ink and the feel of the paper made the reading a visceral experience for the participants and the audience members.
Nicole Adams Morrgan Bouler Jessica Gonzalez Trevor Howard Brandi Stewart Li Yuanyuan CJ Singletary Esther Waterman Charles Watson
This year, following the first digital production of Design in 2014, we looped back to engaging ink and paper and artist with author. Of course the full production of the literary piece is here – in this virtual, digital space – along with digital broadsides. Unfortunately, there is no scent of ink and no texture of paper but that will live on with the students and faculty who worked to create Design 2015. We brought the digital around to encompass the letterpress Mildred and Lennis wistfully longed to employ in the production of Design. Broadsides are very much about the fine printing of a poem/prose and an image as designed by the artist and/ or printer. This year artists in Graphic Layout and Design II (who were also responsible for the e-version of Design), Printmaking, letterpress designer/artist Melinda Stockwell and I each chose one author’s work and then created a specific image to couple with a selection from the piece – a quote or stanza. Eight of the broadsides were created using a pressure print process. (2 were linocuts.) This is where a hand cut stencil out of poster board is placed behind a piece of good paper stock and is then run through the press (Vandercook Proof Press) with a blank block (.918) which picks up the ink. So, where you have a darker color is where there is more pressure. Each print was then run back through the press so the text could be printed. The text was created using a photo polymer plate process. Each of the 20 participants then received a folio containing 10 broadside prints. The smell of printer’s ink and the texture of the paper again revisited the Design reading of 2015. Ann Klingensmith Professor of Art
Printmaking Students: Brittany Robson J.A. Gonzalez Katie Goodwin Lance Ingwersen Katie Meyers Graphic Layout & Design II Students: Casey Leffel Xianjun (Jason) Xie With deep appreciation to all for the support offered to the chapter since its founding 75 years ago. Those named on the founding charter are: Mildred Allen, Ernestine Jones, Warren Lundgren, Ruth Minear, Dorothy Newell, Josephine Salzman, Arthur Taylor, Helen Reich, Mrs. Marie B. Ryan, Clara Swan, Myrtle Swan, Edna Van Syoc, Calvin T. Ryan
60 Design
Design
61