Ivy Leaves Journal of Literature and Art — Vol. 79

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A REFERENCE GUIDE TO THE STUDENTS OF ANDERSON COLLEGE ON THE SURVIVAL OF ART

ART

OFFICIAL RESPIRATION

A^ Before starting any kind of

artistic

endeavors

make

sure you are clear of any of distractions.

Keep

all

that

senses open

may come

your

to

any creative ideas

way se*

FIGURE! A

FIGURE

Look,

listen,

and

feel.

Look

what

is

inside you

are trying to say.

A

at tiie culture

around you, to insure you stay relevant. to

1.

Listen

and determine what you

Feel around and begin to

get a sense of what you have to work with.

See FIGURE

1.

B

FIGURE 1.B

Begin breathing

be sure not

to it

flow naturally.

its

own. Once

into

life

your work.

to force or

Soon

this

it

Remember

over work anything. Let

will

be able

to breath

on

happens, step back and examine

what you've created.

see FIGURE 1.C

FIGURE 1 C

Jonathan Tribble Level

2'x6 Oil

on

One 1/2'

Wood

What

If?

In a

the world

What

if

is

rain puddle,

upside down.

you could go into

and look

at

Would you

a

puddle,

the world?

have to stand on your head?

That would make the sky upside down and the world

down

side up, and

you wouldn't know where to go, or

how

to go

— and

the world would be resting

on your head, and the sky would always be at your feet

and you would have to wear a helmet, and

your shoes would always be shining, and you wouldn't

know what

to

do

with your hands, with the world always on your head

and, if

the puddle dried up,

your dog would bark

at

you and

people would stare, and wonder

why you were

on your head in

the middle of the street.

Margaret Hayes

standing

Brian Irving

Faced with a Fear 5 V4" X 8" Intaslio Print

Daydream I

had a dream while waking

You were there

.

.

.

.

.

.

darl< eyes,

black hair

I

stretched out

my hand

to touch your face,

and sweet elation, I

DID

Mumbling something, I

then turned

and

fell

effortlessly

from the spot where Strange; having a

Wesley Ramey

I'd

loved you

dream while waking

Kari Pettit

Untitled

5"x7" Black and

White Photograph with

Ink

Bonfire Flame blasts from

a bonfire in the dark,

Awaiting innocent souls as

A

it

grows.

cinnamon, pumpkin powder erupts with each spark.

Enchanting hungry children as

Two

it

creeps through every nose.

cauldrons sizzle with a magic potion of sweets

Poured into the

fire

to create the tantalizing smell.

Trailing forth, the visitors

Unaware

A tall

hope to

find a treat

that they are under a spell.

lurking tree

is

a

witch disguised.

The protruding branch, her

pointing arm.

Turning youngsters into pumpkins while they stand hypnotized.

She burns with

a passion to

avenge through harm.

At midnight, she prepares her feast

as she

throws

Into the fire the pumpkins, the offspring of her foes.

Ashley Posley

Matt Mantooth Like Father, Like Son

AT

X 36"

Acrylic on Canvas

Seventeen Magazine clippings In

the center,

of Claire's purple journal, is pasted between handsome Structure stud

a Secrets logo a

and

a stylish

Circling the

model duo,

the outer ring of a Target,

like is

Express chick.

the Pink glittery Hallmark

Claire loves Sean Jean for Eternity

with scratches as thick as a Briar Patch

through Tommy's name.

Limited overlaps a glossy

one-dimensional bottle of Dream,

and a pair of Wranglei^ Jeans straddle Unique Expressions.

Gap Jill

ads

fill

Morris

the empty spaces.

Slums Dreaming of Thailand I

at

two

the morning,

in

tossed and turned beneath the sheet

Yet didn't recognize the scene

until

I

felt

The

suffocating heat.

And And

there you stood, with your bloodstained shirt

I

dangling from your wrist, sterile gauze.

reached out

my hand

to fix

but

it,

You backed away.

I

read the solemn stare you gave me, with

Bitter questioning.

Words

in

You craved

broken English

fell

essentials,

its

not hospitality.

clumsily

From your mouth.

I

tried desperately to

decode the message.

Frustrated, you turned aside. So, Left the rice and

And turned

in

silence, until

Into the rickety bus.

Shed

I

still

I

left

quietly

to walk away.

You followed me down the

We walked

I

water by your cardboard home

I

dirt path.

I

stepped up

waved good-bye, and

a tear.

hear your muttered voice.

you

in

To haunt me as lay awake with Alone in the moonlight.

I

Shannon

I

the slums, but you've

Griffin

thought

come back

guilt,

here

Matt Mantooth Poppy 40" X 28" Oil

on Canvas

Discarded The suns arms are not long enough To shroud their bodies Twelve

panes with flames

tiny

Snuffed out by her drawing shelf

They've been

He

in

love for forty-six hours

loves her dark

rooms

Black paint splattered

Weak She

in

some

lazily

areas and thicker

in

others

mouth leaving bumps on her frail shoulders

feels his

Tiny

chill

She sees Still in

this

morning's breakfast ingredients

the buckets

His whisper smells of apples

Remnants of the

Too

ones

fallen

enticing not to keep

Ripening into rich rusts and yellows

At

first

they picked

in

Luscious cranberries

leisure

â&#x20AC;&#x201D; but then

Their greedy fingers pulled leaves

now

Both

bathing

Never one

in

the sun

for cooking

She prefers the midst of her garden Stealing the frozen earth's gifts

Reserving hers for

She'll

And

moments

like this

be bored by hour fifty-two

she'll lick

All that will

the juices

remain of him

Off her fingers stained pink Staria R. Wilson

A

Grace

Little Girl's

Our weary van slowed to a stop As we pulled In front of the house.

Excitement pounded inside my chest While

I

I

twitched and fluttered about.

newborn

Like a

colt,

tumbled out of the

all

arms and

legs,

car.

And proceeded to gleefully roll about In the grass of my new front yard.

Then

And

I

sprang to

my

feet,

Then with an expectant I

brushed myself

off,

sprinted for the open door.

found myself

.

.

.

leap

from the porch,

back on the floor

...

my stinging eyes teared up A result of my newly smashed face And the smudge of my nose on the clean Bore the last testament of my grace.

Confused,

Lori

Hughes

glass

storm door

Digging His family

men

tool< turns digging

under the shade of the Iroko tree.

They cursed when the shovels bruised their palms, the soft skin giving

way

to rough calluses

as the loose dirt

and

thick.

They

became dark dug, heaving earth

over their shoulders

The

sun's glare

in

rhythm.

on their backs

and the sweat stinging their eyes

reminded them that they were men.

He had been until his

a

man

like

them,

bronzed shoulders and

his

ridged palms could dig no longer.

He had been

a man like them, brown heart began to beat to the rhythm of the brown earth.

They buried him under the Iroko.

The women dressed him in a kaftan and slippers. He wanted nothing more.

The women, in tears, hummed to the slow, somber drumbeat. The men, dry-eyed, until his

lowered the

coffin into the

ground

they had dug. The scrape of shovels, the thud of earth on stained wood,

reminded them that they were men.

Adaobi N. Ezeokoli

Golden

On

proud

rings sit

strong green poles held above

The ground, sunflowers.

Tennille

Owens

The Black Snake

We I

were not

feel a little

friends, yet

sad

seeing him lying

in

the middle

of the street,

the thick black rope of laid

open by the

fatal

his

body

blow,

the raw red flesh glistening in

the sun.

Innocent of the curse of crossing the street,

he

coils as

and

one

in

holds

his

best he can last effort,

head high,

as defiant of death as he in

was

the

Garden.

Margaret Hayes

now,

Kamila Bobrova Blue Color Study

#3

15" X 19"

Pastel

on Paper

Epitaph of a Station I

can only hope that you

Will find

my

But

all

what truth you

can.

you never

will.

fear

is

must inform you.

Ralph Jones set me on

So

Owner

I

fire,

And he did it because He thought was running Around with his wife.

I

But what they won't Is

that

I

puddle of mud,

In a

And Ralph

set

me on

fire again.

were wide with

His eyes

And he kept throwing All

you

tell

put myself out

anger,

gas

over the place.

There was no reasoning with him.

I

tried to

Was

tell

him that Edna

who kept my station. coming by asking me

the one

Hanging around She kept

To pump her

gas,

But her tank was always

She started whispering

And

full.

in

my

ear,

saying Ralph couldn't satisfy her.

Then one day I'd had enough.

And that was the day Edna tore the shoulder of her dress

And

told Ralph

But you

Any I'd

all

will

I

attacked her.

probably never

of that because

it's

rather burn on earth, than

With Ralph and Edna.

Tennille

Owens

know

the truth. in

Hell

Lauren Leggett Four Hearts

I8"x52" Oil

on Canvas

Alvaro and Christina Bright blue, threaded with light blond stitches,

The door stands out.

Deep cuts furrowed by sharp claws.

Its frame weathered by time and feeble hands As if the pain were tired, imparted, absorbed.

Grayed out,

lying useless as

the trembling hands

That once clutched them, the tools are subdued.

Dust gathers here,

Among Never

rich,

What once And

it

As you

in

the bristles of

falls

at

a skeletal

home

broom.

but thriving,

dwelt here remains. across you, independent and beautiful.

enter, the

Blue door.

Amanda

cobwebs

Burgess

way the

light falls

on that

Kamila Bobrova Purple Color Study

#

I

15" X 19"

Pastel

on Paper

r

'£tLL^.wi'im.'

Becky Bradstreet Untitled 4" X 3"

Photograph

The

Kite

The wind

picks up and

I

begin to run,

A swirl of primary colors A tortured, dragged dog.

Finally! In

the

flailing

whipping

air,

its

behind,

snake head,

Each color strikes at the taunting clouds,

The venom

My

From

A

uniting yellow and blue.

knuckles whiten as the twine

dull knife

This

rubbing into flesh.

â&#x20AC;&#x201D; an unadmirable attempt

Suddenly,

One God

it

slips

on the spool,

side to side

at escape.

stands erect before the sky.

last plea for

mercyf

doesn't grant

it.

Neither do

The wild air beats, making me With a great heave rein it in.

I.

squint.

I

Carefully though, so as not to break Its spirit

for the next great wind.

Marissa Sullivan

Leie girls She

under the udala tree,

sits

legs crossed, eyes closed.

The rhythm

of the

drum

hands on taut goat skin

Mama

crier's

pulls her.

braids her coarse dark hair

and talks about a day long ago

when her own

hair

under the same Seven

girls sit

was braided

tree.

behind her,

crushing green leaves that

produce

With

it

a red

dye called

lele.

they paint their palms,

their feet, their navels.

Tonight the

when they

men

smile

will

dance, jigida beads

around their waists, their ankles.

Her

feet,

her palms, the grooves

of her braids are also painted

Tonight she does not

in lele.

dance with

jigida

beads around

her waist, her ankles.

She

lies

on the

raffia

mat,

legs crossed, eyes closed,

the rhythm of

lele girls' feet

on moonlit sand soothes away the wave of pain between her

She

is

a

woman

now.

Adaobi N. Ezeokoli

legs.

X iKWsr^nr rr

,,

Adam

.

vr r.

Lynch

Urban Remedy 4" X 6" Photograph

When The Time Comes When When When

the time comes, brings

it

I

Anything at

When my And

is

when

I

will

storm.

roam

sky,

will

I

will ride

I

will

in

still

more

a part of

I

On

all,

eyes are

don't cry no

That

Be

me home,

won't need

the wind,

soar to sun

wide spread wings.

And beneath the

clouds.

Right across the sea.

We will

fly

together.

Only wind and me.

Kamila Bobrova

Shelly

Sawyer

Minature Tea Set Clay

Alicia

Marquez

Psalm 18 40" X 32" Acrylic on Canvas

L'etranger Her

soft, fair

hands place

my mocha

on the caramel-hued coffee

Memories

unfurl

in

latte

table.

the rising steam

Your rough-hewn hands, crevassed, stained, a

Hands

map

of your manual past.

that, in thought,

dreads rolled thick

Those

like

callused hands,

you would run through Cuban cigars.

warmed

by the kitchen

spun ancient tales out of the night

Now

sky.

and then you would pause to take

sips of black coffee laced

with rum.

Under the moon's watch, those hands would lift

me

my

eyes tracing fire sparks to the stars.

up slowly, play with

my ebony

curls,

At the cock's crow, my eyes heavy, those hands,

now

earthed, brought

cafe-creme and hot croissants.

my reflection mocha face, the black irises; my hands wrapped around the empty coffee cup.

In

the window,

The

I

I

catch

thin braids, the

should not be here.

Adaobi N. Ezeokoli

me

fire,

the Golden Calf the Golden Calf sings on broadway, drinks from the chalice of the stars,

speaks with Aristotelian wit, fairy dust in his eyes,

melt him into another dream a cure, a

(he will

remedy

fix

you)

and never disappear:

enamored

vision

passion, greed, lust for the

unknown,

he huddles inside

Us All.

Maghan Lusk

IVY LEAVES STAFF

LITERARY ADVISOR Dr.

Wayne Cox

LITERARY STAFF Amanda Burgess Shannon

Griffin

Tannine

Owens

Jennifer

Roman

Marrissa Sullivan

DESIGN ADVISOR Jane Dorn

DESIGN STAFF Joshua Fleming Brandon Fricks Katy Gray Shelli

Hanshew

Bnan

Irving

Misty Kelley Kristen

Lambert

Matthew Mantooth Theresa O'Rourke Jessica Parks Shelly

AN EMERGENCY!

THIS IS

Sawyer

Emerald Shumer Jonathan Tribble

Art,

whether

it

be

drama,

literature,

dance, music, or the visual arts can

be found

in

every culture,

period of time. survival of is

personal is

no

life.

is

essential

in

it

it

alive.

One

Matthew Mantooth

the

any people group. The

what keeps

argue that

It

COVER DESIGN

every

in

art

ILLUSTRATIONS

could even

Matthew Tolbert

even applies on a more

level,

and without

In this realization

art

there

we see

the importance of the situation at hand.

m MUST KEEP ART

ALIVE,

BECAUSE

IT

KEEPS US ALIVE.