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C r e a t i v e

A r t s

M a g a z i n e

Fall 2014 Volume 18, Issue 1


about canvas

editor's choice

Canvas Creative Arts Magazine is published twice a year by Union Board. Each piece of published work is the property of the author or artist and may not be reproduced without his or her permission. The views represented in the magazine are not necessarily those of Canvas, Union Board, the Indiana Memorial Union, Indiana University, or the Board of Trustees.

Canvas gives editor’s choice awards to the best written and visual work submitted to the magazine each semester. For this issue, we present this honor to Liz Clayton Scofield for her written work (pg. 56) and to Betsy Stout (pg.70-73) for her artwork. This award serves to recognize the high level of craft and creativity with which they represent their chosen fields and to thank them for sharing their exceptional work.

For questions or to submit to the Spring 2015 issue, contact: canvas@indiana.edu

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dear reader We hope your time spent with the work on these pages is valuable and beneficial. These featured artists chose to labor over transpiring their individual ideas into meaningful work. We strive to fill the pages of this magazine with premier art from Indiana University to acknowledge the incredible work by students and to engage readers in a creative dialogue. Our hope is that you enjoy the Fall 2014 edition of Canvas and that it contributes to your creative spirit. Anna Teeter Editor


visual work Katie Baczeski Natalie Beesley Clayton Blackwell Sara Bradley Jeron Braxton Autumn Bussen Raph Cornford Stephanie Galli Kathleen Garrison Joe Kameen Paul Maloney Emily Nickel Lena Reifinger Adam Reynolds Lingwei Shang Devon Blair Smallwood Betsy Stout

66 8 32 58-61 52 46 10 76 34 38-41 36 20 16 50 68 14 70-73

Benjamin Timpson Eric Van Scoik Ekaterina Vanovskaya Carolyn Watkins Autumn Wright Fuchang Yang

22 26-29 54 44 64 78

written work Olivia Graham Jarek Jarvis Olivia Jordan Katelyn Klingler Sean McClure Hannah Murray James Payne Liz Clayton Scofield Joey Wańczyk Emma Wenninger

42 48 12 37 74 18, 24 30, 62 56 69 63


selection committee

director

Caitlyn Cuba Tanisha Dasmunshi Katy Davis Ciosa DiStasio Elizabeth Fish Alex Colley Hart Steven Johnson Josie Lancaster Michelle Myers Regan Platt Kathryn Rolli Mitchell Sigmund Anna Teeter Andrew Thowpson Ashley VanArsdale Eric Van Scoik

Victoria Stevens

publisher

designer

Metropolitan Printing Service

Katy Davis

assistant directors Caitlyn Cuba Steven Johnson Ashley VanArsdale Eric Van Scoik

editor Anna Teeter


“

No man has the right to dictate what other men should perceive, create or produce, but all should be encouraged to reveal themselves, their perceptions and emotions, and to build confidence in the creative spirit. - A n s e l

A d a m s

“


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N a t a l i e

B e e s l e y


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Untitled Digital photograph

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C o r n fo r d R a p h 10

Alienation Color lithograph


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Waiting Etching

Complex Navigation Color lithograph 11


Single Every night at 2:24 a train slices through the dark past my window.

Olivia Jordan And it wakes me as if to take me away. I turn over and I see a boy asleep. And I wonder how he sleeps through. And it goes on roaring and roaring. And he goes on sleeping and sleeping.

I disturb the still room as the train disturbed mefamiliar as it is. And I see the boy, sleeping-and I wondered how anyone could sleep through such a sound. How could he be so solemn, so monumental. Doesn’t everyone feel the sting of a bee? Don’t you regret the subtleties? Farther and farther the train pulls me awayuntil, he pulls me in, tightly, Unconsciously. How someone could love in their sleep I’ll never know-the pull so majestic and slow-- but ceasing seemingly before it began. He can’t pull me across the threshold I’d aimed for. In a bed for one-- we lay two. I’m more upset when I miss a train by five minutes than I am by an hour Even though it’s all the same.

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Nadir II Intaglio

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D e v o n

B l a i r

S m a l l w o o d


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Nadir III Intaglio 15


R e i f i n g e r L e n a

Bone and Bullet Paper, bone, yellow ochre, found materials 16

Endogenous Copper, enamel


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Junction Wire mesh, paint

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Assets

Hannah Murray I didn’t know what Todd’s mom had said to Todd on the phone last night, but whatever it was sent him home from the Wilsons’s Fourth of July party. All he told me was that we could take the Range Rover back. He’d walk. I brought the kids home around ten. Todd was camped out in front of the flat screen, propped up by a Tempur Pedic pillow the doctor gave him for back pain. A half-empty bottle of Merlot rested on his chest, rising and falling with his breath. He called out goodnight to the kids without moving his head or eyes. After the kids were in bed, I hesitated at the top of the landing, looking down at his supine figure alight from the glow of some antiques show on the History channel. I never remembered the name of it. Earlier today we were talking about the Belger’s across the street. How they would split the estate. That was how it started. Assets. Todd was a lawyer.

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But the conversation slipped into the personal. How Carol blew four thousand at the Rehoboth Outlets one weekend with her girlfriends. How Ralph totaled another motorcycle. Todd claimed it was because they didn’t keep their promises. That was his obsession lately. Promises. I had asked what promises. Ralph Belger was a suicidal alcoholic. But I knew he was talking about me. At night it was always the same. His eyes shut as if he was already asleep. I’d promised twenty pounds would vanish. They always say marriages go to shit once the wife weighs more than the husband. I went to bed instead. I didn’t hear him come up that night. The only reason I knew he was back was because I heard the routine, “Kate, Kate,” and, “You’re snoring.” I didn’t feel him in the morning. But he was there, huddled on his side with his back to me.


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The phone rang at one. Our kids were outside kicking around a soccer ball with the Belger’s kids. Todd was out in the garage tinkering on a vintage Mustang he intended on selling. He had pretended not to hear me when I had asked him to come in for lunch. It was Todd’s mom on the line. She asked how my fourth was, and we engaged in that sort of forced small-talk in-laws endure for about five minutes before someone related comes on the line. I asked if she wanted Todd but she said she’d already talked to him yesterday. She told me Charles had killed himself yesterday morning. Charles was Todd’s stepfather at a point where Todd didn’t really need a father anymore. There was an eerie, itching feeling creeping up my neck, and even though the sun continued to shine through the kitchen bay window, it somehow felt darker. I said I was sorry but Bev only seemed annoyed.

“He could have at least waited until I left the room,” she said. She’d already gone through his things and decided what to sell. She talked about moving to North Carolina where there were more dog shows. There was a scream outside. My eyes flashed out the window. Derek, our older son, had fallen with his hands clasped around his ankle. Our younger one, Liam, and the other boys froze around him. I almost went running out when Todd appeared at Derek’s side. “I’ve already gone through his things, decided what’s worth selling. It’s funny. You know that gun’s probably worth the most.” Todd heaved Derek up and carried him toward the house, cringing all the way.

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N i c k e l E m i l y The Land of Milk and Honey Carved stoneware clay

Sewed up Tight Carved and glazed stoneware clay 20


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Romulus and Remus Carved stoneware clay

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T i m p s o n B e n j a m i n

5 Selfies Mixed media - worm, wire, negative, watercolor

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Landscape Photographer Mixed media - worm, wire, negative, watercolor Capture the Moment (opposite) Mixed media - worm, wire, negative, watercolor


Spray-Painted I Love You’s Hannah Murray My dad, like all dads, is a man of monotone. “Congrats,” “goodbye,” “welcome home,” and “fuck” all sound the same. It’s only when he drinks that the words find the confidence to be different, each fitting into a pattern of rising and falling in tune with ocean waves. The only problem is that I can’t make out what he’s saying. His words grow longer and the beats between them shorter until sentences are one chaotic mess of symbiotic syllables. So he paints instead. On the night before my mom and I drove me out to college, my dad did his usual painting in the garage, switching between Coors and Gatorade so he wouldn’t drink as much. Each time I entered the garage with a fresh handful of tote bags or luggage, he added a new stroke to his cross painting. That was his latest phase, crosses, even though he was an atheist and gave me a fire-breathing nun last Christmas. I wasn’t an expert on crosses myself but I don’t think his turned out the way people usually made them. His were neon green and pink. Said something about how they matched the flashing signs for that one Scientology church up in New York.

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At one point he was filling in the yellow background around the pink cross. I came out again with a laundry basket and found that the cross had fallen to the floor. “I think you dropped something,” I said. “Art’s never accidental,” he slurred a second time because I couldn’t understand the first. As he crouched down to pick up the canvas, a bit of his beer spilled onto the naked back of the frame. Beneath the lifted canvas, the painting had imprinted a fainter double. When I came out with my last load, he was pouring out the red Gatorade and beer together so that they made a pale red fizz all over the upsidedown pink cross below. On my way back inside, I listened to the hiss of a spray can echo throughout the garage. Sunday morning, I came out to find a blood red “I love you,” sprayed in loose cursive on top of the cross on the floor. He was too tired that day to come move me in. Every artist needs a day of rest I guess.


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America the Beautiful Hannah Murray He was talking like an American again. This time about happiness. How he earned it. Deserved it. How no one could take it away. His eyes were the sort of red that lingers after someone’s been shot in the movies. He was going off on Caleb. All he did was laugh when Caleb told him about how he got cheated on. We sat on the ancient oriental, backs against the couches. We’d been here before. Falling asleep to South Park marathons. Haphazardly blotting at spilt Natty Boh. Kicking out the singes from our first blunts. Our childhood was imprinted on the floor. He said what was funny was how Lauren fucked Caleb’s Big, Kessler, and how he just imagined her itching up a storm from the herpes. Kessler was the stud of Sigma Tau. He smiled after that, his bottom row stained from the snuff. Straight but stained. He didn’t get it, he said, how

people called him an asshole because he enjoyed living. He hadn’t asked about New Zealand. I’d been gone a year and got back only last night. He asked if I wanted to go on the boat instead. See the world, he said. As though it weren’t just us swerving in circles around the Bay. It’d be just like the old times, he said. Those were his words. Just like the old times. And for once his eyes crinkled in the corners when he smiled, as if remembering “the old times” was enough to resurrect them. The question hung in the air, and continued to hang like the smoke that rose from his hit on the bong. The high always made his eyes water, he said. I asked about his summer, about his trip with his Sigma brothers up to New York. He told me the Statue of Liberty looked like a dyke and laughed.

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S c o i k Va n E r i c 26

A Ghost Inside a Burning Building Watercolor, pen


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School Photo Watercolor, pen


Syzygy Watercolor, pen


Things Just Townsfolk talk about Bill Clinton like their parents before the divorce Aren’t They

James Payne not who they were as the proceedings drew to a close

nor in the period thereafter, which they claim not to know. Not in the shining lights of Oklahoma City, Theodore Kaczynski, but in a selective, collective memory corroborated by the skyscrapers ran aground that only stay on to recall the fin-de-siècle matrimony of this town. Like the Hyatt sign, it’s so childhood vacation: airport fonts, early-nineties neon the color of the Christmas we got the PlayStation, Sega CD, 32X, or Nintendo 64. I’m not sure which was which, but those consoles were all before. If only those coffers were full again just for a redesign. I can’t stand the pastels in this personal-is-political-era skyline. I want to look outside of time.

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Tea Pot Wood fired ceramic

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C l a y t o n

B l a c k w e l l


G a r r i s o n K a t h l e e n 34

Arms around me Mannequin parts, acrylic, leather cord


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Dislocate Mannequin parts, stainless steel rod, acrylic, leather cord


Two Types Ceramics

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P a u l

M a l o n e y


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Symbiosis

Katelyn Klingler I don’t want to hunt you from behind a husky tree line feast on your juiciest parts leave a picked and dripping skeleton. I just want to walk through the jungle with you. We’ll stand still when scared stiff by untraceable howls, and I’ll pluck the bugs from your back.

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K a m e e n J o e

Creative Dispute (above) Oil on canvas Berlichingen’s Arm (left) Oil on canvas 38

The Ship of Theseus (opposite) Oil on canvas


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Diver (opposite) Oil on canvas The Together Engine (right) Oil on canvas

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This shot stings whiter than CNN’s lineup Olivia Graham

I was raised by a misandrist and the cold shoulders of the Midwest. It’s 2006 and my Papaw is still a disheveled, drunken Clark Gable, chain-smoking his way to ten dollars in government benefits and the time where he could shout N-word freely in the frozen meat aisle at Kroger. In Southern Indiana when you’re broke and not-White, every sunset is smothering and interrupted by a noose dangling from a tulip tree in the horizon. After a teeth-scrambling anxiety attack, when our fears feel so futile and so fertile, I am the pale sky post-tornado, no longer suspiciously jade, just still. Still know too many synonyms for alcoholic intake. When we first moved to Indiana, I asked you where all the Brown people were, why the first one I saw had his skinned soles exposed, scuffling down Broadway like a moving picture of Monrovia. The steely noose still dangling atop the smokestacks. Now a fifth of all Hoosier kids are starving in the land of individual freedoms, failed utopias, and I’m writing a poem for my all-White writing class, merely exposing, never changing. I should’ve stopped writing when I wasn’t so emotionally invested. You told my stepdad that if he slovenly insults you again, you’ll hurl a brick at his liver, like another fifth of off-brand liquor down the gullet, down the well of hope. 42


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I should’ve killed him when I had the courage. I feel like I have no more left to give, and so if I could pray, it’d be for keys in clammy, libated hands to refuse turning, and for someone to give a shit about the heads curb-stomped in the Southshore, and maybe for something better than one-liner poems that slam like Karkov, only enjoyable until orange chunks betroth the plastic, peeling floor. I should’ve stopped drinking when I still could. Without any capital, we’re left wondering who will be Indiana’s next lynched: like Glenda Ritz, Coach Calipari, the Black man across Meridian. On these oily Indiana dunes, you can see the reality of the earth, how the sky is not endless and how we’re marooned, viscous gravity forever tying us to the loathed Homeland, pummeled musings of Austin, Vancouver, Skopje. Twenty minutes or years later, you’ll find nothing’s changed; the noose’s only transformed, and the tree on which it was hanging’s now extinct. Filled with corn-fed fallacies and two plastic jugs of hooch, I can’t try to change ten-p.m.-headline fates. Can’t even watch. This is my drunk Midwestern opus, following in the stumbles of my stepdad, and I’m sorry, mom. 43


Wa t k i n s C a r o l y n

Celadon Idol (above) Porcelain, glaze 44

Little Idol (left) Porcelain, glaze


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Exit Only Stoneware, paint


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A u t u m n

B u s s e n


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Crowd Surf Oil on panel


Dad

Jarek Jarvis

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Says when the cancer comes he’s gonna drive off a mountain, I don’t doubt him, Dad, Wear your welding mask like a warrior, We’re better for the burdens born on our backs Dad, Every city you see, you see as a free man far from that ancient jail may it fall down Dad, You did better than expected reject their respect, you have mine Dad, If anyone ever questions that you raised me right You can look, look them in the eye And say “I tried”.


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Hallway Poem

Jarek Jarvis

A curly puff of auburn fluff under the arm of a girl, whose charms do not escape me, I am walking to class debating, my stance on the matter though, I guess it doesn’t really matter, and razors have rarely been my friend so I can imagine, easily why she keeps them away from her underarms, I keep mine under the sink.

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R e y n o l d s A d a m

Ballet Dance Motion Digital photography

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J e r o n

B r a x t o n


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G r a v i t y H a r p .ChildGod996


Va n o v s k a y a E k a t e r i n a

Voices of the woods (above) Oil on canvas Untitled (left) Oil on canvas Today records fell (opposite) Oil on canvas 54


beautiful floral beings Liz Clayton Scofield

1 I have flashing memories of the free fall and the bungee cord seemingly not quite kicking in, seemingly letting me fall forever into the ground and further into concrete, through concrete, into nothing, into everything, I have these flashing memories and I relish them and they hurt—they hurt because they are gone, because they are real, because I can still taste the air, sharp and cold, and how it felt rushing through my entirety, my being, my body, and I can still taste the tequila, straight up only slightly watered down by melting ice, that didn’t have enough time to melt very much because we hit everything so hard then. We hit everything so hard, because everything was hitting us hard, we didn’t know what else to do, but a magnum of red, whiskey diet, Jameson on the rocks, tequila shots, and a pack of American Spirit blacks, on repeat, on repeat, on repeat, styrofoam cups and a blanket with a crocheted cat.

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2 I need to recount it now or I will let it dissolve into the past. I need to recount it now before I reset the hard drive and delete all that miscellaneous experience that will spread malicious content into my bloodstream if I don’t trash it now. She said, you would light the house on fire just so you could jump out of the window, through the flames, to see it burn, to cry with the neighbors and the firemen, to collect the ashes afterwards, and ultimately to be broken, to then rebuild from nothing, just to burn it all down again. Maybe I would. Maybe I did. Explosives in the backyard—they told me it was dangerous, but the flashing light, I found so attractive. I had to burn it down to build the fantasy—to crawl into my own rabbit hole where I could stop time. I pulled you in with me and taught you how to play pretend. And I pretended I had love and I had hope and I had beauty captured in my pocket, and

it wasn’t going anywhere, and there was only happiness and no pain and no hurt and everything was good and nothing was bad and money didn’t matter because I owned all the banks and I ran the reserve and I printed all currency myself. But even the most carefully constructed imaginary structure can topple so easily, with the slightest exhale of words whispered from reality—my delusions now are just dust adding to the pile of ash of the bridges and homes I’ve burned for the sake of my delusions.


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3 You’re gonna have to grow up someday. 4 This chair leans back far too far. The coffee is cold, a little stale. The room is uncomfortable, right on the edge of chilly. The white cinder block walls remind me of third grade. I could just paint a wide stripe about three feet up around the perimeter, in a vivid primary color. Not a place I would choose, but handed to me, I suppose I have to make the most of it. White cinder blocks don’t feel real to me—fiction never suited me, to read nor to write nor to live. Baby, I need something real—and if I went and pressed my hand against that wall, with just enough pressure, slight pressure, I believe the wall would give way and reveal to me it’s nonexistence. And upon this revelation, the wall and I would have a wonderfully colorful and intriguing conversation not about the weather, because the wall and I don’t waste

our time throwing around trivial and trite phrasing about the sun or the gray or the cold out today— but about the implications of the crossings of our existence and how hopefully from this tiny point on the trajectory of time, we will continue on our little lines in the plane of this universe or whatever existence, go forth, changed, a new lease on life. I fell into the wall, stood inside the wall, became the wall, and felt what it was to be still and silent and supportive. I let everything move around me and realized in this experience, I felt the weightlessness of freedom while the cinder blocks held me there, and I became the cinder blocks.

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5 I will not be the stranger in my own life anymore I will know myself on the inside and out and I will let the evil rot away and decay and I will compost it and let it grow beautiful floral beings.

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B r a d l e y S a r a

Thirteen Digital photography

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Still Digital photograph

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Ruth Gruca James Payne

If you close the bathroom door tight turn out the blacklights and say “Ruth Gruca” in the mirror sixty-nine times ten more Net artists will materialize at your loft party they’ll take your Modelo tag the stairwell and elevator untag you from all their pictures and tell your favorite DJ “Never-ever ever fucking play there.” They’ll GoogleDoc that night’s Notes, crowd-edit it into a novella sold to Melville House called Gothique Feeds that funds their colossal E-cig sculptures and wins whatever fiction whatever. It’ll be reissued in 2089 as classic American Early-21st Century Lit that your great-grandchildren read for their course “Experimental Net-Narrative in the Electronic Stoned Age.” via cranial implants.

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And in the novella you’re a barely fictionalized basic bitch doing something you saw them do on the Internet. You’ll ask the protagonist: “What are your plans after your current project?” And your great-grandchildren will drop-out from sustained resentment toward their lame ass antecedents that couldn’t even fucking throw a party correctly. They hitch a horse out to the suburbs to harvest plywood desalinate concrete eat field mice and kill passerby for the last canister of solar hydrogen ass gasoline to manufacture prison toilet poppers to drink and erase any last trace of your cool loft space.


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Drying Funeral Flowers Emma Wenninger

Take care of your old bones for when you are gone from my sight I shall collect their cracking forms. I shall pull them from the pages of my dictionary, fragile, dry. I shall hold them in my hands and if you have taken care of them they will not break. I will put them back in my book on my shelf and walk outside, and because it is morning I will think about getting a cup of coffee.

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Wr i g h t A u t u m n

Give Me Your Hands To Hold Monotype with watercolor, gouache, ink

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Rete Reticulum Watercolor, gouache, acrylic, graphite Untitled (opposite) Ink, watercolor, acrylic, gouache


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Blanketing Stoneware

K a t i e

B a c z e s k i


S h a n g L i n g w e i 68

On Fire Wood, copper, felted wool

Grandmother's Love Silver, copper, tiger eye, branch


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Dead Deer Joey Wańczyk

I’m carrying the dead deer Like Jean did before me— Tweed tied around My shoulders, straining my neck. Deer blood—red as rust— Falling through gaps In white deer teeth. Passing through a cold river— I’d rather be sleeping. But I’m not drowning And I now stand up— This river-water, This tugging tide, Merely a shoal— A foot high.

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S t o u t B e t s y

The Pick-Apart Silkscreen print

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Perfect Specimens: C (left) Ink and graphite on paper Fantasy of a Bad Haircut (right) Intaglio, hand coloring


Unknown Dancer Mixed media on paper La Clownesse (opposite) Mixed media on paper


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Mother,

Sean McClure You pulled Barbie heads like radishes from the basement sink where I glimpsed the Slinky’s final descent as all doors shut My too-small hands hitting glass, unable to grasp the shrinking house, too young to perceive magnitude or scale And our smiling dog only a fingernail when we turned, his flag-ears failing to sail but still changing colors

Starving Artist Wants Children Sean McClure

“So, how will you feed your kids?” I will grow my love organic, recite only what I know I know, bind little bruised bones with broken strings “But how will you feed your kids?” We will travel to our neighbor’s for vacation “But how will you feed your kids?” with my own flesh, with the laughter that hangs from trees, with my upturned palm the spoon and ladle “But how will you feed your kids?” Your children are ripe but spoiling They only smile when you leave the TV unattended Tell me, How will you cook your children before you eat them? 74


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Carve

Sean McClure

There is permanence in every relationship, an imprint like a schooner dew-stains a coffee table because the lake moss was a coaster when you took it on the rocks, because trees countless with kisses still exclaim “OUR LOVE WILL!� last longer than lives, exult and self-promote great deaths which summon more life than any first date or funeral, initial craters so deep thunder-steps next nearing the light drizzle of your own sound bring like gunshots cracking, the tension of each passing lover no different than the pressure necessary to fire

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G a l l i S t e p h a n i e

Bowls (above) Porcelain Large Serving Bowl (right) Porcelain

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come-hither 1 (above) Slip cast porcelain come-hither 2 (left) Slip cast porcelain

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Ya n g F u c h a n g

Growing up body with American/England building pattern Digital photograph, digital drawing 78


Canvas Creative Arts Magazine

Growing up body with Chinese building pattern Digital photograph, digital drawing

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send inquiries to

canvas@indiana.edu visit us at

www.ubcanvas.com learn more about Union Board at

www.ub.indiana.edu


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