MCCC Images XXVII

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Camera Still Life • Painting 1 • Nick Wilson

IMAGES 2013 A L I T E R A RY A N D F I N E A RT S M A G A Z I N E

by the Students and Staff of Monroe County Community College

Front and Back Cover Photographs: Tricia McCloskey

Sponsored and Published by The Humanities/Social Sciences Division

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Figure-Ground Interdependance • Art Fundamentals • Erin Schmid

Produced by Monroe County Community College

© Monroe County Community College 2013 All Rights Reserved

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS This is the twenty-seventh year we have published the creative efforts of our students and staff.

We sincerely appreciate the excellent work submitted this year; each entry has received careful consideration.

The editors are extremely grateful to Penny Dorcey-Naber, Sean McDonald, Christopher Butson, Gregory MacBeth, Kaitlin Moore, and Natasha Wickenheiser for their invaluable assistance.

Without their diligence and skills, there would be no magazine.

We are already gathering material for our next issue. If you are a student or member of the staff of Monroe County Community College and would like to have your work included in our next issue, please submit your material to one of our co-editors: Terry Telfer Professor of English Ted Vassar Assistant Professor of Art Creative writing may be submitted electronically to ttelfer@monroecc.edu or pdorcey-naber@monroeccc.edu

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Locked in Place • Drawing 2 • Amanda Cowell

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PERFUME Ladies keep this poison on their vanities In a glass bottle pretty enough to take sips from Yet any drinker of this liquid would feel instant regret Ladies open the bottle each day, Gentle ones spray a mist into the air And walk through it like a cloud Bolder ones tip the bottle to their fingers, And dab the concoction on the napes of their necks On their wrists and fragile-looking collarbones To chronic sufferers of allergies, A lady of this sort is a bitch Symbolically, she is Satan The poison radiates from the bold lady’s skin And reaches its fumes selfishly into the nostrils Of innocent bystanders Bottles of the stuff can be found all over the world In every sort of home For every sort of woman: Pious grandmothers, teenagers, soccer moms, movie starlets, diseased prostitutes Each with a stench to cover • Briana Alvarez

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Scorpion • Drawing 1 • Jessie Boudrie

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PEST CONTROL He entered through open windows That you did not care to shut tight He crawls across the clean white sheets His feet as light as clouds in air This small black bug moves up your leg As you drift off to sleep in peace He moves around your groin and up Into thick dark hairs on your chest At last the ant has found a home As he steps into your moist warm mouth And if it were I in that empty space On the other side of your bed I know that I would not wake you Even if the small black ant were red Silently I’d pray that he would Bite the inside of your cheek And if you lived to see the sun You’d rise with all your insides swelled And burning just like my own guts • Briana Alvarez

Lady Bug • Drawing 2 • Natalie Malcomson

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THE SPACE BETWEEN ISLANDS Strangers on separate islands, safe, isolated.

Our eyes meet, dart away Like tiny, terrified fish on a shallow shore.

And then we keep on walking.

Why do we never stop or say, “Hello?”

What do we have to lose, alone on our uncharted islands?

You might say, “I like you,” I might say, “Me too.”

A weather-torn ship might pass between us Piled high with age-crusted hidden treasures Or soggy messages in messy handwriting in Old bottles sealed with red candlewax.

You would laugh aloud as you read them, Sometimes you’d cry, or maybe you wouldn’t know what to say at all, So you would say Nothing.

I might hoist a tattered flag one day, a violent-red passion color and it would make you smile because you’d know it was for you.

One day, One day you would be distant on your island, and I on mine.

We stare across the void of rippling water.

You shout something at me and I know it’s IMPORTANT But the wind tears it from your lips jealously.

You can’t stand to stand so far away So you throw yourself in the water, My fearful cry stained with sand And salty tears.

Ocean-soaked you crawl onto my shore, My shore so empty and grey Now filled with marvelous flags of woven color And messages too loud for old paper.

The nights are filled with blazing firelight, Darkness like laughter and warm embraces.

We break eye contact.

The briefest of moments passes, an eternity, Unwound, undone, never even begun.

You and I, We walk away.

You do not know me And never bother to ask.

• Alyssa Powers

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Gratitude • Gary Wilson

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Pulley Inspired • Watercolor 1 • Spenser Stevens

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THE CAMPING TRIP Camping trips had become a regular activity by the time Tom Ridge was age seven. His mother, father, and he would stuff much-too-small bags with only the necessities-food, drink, flares, matches, and a deck of playing cards. Most memorable to Tom was the battered, softened deck of cards that opened with a whisper like that of an old book, its pages scoured and adored. The cards had originated from his great-grandfather, who had acquired them during the war; they were war hardened and love softened, smooth enough to shuffle easily. On the camping trips Tom and his father, a serious, rugged man with a tender air, would enjoy numerous card games and tricks. It was on these trips that Tom learned how to pay old maid, solitaire, rummy, poker, Texas Hold’em, shanghai, and any other card game imaginable.

The family would rummage through brush and thicket to find suitable tree branches to toast marshmallows on. As a child, he would bound fearlessly through the tangles of fallen branches, searching for a stick to toast with and perhaps, if he was fortunate enough, a grand staff. There was something inexplicably magical about the trips; there were many lessons he learned, rather unwillingly about his family, his life, and living. This is why, when he became a father, a new era of forest trekking and stargazing began.

Tom was an undoubtedly kind person, the sort of man who opens doors for complete strangers or pays for the next driver passing through the toll gate. Rarely was he quick to anger or forceful; if he had ever been in his life, it was out of passion for those he loved.

His warm and unassuming nature flowed from his father to him, then down into his own son, Bradley. Brad, as Tom loved to say, had a cup full of kind and then some. There was no space for hatred in his heart, especially at his current age of five. Never had there been a child such as Brad: almost adult in his reasoning, yet filled with innocence.

One particularly muggy July afternoon Tom was seated in the dining room of his home, which was crowded, natural light shining through the sliding glass door. Sipping lemonade slowly he set the glass down, turning to the living room, still seated. “Trisha?” he called gently. Soft footsteps sounded and his wife entered the room, the sun’s birth gleaming on her red curls.

A grin broke across his face as he said, “I think it’s time.” She stared, her dark eyes comprehending. Suddenly she smiled; she should have given warning, for she nearly knocked him out of his chair with such a beautiful look. His heart swelled; never had he been so in love, he was sure!

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He rose to his feet bouncily and strode to the living room, past Trisha, where young Bradley was seated. He was clanking two metallic toy trucks together happily, telling himself a story in a whisper. His father nearly sobbed aloud to see such a gorgeous child; there would never be another like him! His dark ringlet curls identical to his father’s, his eyes liquid and all absorbing like his mother’s. Framed, he would have resembled an angel.

Tom scooped up his son, who squealed a music box melody. Even the boy knew what time it was. “Camping!” he cried, wriggling in his father’s strong arms.

“Camping,” Tom agreed, running a large hand through Bradley’s soft hair, creating dark, curled waves.

The rippling leaves of tall trees whispered past as they drove, all telling tales of adventure and danger. Trisha drove on the way there, as was custom, with Tom and Bradley seated in back, discovering.

“This one,” explained Tom “is the King of ... ?” He let the sentence trail off, hoping Brad could guess.

The boy considered the card carefully, almost humorously in his caution. His eyes lit up.

He declared, “The King of Diamonds.”

His father grinned and set aside the dog-eared cards.

As Tom had once enjoyed, Bradley’s favorite part of the camping trip was staggering through shady trails, brushing away the busy insects from tanned forearms. Bradley would playact as he gallivanted under downed branches, brandishing the latest broad-stick-sword he had found. A few feet behind Trisha and Tom chatted, as though they had not really talked for a long time. Today they had reminisced about their annual fourth of July gathering, happily agreeing to host another when midsummer struck again.

When they returned to the campsite they collapsed loosely to the grassy floor, out of breath with laughter and smiles. Never have I been so content with life, thought Tom, though he thought this every trip. On his family’s faces he read the same.

Dinnertime soon arrived, bringing with it a hunger provoked by sunlight and vigorous activity. Bradley cried, “I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse!” a phrase Tom had instilled to replace the “I’m starving!” complaint. Bradley did not understand that he had never been starving.

In the forest, Bradley had found a lovely stick, and said to his mother, “I want this to be my roasting stick for dinner!” She took it into her hands, replying, “Bradley, this is much too short; you’ll burn yourself. How about we pick a new one?”

The child frowned, “But this is a really good one, see how sturdy it is?” He tossed it aside, bound to his mother’s words, his demeanor so innocently disappointed. Tom ran to the lonely stick and suggested, “Why don’t you make this your new sword? It is much more durable than the other one.” He handed it to Bradley, who replied only with a broad smile.

Quietly they roasted hot dogs over a smoking fire, observing the sinking sun.

“It’s beautiful,” commented Trisha appreciatively, giving Bradley a hand with the ketchup. Tom only nodded, gazing into the pinks and purples smudged across heaven.

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Two men entered the white room, grim expressions on their faces.

“How long has he been this way?” one asked the other.

“Six years,” the other answered, rubbing his forehead.

They stopped at the bedside of a man, pale and sickly in appearance, who seemed to be asleep.

“And his family? What of them?” the first man asked.

“Dead,” replied the other, “in the car accident. Two good-sized trucks; a head-on collision.

It’s a wonder he even survived. The wife and child died on impact, they say.”

In a downcast tone, the first said, “They didn’t suffer.” It was not a question.

Sighing heavily, one of the men stated, “It’s been six years and he hasn’t stirred. His whole family’s dead; it’s only by the grace of God we’ve kept him alive on machines.”

“The doctors said it’s time, right?” “Yes,” was the weary reply.

“Today? Now?” Sadly. “Yes.” A sigh.

Uncomfortable shuffling of feet.

The family, on their backs, admired the glittering sky, cast in pale moonlight.

“Daddy?” Bradley spoke softly and honestly.

“What is it son?”

“I decided—I want to go camping always. I want to go camping forever!”

Trisha held his hand, her sweet smell comforting him the way only a mother can.

“We will,” he said, “We will, just the three of us, forever.”

“Forever and ever?”

“Forever and ever,” He answered.

He took his son’s small hand as the man shook his head sadly and, with trembling fingers switched off the machine.

• Alyssa Powers

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Pen and Ink Still Life • Drawing 1 • Rebecca Westerdale

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TO LOVE CREATIVITY I have one foot in a world that does not exist and I love it.

I straddle the line between Figurative and Literal I have friends in two forms Living and Described In this world, words have two meanings Denotation and Connotation Emotions become as tangible as cloth Compassion and Silk And a sentence looks like more than words on a page Factual and Imaginative But I keep my distance, for there is a link between Immersion and Destruction For to love creativity is to love nothing at all. • Bailey Buchbinder

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Penetrating Gaze • Illustration Techniques • Melissa Elliot

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STARDUST You will come through with your long legs and your thin hands and I will bring the tides to guide your ships through a world underneath clean and clear waters dimensions will unravel as the gifts at the gate curve around the winds we’ll cover our heads and give a home to all the lovely lights that listen through the chapel windows as you arch your back under a blanket made for stardust lovers so come closer, dear and let your love rest easiest next to mine because heaven is wherever we choose to make it and nothing there can stop us tonight • D.M. White

Rearrangeable Composition • Painting 2 • Nick Wilson

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MEDUSA IS SO INHUMANE Hours crumble by, haunting my senses, guarded heart, smile, building fences.

Thoughts of you cross my empty arms at night, eternal struggle, I can’t stop this fight.

I am chasing you with intrepidity, some, calling me foolish, utter stupidity.

Gaining confidence from others doubting, growing restless as these fears mounting.

And then our eyes locking, time stopped, no clocking, the answer there mocking, on the door of my heart, knocking.

Without hesitation, I string my final lace, door closing behind, anxious to see your face.

Tempting to drive, increased pace, In another moment, I’ll feel right at place.

Hair brushed back, but not too far, how did it come to this, we just are.

Latched on for life, you are my scar, looking back, made to raise the bar.

• Jason Margraves

OPPOSITE PAGE: Evil Witch • Illustration Techniques • Kathy Sorter

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Turn table • 2-D Design • Derek Marckel

RULER OF THE HEART Musician, play us a song.

Maybe something soft and sweet to enchant the masses, images of love and gentle joy.

Play something rapid and low, incite fear and panic in their hearts!

Smooth and gentle notes, bring their eyes to tears, hearts to sorrow!

Hard, bouncing music!

We need to go to war, incite their anger and rage!

Light, bubbly sounds strung together, let the masses be merry!

Yes, Musician, rule their hearts!

• Terrica Boismier

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Self Portrait • Illustration Techniques • Ryan Sulfaro

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Sentinel • Painting 1 • Melissa Pawlak

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The Majestic Summit • Donna Novak

MY JOB AS A SANDWICH ARTIST A customer walks in, cell phone in hand; I can’t get her attention.

She won’t get off the phone at all, to make a selection.

How rude must she be?

She’s wasting my time; can’t she see?

I pile on her veggies; she whines for more.

She always does this; I knew she would again the second I saw her walk into the door.

She asks for more still.

I want to pile it all on her, down to every last dill.

She makes her way to the register.

The next person can deal with her.

Dishes in the back pile higher.

More help tonight is what I desire.

To add to it all, getting employees to work is like having a brawl.

Oh how some days I would rather not be here.

I’d rather be at home drinking a beer.

A job is a job, I suppose.

But the stress of this job, I’d like to dispose.

Oh this job as a sandwich artist, one day I vow I will depart this.

• Benjamin Cole

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Scarlet Glow • Ted Vassar

FUNCTIONING ALCOHOLIC If a beer a day keeps the doctor away, a twelve pack must be the fountain of youth.

I don’t drive, I don’t drink before five, and I’ll stop when I puke.

You can’t smell it on my breath, the vodka I hide in the garage.

If no one knows, neither do I. If a tree falls in the woods, with no one to hear, who cares if it had a beer?

Pancreatitis, liver failure, cancer, at least I’m not a smoker.

I eat healthy, I exercise regularly, so no one knows my problem, not even me.

When death pulls me over, at 55 years old, and asks if I’ve been drinking tonight, I can honestly tell him no.

• Greg MacBeth

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Pitcher and Cups • Ceramics 3 • Justin Cox

Aces and Eights • Ceramics 2 • Ryan Sulfaro

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TWO • 2-D Design • Derek Marckel

A SCIENCE TEACHER RUINS VALENTINE’S DAY I said, I’m in love.

He said, oh.

I said, Today is Valentine’s Day and I am in love.

He said, oh.

Let’s not rule it out, he said.

What are the other symptoms?

Symptoms?

Here’s where it started, this epic battle, so for 23 minutes during B lunch I defended our love.

Well, I do get weak in the knees, butterflies in the stomach, goose bumps when we touch.

We went round and round.

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Fatigue? Nausea? Chills?

Not you, her. Unless you have a fever, too.

I told him about your Hotness, to which he prescribed an ice bath to lower your elevated temperature.

What?

I said, this is not some fever.

Hey!

There are many types, he said, Scarlet, Yellow, Rheumatic, Dengue –

Exactly. Allergic Rhinitis – an inflammation Of the nasal lining. Have you Experienced any postnasal Dripping?

What?

Have you recently visited Singapore or ingested any tainted meat?

No! I said. Forget the fever. What about that feeling when our lips press together, that charge, that – Electricity?

Yes! Static, he said.

It’s static electricity.

He suggested the air was too dry.

Turn on a humidifier, cover your shoes in aluminum foil, he said.

Buy some antistatic powder free latex cleanroom gloves made of Poly Vinyl Chloride, which can reduce a 15 kilovolts static charge to 0 in less than 2 seconds, he said.

You can buy a bag of 100 gloves for $12.98, he said.

Now that’s what I call a Valentine’s Gift, he said.

Gloves, I said.

Gloves, I repeated.

You want me to wear gloves when I touch my wife?

Well, he said, before finishing his tuna melt sandwich and wiping his mouth. You’ re not actually touching her, anyways.

Excuse me?

He yammered on for fifteen minutes, all the while scribbling equations on his napkin.

(He claimed it was math although there were no numbers scrawled between the splotches of mayonnaise, only letters and weird Greek symbols).

He was explaining Coulomb’s Constant, how we can never really touch, how my lips are made up of atoms and those atoms have charges that ultimately repel the atoms of your lips, how “technically speaking” I can never run my finger over the soft groove of your beautiful philtrum, never scrape or gently tug with my teeth your engorged bottom lip.

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And I yelled, Suck it! Mr. Wizard and I punched him in the face.

And although I was dragged out of the staff lounge in handcuffs and I’ll probably be suspended without pay, I’ll deny the charges, having no idea how the bridge of his nose cracked and splintered because I know, and science will confirm it, that I did not “technically speaking” touch him,

and I also know, more importantly, that in my heart of hearts the sub dermal hematomas that will sprout around his eyes will serve as a medieval banner for our love.

• Scott McCloskey

Abstract Approach to Four Item Composition • Drawing 1 • Derek Marckel

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Icons • Illustration Techniques • Jeremy Griffor

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High Compression • 2-D Design • Ashley Goetz

103 • 2-D Design • Kathy Sorter

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THE THIEF’S APPRENTICE When I was but young in age, I did not hope to toil in earth I strove to grow by other means, by darker things I’d make my worth So on an eve I left my lodging, and sought a man who’d teach the trade Who lived in shadow, ducking, dodging, by darker things his debts were paid.

“My son, you think like men as I, and use your hands in subtle ways.

Your thoughts are slow and movements quick and think morality is gray.”

Day by day he taught me skill and told me hasten while purses neared And when our pockets soon were full, we laughed and smoked and quaffed dark beer.

While I smoked my thoughts were clouded, and so too was my master’s mind, For on the morn, tavern departed, we gave our trade another try.

But so fogged and movement slow, we were caught by man bereted Thinking chains were not the worth, my master murdered on that day.

“You fool,” I cried to bloodied wretch, which stood in triumph o’er the form “We are in day and sunlight shows us. We cannot cover this for sure.”

My master’s sticky fingers grabbed at the purse on dead man’s belt But drunk with beer and false bravado, we were enclosed and led to hell.

Now I wait in bars of iron and look out on the city square.

For on the rope my master hangs, and I, a fool, will meet him there.

• A.J. Weaver

Green Eyes • Painting 2 • Alex Murd

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Guilt infiltrated my soul, But there was nowhere else to go—

THE HOLOCAUST: THE UNTOLD STORY Tears cannot redeem my soul, For it has bled out beyond control.

My soul is lost because of fear; Damn acquiescence forever here.

I stole a soul, and then another; Should I have been so blind To steal from a brother?

Day after day, I would send The souls before me to their end: To weep and wade through the Styx, Their souls ever heavy in the pit.

I think back to the flames— The lack of names.

A soul to perish in that fire— A degrading excuse for a pyre.

--Much has passed since that day— The day I gave up my own say.

The day I swore my alliance, And set that flame in compliance.

For my actions, millions perished: Their souls, lost, in abhorrence.

--At first, my soul was light; I even laughed myself to sleep that night.

Then the darkness settled in.

My treacherous sin was my only kin.

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It was me or them, as I’d been told; Their souls were not worthy of my own.

--Oh! How wrong he was To say their souls did not belong.

For now I wish my own soul gone: Reparation I’d give with an open arm.

Alas! It is not so.

My soul lingers—slow to go.

I live, and breathe— My soul heavy with each smoke-filled dream.

--I know too well: My soul is damned For every number I let pass through my hands.

But they were not.

No, indeed.

They were souls, Though I paid no heed.

For that I will meet them once again, In the realm of Hades and Persephone.

Only then may my soul serve justice: And willingly I’ll go when my life ends thus.

• Natasha Wickenheiser

Nine Value Approach to Abstraction • 2-D Design • Kathy Sorter

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Trap-me-not • Drawing 2 • Allison Mohler

THE CANDY MAN Mister lollipops and gumdrops Sugar coated guile He covers you in chocolate And devours you with a smile He peels your skin like bubblegum Twisting, pulling, ‘til you’re weak He sucks your bones like pixie sticks Dripping marrow from his cheek He will drink your soul from his silver cup ‘Til your cherry syrup runs dry He is the Candy Man, baby The Candy Man cries just for you He will give you everything ‘Cause the Candy Man’s words are true But the price you pay to enter his shop Will rot you to the core Beware, he is the Candy Man, baby You can only sugar coat so much The worms, and lies, and blood, and pain The tears that you will cry in vain The mud, and bugs, the “look of love” Will sour your taste forever • Lissa Mosser

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Still Life • Drawing 1 • Natalie Malcomson 33

Theater Lights • Art Fundamentals • Diane Billau

Theater Lights • Art Fundamentals • Ryan Sulfaro

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He listened to the breeze pick up and the waters breathing fast, seagulls talking as they flew Above his head, a dark contrast in the face of the Sun.

HOURGLASS The Sun rose above the horizon spreading her fingers across the sky, Painting with soft pinks and blues as she went.

She skimmed the ocean’s surface sending gentle ripples across its waters And illuminating it with her light.

He sat there and watched as the Earth woke from her slumber, giving birth to a new day.

The sand was still cold from the night air, nesting between his toes,

He stared as the light began to fade, taking the beach’s energy with it.

The ocean calmed, the waters sighed and the seagulls left, their voices sounding off in the distance.

He could feel the air begin to cool as his shadow grew longer.

Running his fingers through the sand he scooped some up in his hands and watched As the grains slowly escaped between his fingers like an hourglass.

Soon it was dark and the ocean’s voice had quieted to a whisper.

The ocean breeze tickling his face, the salty air stinging his nose as he breathed it in.

He let the rest of the sand fall from his palm and stood up letting the breeze slowly push him,

He watched as the Sun made her journey from East to West, the sky an endless blue.

Using its last gusts to guide him back home.

Not even the clouds were brave enough to disturb her work.

• Lauren Ringbloom

As the day began to strengthen, the sand began to warm, eventually burning the skin he left bare.

The tide rushed in to quickly touch his toes only to retreat again, never to be caught.

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CONTRIBUTORS Briana Alvarez resides in Monroe. She is pursuing a Fine Arts Degree.

Terrica Boismier resides in Brownstown. She is currently studying social work.

Diane Billau resides in Ida. She is pursuing an Associate of Science Degree and plans to become a high school art teacher.

Bailey Buchbider resides in Flat Rock. She is pursuing an Associate of Applied Science in accounting.

Jessie Boudrie resides in Newport. He is pursuing an Associate of Fine Arts Degree with an emphasis on design and illustration.

Stephanie Cadle resides in Trenton. She is pursuing a degree in criminal justice.

Benjamin Cole resides in Ottawa Lake. He is a 2012 graduate of Monroe County Community College where he earned an Associate of Science Degree.

Amanda Cowell resides in Monroe. She is pursuing an Associate of Fine Arts Degree and is interested in obtaining a career in accounting or finance.

Justin Cox resides in Monroe. He is pursuing an Associate of Fine Arts Degree and would like to pursue a career as a professional potter.

Melissa Elliot resides in Ida. She is a 2012 graduate of Monroe County Community College where she earned an Associate of Science Degree.

Ashley Goetz resides in Ottawa Lake. She is pursuing a degree in art education and plans a career as a high school art teacher.

Jeremy Griffor is a part-time student working full time. He would like to pursue a career in art as a professional artist.

Gregory MacBeth resides in Blissfield. He is pursuing a degree in secondary education and is a member of the Writing Fellow program.

Natalie Malcomson resides in Flat Rock. She is pursuing a degree in liberal arts.

Derek Marckel resides in Ottawa Lake. He is pursuing a degree in visual communications technology and is transferring to Bowling Green State University to earn a bachelor’s degree.

Jason Margraves resides in Monroe. Jason is a 2003 graduate of Monroe County Community College where he earned an Associate of Science Degree.

Scott McCloskey resides in Monroe. He has a Master’s Degree in English Literature from Eastern Michigan University. Scott currently teaches at Monroe High School and has been an adjunct instructor of English and Theater at Monroe County Community College for 17 years.

Tricia McCloskey resides in Monroe. She is a 1997 graduate of Monroe County Community College and a former member of the Writing Fellow program. She has a Masters of Art in Reading from Eastern Michigan University. Tricia currently teaches fourth grade for Jefferson Public Schools and is an adjunct instructor for Humanities at Monroe County Community College.

Allison Mohler resides in Monroe. She graduated from Monroe County Community College in 2009 with an Associate of Fine Arts Degree.

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Lissa Mosser resides in Temperance. She is pursuing an Associate of Science Degree and is also a member of the Writing Fellow program.

Alex Murd resides in Temperance. She graduated from Monroe County Community College with an Associate of Applied Science Degree in graphic design/digital media.

Donna Novak resides in Monroe. She is a 1991 graduate of Monroe County Community College and a 1996 graduate of Siena Heights University, graduating from both institutions magna cum laude. Donna began working at Monroe County Community College as the Part-time Grant Accountant and currently holds the position of Coordinator of Annual Giving and Alumni Affairs. She will celebrate her two year anniversary of employment at the College this April. Donna says “Going to Alaska was on my ‘bucket list’ and getting a picture of Mt. McKinley was great. It is usually surrounded by clouds.”

Deborah Overby resides in Monroe. She is pursuing an Associate of Fine Arts Degree.

Melissa Pawlak resides in Temperance. She is pursuing an Associate of Fine Arts Degree. She plans to earn a bachelor’s degree in art education and a Master of Fine Arts degree. She would like to teach at the high school or college level.

Alyssa Powers resides in Monroe. She is pursuing an Associate of Science Degree.

Lauren Ringbloom resides in Maybee. She is pursuing a degree in liberal arts.

Erin Schmid resides in Monroe and is working toward an Associate of Applied Science Degree in business management.

Kathy Sorter resides in Newport. She is pursuing an Associate of Fine Arts Degree and plans to open her own art studio.

Spenser Stevens resides in Monroe. He is pursuing an Associate of Fine Arts Degree.

Ryan Sulfaro resides in Monroe. He is pursuing an Associate of Fine Arts Degree and would like to be a full-time professional artist.

Ted Vassar resides in Palmyra. He is an Assistant Professor of Art at Monroe County Community College. He earned a Bachelor of Science Degree and a Master of Arts Degree from Bowling Green State University.

A. J. Weaver resides in Monroe. He is pursuing a degree in liberal arts.

Rebecca Westerdale resides in Monroe. She is pursuing an Associate of Applied Science Degree in graphic arts/illustration and would like to become a full-time illustrator.

D. M. White resides in Monroe. He is working toward and Associate of Applied Science Degree in graphic design/digital media.

Natasha Wickenheiser resides in Ida. She is currently pursuing an Associate of Science Degree and is also member of the Writing Fellow program.

Gary Wilson resides in Monroe. He is an Associate Professor of Art at Monroe County Community College. He earned a Bachelor of Science Degree from Bethel College and a Master of Fine Arts Degree from Michigan State University.

Nick Wilson graduated with an associate’s degree and is pursuing a bachelor’s degree in visual communications technology.

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Southwest Flavor • Painting 1 • Stephanie Cadle

Opaque Transparencies • Painting 1 • Amanda Cowell

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Opaque Tranparencies • Painting 1 • Deborah Overby

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