Issuu

Dear Reader, We are proud to present you with the Fall 2021 issue of NOTA (None of the Above), the only award-winning student literary and fine art publication of the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire. We are honored to continue NOTA’s tradition of artistic excellence and creative community. As a student organization, NOTA aims to showcase art, literature, and music created by fellow UW-Eau Claire students. Our publications represent this mission, while demonstrating the dedicated collaboration and creativity of students across disciplines. Through our events and biannual publications, NOTA fosters a supportive atmosphere for discovery and creation. One does not have to be an Art, English, or Music major to find a home in NOTA, and we find this cross-campus collaboration produces work that is stronger and more inspired. We are all better able to carry on when we hear from one another and value the additional perspective. NOTA is proud to be an outlet for inspiration, an inclusive space for expression, and a voice for UWEC students. Here, dear reader, we share some of those inspiring voices with you. This semester’s issue comes into a world that feels as if it is testing the waters after a storm. While we are not over the COVID-19 pandemic, we find ourselves adjusting in many ways. Though masks and distancing remain, we find ourselves taking these small steps to come back to connection. Now, we are able to see each other on campus instead of through a screen. As for us at NOTA,

we are overjoyed to bring you a physical copy of this semester’s publication, as well as the online format we have produced the last two semesters. This, to us, is not a small step, but rather a large one in returning to normalcy. Whether you are enjoying this edition through a physical or online copy, we hope the work speaks to you clearly, reminding you that despite how you’ve felt the past year or so, you are not alone in your experience. This is the role of a creative community: to remind us that through our own unique addition, we can be part of a larger picture. As always, we are grateful for the continued support of the Student Senate Finance Commission and Student Senate, as well as our faculty advisors. The steadfast support of these groups has helped us immensely as we start fresh this academic year. Additionally, we are indebted to the many students who volunteer their time to serve on our selection committees, the hundreds of students who submit their work, and the thousands of readers who engage with our publication each year. We say it time and time again, yet it remains true: NOTA would not exist without your support. Thank you, reader, for your devotion to the arts. NOTA

CONT ENTS ART

Andrew Mundinac Audrey Van Boven Cole Weitzel Jacki Royce Jessica Norton Joshua Yang Kaden Ofstad Kaela Greenfield Kelsey Stroot Maren Bulovsky Matt Kilness McKensey Koran Megan Miller Morgan Roehl Roshan Karki Ruby Sonnek

7, 58 33 34 19 6 14, 15 44 17, 20, 55 43 28, 54 21 24, 25, 32 37, 38, 39 3 48 10

Bridget Kelley

MUSIC LITERATURE

Abby Makowiak Charlie Roettger

Chloe Falcon

Dawson Jollie

Declan Melchoir

Eliot Gannon

Gwenyth Wheat

Isaac Dalhoff

4, 22

Julia Kaeding

KT McAvoy

Nora Schmidt

13, 35, 49

Nur Khaliesya Atiqah binti Erwandy

Olivia Rathsack

Phoebe Harmon

Sam Kuehn

Sawyer Hoff

Declan Melchoir

Sea of Rum

Abby Makowiak

My ears were drowning in laughter, yelling, tears, gibberish. His breath reeked of rum, and his smile, beautiful. Captain made him calm, happy. He said things he would never dare say sober, words I longed to hear for so long. His body moved like a tree in the wind, loose and free. His demeanor, kind and his heart, genuine. The same. My eyes couldn’t move, fixated on every movement, breath, and sound. Securely locked on him. That was the night, The night the liquor overpowered his cologne. The night my heart beat quickly, chaotically. It was the night I said, “I love you.” The night he didn’t remember.

Sticky

Phoebe Harmon

A tiny glob clung to my window. I went outside and gave it a look— A frog! Yes, a gooey, green frog. Scooping him up, his skin stuck to mine— A friend! Yes, a small, sticky friend. I took him inside and gave him a home— I grabbed a tank and dirt and a bowl, Then thought to myself: Is this really a home? The tank is too small and the dirt is too cold. He wouldn’t feel comfort, no, not at all. So I scooped him back up, His hands stuck to mine, And put him back in the dark outside. Perhaps friends are not always meant to be, But are always remembered, like sticky frogs.

Nastalcoholic

Paint and Magazine Clippings

Morgan Roehl

This work was done in 2019. I wanted to focus on the aspects of people in my collages. For me, understanding people was complex. It seemed hard to identify the emotions others were facing. The eyes are non-existent and in their place is a camera. I felt like I was viewing others through my own unknown lens and trying to read people in this form. Uncertainty is the main feeling I express through this art. No matter what lens I try to see through, the feelings always stay the same.

We Don’t Sing Anymore Isaac Dalhoff

There are a people in Africa that have developed a symbiotic relationship with birds. They are the Yao tribe, and they sing with the greater honeyguides (Indicator indicator), to be exact. The honeyguide will lead the hunter to a nest, racing from tree to tree until the hunter finds and detaches the hive. The hunter always gets the honey while the honeyguide devours the beeswax. The first time I heard this story, I felt jealousy. When I was a kid, I raised monarch butterflies (Danaus plexippus) in a little house. My mom and I ordered them and I watched as they grew from eggs to fat little caterpillars, devouring the leaves and feed that came in the mail. I would stare at their chrysalises, asking myself what it could possibly be like to be wrapped up in a bed made perfectly for me, only to wake up reborn with wings. Once they climbed out, I indulged myself in their sight. Their wings pulsed as they dried and flourished. Their tongues were rolled up against their black and white spotted bodies. My mom, meanwhile, had planted milkweed in our yard so that once they were freed, they could find a new home not too far away. I thought I was doing a good thing when we ordered and raised those caterpillars. I bet there was some good in it, at least. In the end they were shipped from some farm or breeding house to my home, industrializing their lives for entertainment. I remember their smell the most. Sweet, almost like a damp flower that has just begun to decay. Maybe it was the rotting fruits we fed them that overlapped with their gentle existence. I want to smell that smell again. I haven’t seen a monarch butterfly in years. 4

I can’t imagine the thought of a bird asking me for a favor. I can’t imagine singing a song with another animal so that we both know we’re still here. I’m used to trapping them and watching them squirm in my hands, but I haven’t even had the time to do that anymore. Now, I spend my time considering where I could live if the seas rise above Manhattan and the western skies remain orange. I consider smog and not the beehive that I told myself I would have as an adult. I consider the dozens of birdhouses in my mom’s front yard and how every day I could see a cardinal sitting in a snowed-over bed of seeds, and how just two miles away I look around because there is no birdsong in my ears. I hear the roar of traffic. I hear a jet fly overhead. I hear the buzzing in my ear that makes me wish the songs would never stop. I can look up the song of a Greater Honeyguide (Indicator indicator) on the internet, I guess. Maybe I’ll study and sing it like one of the last Spix’s macaws (Cyanopsitta spixii) and hope that one of the fifty-two others left hear my cry. I’ll sing it so loud that my monarch butterflies (Danaus plexippus) will hear me and forgive me for not gracing them to the sun and wind and smell of milkweed flowers earlier. I will outstretch my hand to the honeybirds that come near and refuse to pet them unless they so please; for they crave beeswax, and I, honey. I will give back the songs that I have heard for free, sung with such poise and bravado that I have never respected. I have not worked that hard for love. I was told to save that for money. Maybe that’s why our home is on fire. 5

Always and Forever

Jessica Norton

My art doesn’t simply represent objects or creatures; they visually display my feelings and deep-seated emotions. With this piece, I tapped into my soul and found the purest form of inspiration. More than a jellyfish with an angelfish by its side, it’s really my sister and I together, always and forever. Not even death can keep us apart in the art we both love.

oil on canvas

Hand Study: Reach

Andrew Mundinac

A study that explores color, form, movement, and anatomical structure.

Kiss the Infinite Charlie Roettger

and let its lips swallow you whole; burn your maps, break your compass, blot the sun out of the sky. The streets shall be shuffled, your cries shall be silenced, and the earth shall speak for itself. See the world unravel from its spool and witness the ethereal converge with the material.

Forget what makes your house a home. Occupy a wooden box, release familiarity. Your pocket of reality shall keep you sane and steady as the world roils on beyond your journey towards oblivion.

Watch your namesake rot before you, ego crumbling to dust, personhood decaying into effigies of atoms, thought and feeling collapsing into meaningless circuitry.

Nature shall remind you that you occupy a seat within the boundless court of the animal kingdom; that you too are a creature of impulse, chasing sensation and seeking greater comforts. Scurry towards your darkest corner, unleash your inner beast. Wallow in your vacancy, stumble through your sorrow. Allow the abyss of relentless contradiction to overwhelm your spirits and wither away meaning. Carve an empty space in whatever’s left of you so that the boundless breath of life will decorate your soul should it decide to kiss you back.

Gabriel Icon Ruby Sonnek

memento mori, memento Julia vivere Kaeding -A poem of lines and scraps I found no home for. Poetry survives as macraméd strings, lines tied together, hoping they’ll hold. Until I go to Glory and an epiphany like a flashover— incipient fire, crawling tendrils licking like lightning across a thunderhead ceiling. I can feel your heartbeat; it’s so fast. It belongs to you. Find what you love and let it kill you. I’m holding onto your name because I can feel myself s l i p p i n g. In living memory they’ll ache to be remembered. Burn like the Hindenburg, spiderweb like windshield glass. There is death here, but no loss of life. My body is not consecrated ground, no church to worship. I am not for this place. The wind tears across a cemetery, losing bits of itself as it catches on the headstones, but picking up speed as it gathers ghosts from graves. Antiquated anomalies as broken bottles trapped under dirt, exist only as shattered shards encased in topsoil; perfect remnants passing the past toward future findings.

The Lovers Dawson Jollie

Journeys end in lovers’ meeting, On the edge of worlds still breathing, Watching the sun grow dimmer; The moon has left and stars all gone, A thousand voices sing the song, The two shall pull the trigger. Truths collide in lovers’ gazing, Eye to eye while fires are blazing, A prophecy now unfolds; Bridges collapse and cattle die, The leaders are left to sell their lies, Helpless in a fate foretold. Chaos brought in lovers’ bonding, A mural of madness forming, There is only once choice left: A cloak and dagger from the dark, Salvation poised to strike the heart, The lovers’ death dealt so deft.

Night-time in the carpool lane

Nora Schmidt

We were in your car—no, mine—we drove down Carmichael—no, Main Street—until the fuzz cropped up in the rearview—no, it was your car, and you were driving so terribly—a hop, skip, and a jump, and we weren’t in Kansas anymore, but in that backwater Budapest where it all shuddered to a halt. Three life sentences working nine-to-five—and I thought I was needy. But everything’s different now—yes! Here it is— a wicked new world and you’re back behind the wheel— careening down this avenue of dreams, you weep as we pass the canary’s shining casket— Damn it all, the little man just wanted to sing— I windshield-wipe away your tears. O to be a sleeping duck, slouching in the sunshine! To tuck my neck under my wing, turn from the stream of passersby and their flash-photographs of my naked, feathered glory! O to honk away their foot-traffic! To share the sunlight with no one but you!

Acrylic Painting Joshua Yang

My works both have a coming-of-age theme; they’re stories of adolescents coming into conflict with unknown entities. I wanted to portray young adults’ growth into the world, as it’s something we all struggle with no matter who we are or what our status is. As a child of immigrants,

Unrecognizable City Joshua Yang

I had a lot of restrictions as my parents tried to raise me in a land foreign to them. Now, as an undergrad, being on my own is overwhelming and sometimes anxiety-inducing, but it’s also amazing to be exposed to a new world.

Blue Serenity: A Tale of A Man’s Loss

Nur Khaliesya Atiqah binti Erwandy

Blue serenity is the color of the sky when there is no rain— just clouds floating freely in the air. It is the color of your gown you wore to our first dance— It is a symbol of youth and freedom you once craved and had. Blue serenity is the color of your eyes that once shined brighter than the stars above— It is the color of your jeans that were clean no longer— when you spilled red wine on them in our living room that night. The stains— you did not care. They add character and meaning— as if a piece of you is still here. Blue serenity was the tint of blue you chose for our unborn child’s bedroom— which now turned into an empty room left untouched. It is the color of the scrubs they wore when they took you and our dearest away. It was the shade of you and what we once had. I never knew how painful it was to speak of you in the past tense. The smell of your shampoo on a Sunday morning— and your choice of music. Making pancakes at the dawn of a new day, sometimes at midnight too. Blue serenity is the selfless and spontaneous things you did— not for yourself, but for the people you love. It is what everyone talks about these days. It is what they miss about you the most. Your flowers— they seem sad. Somehow I think they notice— that the light in the room is gone now and all that is left— is blue serenity. My dreams during the day and night— they are also blue serenity. She gave me purpose. She gave me life. Most people have no clue where we go when it is time to depart— but I know her soul is floating— like a butterfly across a blue park somewhere. Somewhere warm and sunny. Her soul is drifting, Like the clouds over a hill— Nothing can stop her.

Tiliran

Kaela Greenfield

This is a scene from the mountains in western Costa Rica. The meaning behind it is that in times of sorrow, regret, and loneliness there will still be bits of blue sky peeking back at you through the gaps in trees. There will be leaves shading you from the sun. There will be inanimate things surrounding anywhere you go that have no concept of those emotions, yet somehow make you feel embraced and understood.

The Blessed Haunting

Olivia Rathsack

I am haunted by your life By your vibrancy that tanned my skin like rays of sunshine By the fierceness of my love that you ignited deep within my soul The floors creak with the echo of your steps And the laughter that followed when you entered a room I am haunted by the questions The what-if’s, the what-could’ve-been’s, the why’s, The was I enough? But mostly I am haunted by the finality— The finality of the Grim Reaper’s Scythe Taking the blessed light from your eyes The period being stamped on the timeline of your life You are my dark secret My shadow My first memory— I am afraid. I am afraid of time Of forgetting Of moving on. I am terrified to no longer be haunted by you. I am haunted. I am drowning. I am wandering, lost in a world where no one hears my calls. I am haunted, but no one dares to perform an exorcism.

Don’t Drink and Drive

Jacki Royce

This piece was created for a friend’s band and their song called “Work it Out.”

Terrible Drawing of a Killer Whale Kaela Greenfield

The title is from a comment made by a friend upon seeing this drawing. First, it made me laugh. Later, it made me wonder how a single description can be so undeniably true, yet completely misleading and what that means about how we all perceive the world.

Outpost

Matt Kilness

My piece started as an assignment of a two-dimensional cityscape, but I used it to show the differences in social classes. As the viewer’s eyes travel from the outer buildings to the center tower, it represents the lower, middle, and upper classes with the buildings getting progressively in better condition. The tower at the center shows how much better the upper class lives as it is built on the foundation of an older building. This is the upper class creating their wealth on the backs of the lower class.

Industrial Guillotine Isaac Dalhoff

The royals are dead. My machines have killed you with the roar of engines / every rotation of my pistons drive the air from your lungs while you squirm in a pile of smog. I’ll have your skins hung on my wall / I kid of course they will be made from plastic / I’m no murderer when I wear pleather for three weeks before the newest semblance of your existence is a trend and I will drop to my knees and work for your memory / Praise be to you Diceros bicornis

Ectopistes migratorius Cyanopsitta spixii

Faux Ivory Taxidermy Mailmen Lonely Blue Franchise

You’re profitable now.

It is not / I will wrap my hands around your neck until you / fall to your knees and bow for I / await your crucifixion. New gods run on old bones / they prophesized our clouds of sin will clot your sky. You cannot hide

a global hunt to melt

devour

scorch

asphyxiate and

replace you

with machine gods. Admit we conquered your kingdom / the metal system runs better than ecology. Our children are born with my micro signature buried into their cells. We will be free from your constraints. Our capital doesn’t grow from your stench / save for the slaves we will breed for slaughter.

The flutter of your wings grows dim, oh queen / I think your throne lies on my Tesla’s windshield. What an inconvenience. Let me just wipe you away—

The human form is beautiful on every level, and I enjoy trying to capture that beauty in color. In this series, I chose to explore the uniqueness and beauty of women. Every woman is composed of a variety of emotions, ideas, philosophies, and motivations that brighten the worlds of those that surround them. While these individual aspects may seem too different to

blend together, they meld into an intricate symphony of colors that make the world a better and more radiant place. “Colors of Women” was an opportunity to explore color and find its relationship in physical appearance, personality, and perceived emotion.

Colors of Women McKensey Koran

ode to an acknowledgement page i read inside a book i do not remember Declan Melchoir

The ethereal is often forgotten as the sun rides the sky low, mounting the other side of the Earth as we deliberate. We do not see anything the way it is intended to be memorized: scientists tell us that memory is malleable, and we tell ourselves we will remember the night perfectly— only to be taken aside, given a coat, and sent back into the November air holding on to the last drop of alcohol we had in a pub down the street. Close your eyes to fractional divides, but decipher whatever is left in the mind of last year’s snow. Eat the risotto she made for you, travel back to the mountains, return to where you want to be. Intertwine your days with reason and keep in mind that

you may not always be here, you may not pretend that you are, you may not allow for this to reoccur. So breathe please, for it is essential; do not ascertain what is spiritual and what is not. Laugh heartily, drink heavily; Earth does not mind either way. and as Miłosz once said, Nieobjęta ziemia, keep within yourself the eyes of a newborn love.

Shroom Hand Maren Bulovsky

This sculpture is a dedication to the idea of decomposition and the link between nature and the human body. More often than not, I find people do not recognize themselves as a part of nature, or they have to remind themselves that we are organic. These thoughts are a product of our man-made distinctions and presumed superiority over the natural world, but one day, we are all humbled and face the truth of our origins.

Baoding Balls

Sawyer Hoff

I was always quick to believe in magic as a kid. A fat man breaks into my house Christmas Eve and leaves me presents? Interesting stuff. A fairy comes into my room in the middle of the night and takes my teeth? Sounds fair. I never really seemed to question any of it, because who doesn’t want to believe magic is real? One night, I was sleeping over at my grandma’s house, and she showed me something I wouldn’t soon forget. Sitting with her on her bed, I watched as she carefully pulled out a small blue satin box and placed it on my lap. The box was clearly worn; the red and gold patterns slightly faded, and the hinge broken just enough so the cover of the box leaned slightly to the right when the top was ajar. The pattern on the box was unfamiliar to me—mostly just gold lines that seemed to resemble vines and leaves, patches of glitter still attached to the stitching. When I opened the box, I was taken aback by shiny metal spheres that were delicately placed inside. My distorted reflection shone back, as if I were looking into one of those mirrors you see at a circus. “They’re magic,” my grandma explained as I rolled one of them back and forth in my palm, continuing to examine it closely. “If you put them under your pillow at night, they’ll keep nightmares away.” She picked one up out of the box and lightly shook it. A ringing tune erupted from the ball in an angelic wave of sound. It was unlike anything I had ever heard before and not a sound I could ever replicate again. My attention was immediately captured by those small objects. I had never seen something so wondrous, yet so simple. “But how does the magic work?” I asked, wanting to know more about these wonderful objects. “You just have to believe in them,” she said, and added nothing more. Of course, I believed it whole-heartedly. That night, I placed those metal balls under my pillow and listened to them clang together lightly as I laid my head down. No nightmares

that night. The next morning, I placed them into the box and handed them back to her, asking if I could bring them home with me. “You can use them whenever you sleep over,” she explained, “and you can have them when I’m gone.” I was disappointed at first, not understanding why I couldn’t just have them, especially since I promised to take great care of them. But she calmly explained to me, “Sometimes grandmas need some magic, too.” Every time I spent the night thereafter, the same ritual ensued. Once ready for bed, I would place the balls under my pillow and expect a night of peaceful rest. As I grew older, I would stay the night less and less. Not because I didn’t love or miss her, but because life got in the way for us both. But whenever I could find the time, I would return to her room and pick up that little box and hear that soft chime coming from inside. As I began to grow up, there were many reasons why I wasn’t able to sleep well at night or why I was plagued by nightmares. But no matter how bad things got or how much sleep I missed, being at my grandma’s house and using those Baoding balls always helped me sleep. The only explanation at the time was magic. I returned to her room for the last time when I was sixteen years old. I walked into the room and didn’t feel the same wondrous energy I usually felt when entering. I had avoided this place ever since the funeral, knowing exactly how I would feel when I entered. My grandpa was in the process of selling it since he didn’t need such a big house for himself. I understood the logic of why he was selling the house, but it still hurt to know I would never be inside this room ever again. I laid on her bed and looked at all of her little trinkets. Never again would she pass me the little satin box and tell me it’s time for bed. As this realization hit me, I grabbed the little box for myself. Even though the rest of my family was still clinging to her stuff, no one protested when I carried that box out of the front door with me. When I brought it home, I opened it and took one ball

out. As it chimed, I felt nothing. I turned it over in my hands and realized they were just metal balls that chimed; there was nothing magical about them. I wanted to go back to that younger version of myself and laugh in her face, tell her how dumb she was for believing all of those fairytales her grandma told her. To scream that magic isn’t real, and that her naïve spirit would do nothing but give her false hope. “Sorry kid, but that’s life. It’s unfair.” I searched online later that day and found out they were called Baoding balls, and they weren’t even meant to stop nightmares. Even so, I placed them on my pillow that night; not because I believed they were magical, but because, for some reason, they seemed to help me all those years before, and I needed the sleep now more than ever. They did not work. The next morning—frustrated at the balls and at myself for trying to produce some magic I knew didn’t exist—I placed them into their box and shoved it towards the back of my closet, where they stayed unused for two years. I discovered them again when cleaning out my closet for my move to college. As I examined them once more, I tried to remember why I ever thought they were magic. But that’s when it hit me: they were never magic. She was. While these Baoding balls could never replace her magic, they would always remind me of it. They also reminded me that it’s okay to believe in magic and to have that childhood wonder, because they gave me so many memories with her. Life is too short not to believe. I brought one of them up to my ear and shook it softly. Hearing the familiar chime brought a smile to my face. They may not look like a lot, and they may not have the greatest purpose, but they give me more than any other object I own. They give me her, even if it’s just for a night, when they are placed under my pillow. Because even to this day, I’ll place them under my pillow when I can’t stop thinking about her, and without fail, I sleep tranquilly.

In Death McKensey Koran

The idea of death merits a variety of reactions from different people, and “In Death” explores some of these responses. I wanted to try to invoke feelings of emptiness and hope simultaneously, as death has been seen as the ultimate tragedy and a new beginning, depending on who you ask. I was first inspired to start this project when I saw a water droplet race down glass in a path that reminded me of the curvature of a spine, and a figure study turned into something a little more meaningful.

Stephanie

Audrey Van Boven

This piece was created as an investigation of stylized realism in a digital medium. Along with this inquiry came the challenge of bringing a lifelike image to life—the work evolved from a simple, stoic color study to a fully rendered, gestural portrait. In the end, it was every small detail that had an impact on the final product: the cooler shading, the minimal but effective posing, the character’s personal aesthetic, the subtle bleed of the purple from the background into the shadows. It takes more than realistic colors to create an engaging portrait.

Your Paradise Cole Weitzel

This piece shows what it means to stay in the moment. The men want to escape to paradise on the other side of the window. The seemingly harsh reality they live in is unwanted and overlooked. But by taking a closer look, one can see a hint of paradise lives in their world as well. This collage tells of living in the present and making the most of what is given. Because I believe there is always one little birdie flying near everyone.

My world persists in metamorphosis

Nora Schmidt

My world persists in metamorphosis. I make my exodus from the exoskeleton of a young aspirant, crawl to the husk of a paralytic cynic. I am stuck— frozen halfway through the ice, my legs dangle underwater while my eyes search the surface. A normal life goes like this: hot air fills our lungs and keeps us afloat, and gravity allows us our defiance so long as we keep aflame. I dream I will be a phoenix. But I fear I will lie in these embers forever, that I can never untangle this life in shambles, that these ashes will turn to dust.

A Memory KT McAvoy

You were ten— so young and naïve. The sun was too hot, and the car didn’t have any AC so you were forced to feel your sweat drip down your neck, the sides of your face, into your eyes, but not to worry,

you were almost home.

The ice cream cone your father had gotten you earlier was melting in the heat, making your hands feel sticky, but not to worry,

you were almost home.

There were black and white cars lined up and down your street, like an arrow pointing to your house, saying Here, the trouble is Here. The only thing louder than the sirens was the sound of your own racing heartbeat in your ears and the blood rushing through your body. Tears of worry lined your eyes, blurring the overwhelming red and blue flashing lights that filled the car and reflected off your father’s face. a stretcher a crowd of neighbors a whisper of reassurance an empty house But not to worry,

“Sunflowers” by Claude Monet Recreation

Megan Miller

“Lunch on the Grass” by Eduoard Manet Recreation Megan Miller

“The Dance” by Henri Matisse Recreation

Megan Miller

These three peices are postcard sized recreations of Claude Monet’s painting Sunflowers, Edouard Manet’s painting Luncheon on the Grass, and Henri Mattise’s painting The Dance. Since these recreations were painted on a much smaller scale compared to the original, it was necessary to interpret the original pieces and emphasize the aspects that I thought were the most important or the most interesting, while trying to preserve the essence of the paintings.

The Man and His Tree Sam Kuehn

In a time before our own, there once was a young man who lived in a small log cabin on the outskirts of a deep and beautiful wood, where lofty pine boughs and sturdy oak limbs stretched to the edges of the endless horizon. The young man lived a simple, solitary life, and had nearly the whole woods to himself, but he only took what he needed from the land to eke out a humble, yet peaceful and fulfilling existence. One day, as the man left his cabin to collect wood, he noticed a small pine tree that stood in the middle of a clearing. The sun shone its radiant rays on the little tree, which now had more room to grow, as the man had cut down many of the larger trees that had surrounded and overshadowed the small one. The young man had never noticed this tree before, but there it stood before him, reaching up towards the warmth and light of the sunshine. The man studied the tree as he got closer, and estimated its growth and age to be just about the same as his own. Its bark was smooth and supple, its needles were fresh and bright, and the tree was full of beauty and life. The man knew the tree was much too young to cut, so instead, he cleared away the brush and branches surrounding it, and pruned its limbs so it would continue to grow healthy and strong. After this, he went along his way to finish his work. The sun sank in the sky, and rose again to another day. Each day, when the young man ventured out into the woods to gather wood, hunt, or tend to his garden, he would pay a visit to his favorite tree, and care for it. As time went on, the man decided to build a bench next to the tree so he could occasionally relax in the shade after he finished his work. He even began to spend his evenings there with the tree, gazing up at the clear sky above him that was filled with stars that glistened and shimmered like sunlight in a brook. On one night, he decided to carve his initials in the tree as a reminder of his time spent there. He was content, and at peace. When winter came the man hiked out to

his tree to brush off the heavy snow so it would not hurt the tree as it continued to grow, and grow it did. Months passed, then years. The man grew older and so did the tree. After a while, the young man wasn’t the only one living near the woods; a troupe of traveling lumberjacks looking for work settled down in the area, as did a few homesteading pioneers. The young man’s woods were not his own anymore, but because he lived a simple life, he was willing to share. He never needed much; there was always more than enough to go around. However, as more and more people came to the woods, more and more people began to take from the land. A small village sprang up as logging became a permanent industry there, and people flocked from far and wide to this new town next to the beautiful forest. The man—although not used to being surrounded by people—was happy, for he was able to continue living his life in peace. One day, the man took ill after a hard winter, and couldn’t leave his cabin for a while. As he lay in bed, he longed to be outside, walking across the land he knew so well, feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin, and the cool breeze that caressed the trees of the woods he called home. Finally, after regaining his strength, the man was able to leave the house after months of staying inside. He donned his boots, coat, and hat, and ventured out to the woods to work, but to his dismay, the woods were all but gone; completely changed from what he remembered. The town had logged off nearly half of the once beautiful forest, using the lumber to make expensive furniture. The man hardly recognized the woods that had once been like a second home to him. All at once, he remembered his tree, and began in haste, searching for it. After hours of searching and miles of walking, the man came upon two lumberjacks who were carrying lumber back to their camp. As the man got closer to the pile of lumber, he saw a freshly cut pine stump that protruded like an unsightly and jagged stone from the ground, and next to it sat a homemade wooden bench. The man fell to his knees, unable to believe what he saw. After years of care and tending, his tree, his only friend, was gone. After returning to his cabin, the man sat alone at his table, and wept.

As the seasons came and went, the man stopped returning to the woods, and the forest grew around his small cabin and the nearby village, reclaiming what had been lost. The man only left the solitude of his cabin to get supplies in town every few weeks. By now, the cabin was in disrepair, and the man, who had been isolated from the rest of the town, was now older. One day, the man came back from town after buying a new wooden table for his cabin. He brought it inside, began assembling the pieces together, and then set it up. The man sat in his chair at the table, and ran his leathery, calloused hands across its surface. It was all smooth except for one part. He looked down and saw two faded and worn letters carved into one of the planks of the table. He traced his fingers around them in disbelief. It couldn’t be, it was impossible, the man thought. But there it was right in front of him; the very same wood from his little tree, all those years ago. The man sprang from his chair, and leapt for joy. He couldn’t believe how lucky he’d become. But then he paused and began to think; perhaps this wasn’t just luck or coincidence. Perhaps it was meant to be. The man slowly sat back down at his table and gazed out the window at the now-night sky. He saw the stars that glistened and shimmered like sunlight in a brook, and as he placed his hand on the table, he remembered. He recalled gazing upon the tree for the first time on that sunny day in the woods all those years ago. He remembered tending to it—how beautiful and bright it was—and he remembered sitting next to it in the evenings, contemplating life’s greatest mysteries. Maybe he’d lost his tree, but somehow, some way, he’d gained much more: an understanding and appreciation for the life he led, just like the tree had. Although they were apart, he would always have the memories; a piece of his past, and the tree’s past, in his heart. The End.

Untitled

Kelsey Stroot

I incorporated abstract techniques to experiment with the use of warm colors, various textures, and dark shades to capture the enigmatic beauty of the woman. Although imperfect, her flaws are relatable and make her more beautiful. Beauty establishes inner and outer strength, inspires us and instills hope within us which is what this artwork does.

In Too Deep Kaden Ofstad

Over the past year, experimentation with artistic expression and interpretation via digital painting has become an area of focus of mine. I made a goal to immerse myself in the complications of facial anatomy, and I began to focus on the discoveries that arose whilst investing in the forms that were present surface-level. I figured it would be ideal to accomplish this in a digital painting, after considering the medium's unique means of expression and technical applications. Prior to starting this piece, I had photographed my friend, Madeline McGann. I was fascinated by how the shifting lighting was interacting with the contours and curves of her face, and I knew that the photos would compel me to replicate them with Madeline's approval. Beyond surfacelevel features, I had explored the person I have known her to be, and I made some very beautiful discoveries that I felt emphasized her character. 45

When home starts to feel temporary Gwenyth Wheat

like stepping on a Ferris wheel—sweeping up in whiffs of popcorn &

july charm

stuffed dinosaurs, bumper cars, small town change the view from the top, take in dancing lights remember when wobbling above neighbors & your parents holding hands made you itch for lottery tickets

now all you want is

a ticket back to your daisy house where dogs roam the yard, laughter spills from windows & your Welcome Home winks & spins around

a chorus of hellos send you up to

the sky

wheel is observation, not rotation

how the stars twinkle in your eyes & toes

learning the fun of a Ferris

watch everything transform & shift below

you—play a game of spot the difference

the mantle now houses ghosts & flowers

the shower handle now squeaks & sticks &

the living room now has waves of tickling

carpet that bubble beneath your feet

now

a fireplace goes here, a TV there that’s what Mom and Dad say has been missing: a focal point

so what is yours as you

drift between close and far away, new and old, here and gone? it is a different experience based on where you look—the clothes left in your bare drawer or your seat on the Ferris wheel one blink & it’s time to wave goodbye it doesn’t take long to master coming and going

life is a circular thing

Purple Lady Roshan Karki

“The special quality of hell is to see everything clearly down to the last detail”

Lady Billfold Nora Schmidt I revel in acquisition. My eyes grow weary—the luxury weighs on me like a gilded crown of thorns. Crucify me not upon a cross, but on my knees. I’ve sipped my wine from Solo cups, cut my hair with pocket-knives—but now that I’ve fit in these cut-glass slippers, at night I lie at the shrine of consumption. Here I sit, filing my nails like polished lacquer claws. This mani-pedi is lovely until the prosecco’s run its course, and my flaws shine through the sparkling sweet liqueur. And still, mindless in bliss, I continue askew— burn holes in my blessings with all things new.

feast

Bridget Kelley

i live on a steady diet of hope and baby with you, i was well fed living for the future a white picket fence planning a forever in your twin-sized bed we were going to see the world just you and me and we’d make it ours but then spring came and you got cold and i still held onto hope drinking it down until the bottle ran dry drunk on what could have been and now i feel like i’m missing out because hope can’t sustain a life and i am starving, emaciated watching her live out the life you built me a place in you fed me hope but she feasts on love and she doesn’t need to hope for forever

it’s already in her hands a 4-carat future on a white-gold band resized to fit her just like the rest of our plans and i hope she sleeps soundly in the house that we built and i hope you give her everything you couldn’t give to me

Who am I? Chloe Falcon

Who am I if not in relation to you? Is there not a me unless there is another?

If a tree falls in a forest

does it make a noise?

If I fall in a forest,

do I exist? Even if there is no one there

to perceive me?

If I stand long enough in the forest,

will the aspen become my sisters?

I am not

I know

like them,

but can my roots join their ranks?

Maybe then I’ll feel grounded?

I planted an apple seed, and just yesterday saw the first birth of green,

does this make me

a mother,

or perhaps God,

are we not all creating life?

Am I real if I create? Am I

the things I produce?

I didn’t do it on my own,

I had help from the sun,

does that make the sun my lover?

Who am I if not in relation to another? I am

the words that come out of my mouth,

as you receive them,

can you hear me? I am a product of my environment,

socialized to be legitimized,

I am walking definitions,

but can I really be

defined?

I am the books I’ve read, but haven’t written, I am the thoughts I create

there I go again,

playing God, creating, are those thoughts who

I am?

What if they scare me? What if I don’t like them?

Wolf

Maren Bulovsky

Studies such as these are a common approach I go to when I need inspiration, and this drawing is an exploration of the simple beauty of movement and textures within the body of a wolf. Doing pieces that focus on a particular animal is a way for me to feel like I am “going back to my roots” as an artist as I have been interested in drawing animals and studying their anatomy for as long as I can remember. Where I grew up, seeing a wolf was not uncommon, but still a treat, as they are as elusive as ghosts.

Puyallup

Kaela Greenfield

“Puyallup” is for Grandma.

Polarization Eliot Gannon

A trench.

An undeniable division between the nations,

Hence

A method of controlling folk at one’s dispenses.

Soak

The vision of the people deep in murky water.

Choke

The life out of us and all our laughter. Light, A dying thought in the minds of those who live beneath, Fight, A driving force that throws people against each other, Down, Drown, fall beneath, that’s what they want, that’s what they seek. Who? Us, under those who seek silence and control. True, We live without the chaos of free thinking.

Trust,

It’s easy but we could see more, search for, explore, truly Come Together, or one will become dust, a husk. Some Would fight it I trust, they have only lust for, Destruction.

They seize power from the division. Election, Chaos on both sides, who’s true and who lies? Morality, A path we must follow a guide we must keep, Mortality, A thing to remember; avoiding reality is not for

Us.

You see? In the insanity distraction. Thrust, Into inanity, disfunction, Thus, Truth remains our only hope to live through the extinction. Tossed, Millions of us must take this banner up again, Cross The barrier that keeps us a divided civilization; the Key, To quell this storming, turbulent, torn, violent, Sea, And cure this fractured nation, from the dreadful hold of its polarization.

Separation of Adam Andrew Mundinac

An appropriation of Michelangelo's Creation of Adam, this piece reflects the separation of people from their place of worship during the pandemic. In an attempt to stop the spread of coronavirus, governments across the globe put mandates in place at varying degrees of severity that limited the gathering of people at their place of worship. In some places this

graphite

simply meant a government "recommendation," but in other places fines were issued; sometimes going so far as to install armed guards and barbed wire fences surrounding the church. In a world where chaos and uncertainty had become the norm, people not only felt a physical separation from their place of worship but also a growing spiritual distance from their God.

Declan Melchoir Upon first listening, Declan Melchoir’s music could be distinguished by his rich baritone voice or clean guitar playing, but with a second take, you’ll find much more lies underneath. Declan’s interest in music started when he first picked up the guitar in second grade, followed by more dedicated performance and practice during his high school years. “It was kind of my stress reliever.” One of his first performances was at a wedding, which would lead to several at different bars and wineries within the Green Bay area. Artists such as The Avett Brothers, The National, Frightened Rabbit, and Frank Turner helped to instill thoughtful lyricism and several guitar-playing styles into his own music. He often covers these artists, taking their range of folk, rock and electronic songs and performing them on acoustic guitar for easy, engaging listening. Frank Turner especially is a source for lyrical inspiration; “Strong lyrics are definitely something that I pay attention 60

to.” Declan’s original compositions also benefit from the poetry he writes, an aspect that takes major precedence in his songwriting process. Declan is currently a Creative Writing major with a minor in Multimedia Communication at UWEC, and he hopes to perform around the Eau Claire area more in the future. As an artist, he is striving to continue improving his craft. “I’m more interested in how well I write and create music; it’s something that I’m interested in getting better at. I don’t really care about getting fame or attention.” Mental health is a big theme throughout his writing, hence his aversion towards having a grand social media presence like many other artists; “I hate keeping up with social media,” he says. However, his presence can be found on both Soundcloud or on Facebook.

Soundcloud https://soundcloud.com/declan-melchoir Facebook @Declan Melchoir Music 61

MEET THE Elise Eystad Editor-In-Chief

Rome Alfonsas Balciunas Prose Editor

Charlotte Gutzmer

Poetry Editor

Alex Scheppke Financial Manager

BJ Hollars

Sam Lakmann Music Director

Faculty Advisor

TEAM Bethany Mennecke

Art Director

Kate Netwal

Graphic Designer

McKayla Siegel Graphic Designer

Olivia Stehr Graphic Designer

Alexia Folkman Graphic Designer

Editor’s Notes Holding a copy of this issue of NOTA in our hands has been something we’ve been looking forward to for some time. There’s always been something about holding a physical work that reminds you of how much thought, care, and detail went into its creation; perhaps it was truly through blood, sweat, and tears that it came to be in your possession. We’ve been so proud of our online issues, as they were created from a spirit of innovation and determination; however, creating beautiful books is at the heart of our organization. In fact, it’s a part of our legacy. As our art team looked through older issues of our publication to get inspiration for this semester’s book, they stumbled upon a box labeled “Ancient NOTA.” Inside, they found editions from the late ‘70s and possibly older—truly ancient NOTAs. Instantly, they were captivated by the designs and retro style, and thus, “NOTA: From the Archives” began to form in their minds. This issue drew inspiration from the old fonts, logos, and artwork used in those “ancient” editions. It’s as one of our designers stated: “No one wants to remember this last year, so let’s throw it back a bit.” After three semesters of NOTA being forced to retreat to the digital world, slowly fading into the background of students’ memories, this throwback idea acts as a revival of the publication. It is a reminder of where we started and how far we have come, despite the challenges of this last year. We would like to thank our contributors, whose vulnerability and talent continues to motivate us in new ways. Without them, there would be no book to design, format, or edit. Thank you for trusting us with your work. We also want to continuously thank the Student Senate Finance Commission and Candis Sessions, whose work keeps us running smoothly. Additionally, our sincere gratitude goes to our faculty advisor, B.J. Hollars. Each of us are in our respective roles as Editor-in-Chief and Art Director for the first time, and as we’ve started to return to our pre-pandemic procedures, we’ve been tasked with reviving a creative in-person community that we can hardly recall. It has been challenging at times, but it would be impossible without B.J. and his dedication to NOTA. Without his guidance, time, and support, we doubt NOTA could return so quickly to physical copies and hosting in-person events. We are so thankful that he continues to cheer on NOTA as a whole and both of us as leaders. Finally, we want to thank you, reader, for your part in the publication process. What would a publication be without an audience? Thank you for not letting these works of art, literature, and music be released into a void. We are consistently motivated and encouraged by your support! Sincerely, Elise Eystad & Bethany Mennecke

funding University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire Student Senate & Finance Commission

printed University of Wisconsin Stout

address NOTA Centennial Hall 4102 University of Wisconsin Eau-Claire Eau Claire, WI 54702-4004

Lit Selection Committee Brooke Erickson Chloe Falcon Abbie Galleske Josie Harvey Stephanie Janssen Carlee Shimek Beth Stein

online issue ““

submissions and contact NOTA@uwec.edu

Facebook @uwecNOTA Instagram @uwecnota

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